Rwanda Rising

http://www.fastcompany.com/magazine/134/special-report-rwanda-rising.html

Link

Some good new stuff up @ www.davidlansing.com. Check it out this week when you need a couple stories to read.

Rwanda & Genocide, Pt. 2

Rwanda Today

I've spent the most thought of all on how to relate the past couple of posts. And again with this one, I just don't know how to begin or how my words could suffice. But of all the stories and experiences from the past five months, the account of Rwanda is really the most important. It has become a sort of personal vendetta for me to help anyone reading (Americans in particular) to understand what happened there, and to realize that it is important to all of us. The Rwandan genocide was not another ethnic conflict, isolated and shadowed halfway around the world from us. We are not apart from it, because it really boils down to a catastrophic exposition of human nature and the way our world works, all too often. And we must face it. We are part of an American culture that is isolated and numbed by our own media stories, and largely ignorant of the rest of the world. I wrote the previous post in attempt to help us understand the present situation and to emphasize that we all are responsible, in some way. I did not mean it to be a historical lesson, but a sort of representative story of how our world works, and what happens when we let it run unchecked. Men are weakened by power, and that collective weakness can be utterly catastrophic. And I mean to enforce guilt as well. American politicians and naive citizens sat on their hands until it was too late. But the real guilt is to be found when you hear the stories, meet the people, and in turn 1994 becomes a sort of mirror whereby you look back and see yourself.

But there are equally powerful lessons to learn from Rwanda today, not necessarily to be found only in looking back to piece together what happened in 1994, although the media and the UN continue to do so (with the intent to place blame). If you haven't had a chance to read through the previous post (Pt.1), please scroll there before reading here.

I don't like statistics. We hear them too often. Organizations use them to raise money, which they often waste. But I'm going to list some of them here, for the sake of contrast. I just don't trust my own words without some numbers to back them up.

Rwanda is about the size of Vermont, but with a population of 10.5 million people (600,000 in Vermont). It is the most densely-populated country in Africa. There are people everywhere. But about 90% of the population still lives in rural areas, farming small plots of land for subsistence. Outside of Kigali the capital, it is basically one vast, green, hilly countryside. Because there are so many people, there seems to be a new family plot or village every couple of kilometers. People are coming and going everywhere along roadways and paths, on bikes and foot, carrying tools or the day's harvest on their heads.

Population control is a major issue there today. Half of the total population is under the age of 24, because so much of the adult population was killed or driven out during 1994. The median age for the entire population is 19. The country must figure out how to absorb this generation and the next as they have children. Over 100,000 children remain orphaned.

After 1994, a few men had the foresight to realize that Rwanda was at risk of losing an entire generation after so many young people lost their parents or were forced out as refugees. Two men in particular - Paul Kagame and John Rucyahana - enforced that reconciliation was the only option, before beginning to rebuild and establish a formal government. They recognized that Rwanda was in danger of completely falling apart - abandoning an entire generation to refugee status. They focused on bringing the refugees home as soon as possible, convincing millions to return within a matter of two years. To address the daunting task of bringing genocidaires to justice, Kagame implemented a community-based system (called gacaca) whereby village-elected judicial panels sentenced guilty members based upon witness accounts. The Bishop returned and became the face of reconciliation throughout the country, leading Rwandans to heal and forgive each other. He established villages throughout the countryside where victims and perpetrators worked to heal together and live alongside one another again, as before. I credit these two men with unifying the country amidst so much uncertainty.

Rwanda had a sort of new beginning after the events of 1994. The reconstruction effort was built upon forgiveness first, as Rwandans believe that was their only option for moving forward.

After all of my travels throughout Africa, Rwanda remains the most captivating place I have visited. It is futile to compare tragedies - but it is certain that there is no place in the world where people have had to undergo such intimate suffering and healing, so personally and so recently, as in Rwanda. There is more grace and hospitality amongst people there than I have ever encountered before. It is as if the reconciliation process has freed the Rwandans to be genuine and heal as human beings, being completely honest and emotionally transparent with each other. Behind strong leadership (and sometimes authoritarian leadership, an example which might allow us to champion "democracy" as merely an alternative, at least a conditional one, and not necessarily the solution), Rwandans have taken ownership of the process. They have taken ownership of their communities and national development like I have seen nowhere else - certainly not in America.

And here's why Rwanda matters. That tiny country has an opportunity to build an example that can serve for an entire continent, and beyond. Like no other people (population may be more correct to say), Rwandans have experienced the worst of humanity, a living hell, and come out the other side to take ownership of recent history, free of denial and pent-up emotion, and seek together what it means to forgive and heal amidst this ongoing human struggle. Theirs is the most beautiful country and culture I've ever seen, devoid of resources which would lead nations such as ours to jockey for ownership. Kagame leads with a chip on his shoulder and refuses to sell out to foreign governments or aid organizations that would only throw money around according to their own agendas, at the expense of Rwandan culture. As a result, Rwanda now is recognized as the most stable and secure country in central/eastern Africa, and the least corrupt country on the continent.

Fifteen years ago, there were no paved roads in Rwanda outside of Kigali. Nor was there running water or electricity. Life expectancy was forty years, and AIDS prevalence hovered around ten percent. Two million of its citizens (at least) were displaced while the countryside burned around mass graves and abandoned military checkpoints. Today there are highways between towns and there is hydroelectric power. People are everywhere, coming and going and harvesting and dancing and laughing. They live together again, side by side. Genocide perpetrators and their victim neighbors are forming business partnerships together. Over 90 percent of Rwandans vote in national elections. 95 percent of children are in school (where a vast amount are still orphans). There are children in blue and tan uniforms running around everywhere. They are happy. They have aspirations. There are new universities. The government is sponsoring scholarships for its top students to study in the U.S. and then return home. 95 percent of Rwandans are covered under the national healthcare plan, with premiums of about two dollars per year. Kigali is a gleaming, modern city with a gorgeous new convention center and a great airport. The contrast is difficult to fathom.

I have incredible stories from the journey. I shared new experiences with amazing people. I experimented and detached myself for a while. After all the new places, and sights, and reflection time, Rwanda has my heart. We all have something to learn from Rwanda.

http://www.newsweek.com/2009/04/04/a-message-of-hope-from-a-pile-of-bones.html

Peace & Love.

Genocide & Rwanda, Pt.1

I’ve saved this sensitive topic to be one of the last. I spent two months of this trip in Rwanda, working and touring and trying my best to figure out what actually happened with the genocidal conflict there – what led to it, and what’s left over today. In the end, Rwanda has shown me more that I could have imagined or could tell now (though I’m going to try), and there is more emotion pent up here than my words could lend justice to.

In 1994, about one million Rwandans were killed in a period of three months. Two million more fled the country as refugees – the beginnings of a humanitarian disaster which still exists today in Eastern Congo and the Kagera region of Tanzania. At the time, the total population of Rwanda counted eight million citizens. Imagine one-eighth of a national population disappearing within the space of a couple of months – the equivalent of 40 million Americans dying before Christmas. It is impossible to meet someone in Rwanda today who was not affected by the events of 1994.

At that time, Americans were flooded with headlines about the end of the Gulf War and the more politically strategic conflict in Bosnia and former Yugoslavia. Before we really knew what was happening, most of those Rwandans had been killed. It is still difficult to fathom the political and media-related failures that allowed the Rwandan genocide to happen in the first place, and continue to allow so much misconception and misunderstanding to persist. For most of us, what we know about Rwanda comes from watching Hotel Rwanda. Most of us really couldn’t find Rwanda on an African map. The economic and political issues of this tiny country aren’t significant to our own news headlines. But their implications are far more important than we know. Because the movie is fairly recent, we still envision Rwanda as an unstable and ungovernable country embroiled in civil war.

But that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s too much here to try and weave together, but I want to write about what led up to 1994, to try and help us understand what actually happened. There’s a lot to keep track of here, but I really think the story is important to understand. Please be patient with it. In a second part, I’ll write about my experience there and what Rwanda is like today.

Traditionally Rwanda (then Ruanda) was a kingdom of two tribes – the Hutu and Tutsi – and an area that extended far beyond the current national borders. To my knowledge, the two tribes coexisted, traded, and intermarried for hundreds of years prior to the colonial era. The Tutsi were traditionally migrant livestock herders from Ssud or Ethiopia, while the Hutus cultivated land. Because of its remote location in the shadow of Central Africa, its traditional stability and alliance with the unconquered Buganda kingdom (modern-day Uganda), Rwandans remained isolated – they were not subjected to the slave trade, and many elements of their culture persist today.

The Ruanda kingdom was initially colonized (before it was even explored) in the late 1800s by the Germans, who claimed it along with Congo during the Berlin Conference in 1886 (the infamous meeting of European powers, where an Africa map was laid out and the nations took their pick of kingdoms to colonize). In turn, the Germans ceded the colony to the Belgians after WWI. The Belgians established a colonial administration to govern the kingdom. Just like in Kenya, where tribal chiefs became appointees instead of heirs or elected elders, the Belgians usurped the political structure in Rwanda, and the King became a figurehead. From the beginning of the colonial era, the Europeans favored Tutsi Rwandans, apparently for no other reason than their appearance – traditionally, Tutsis are taller, leaner, and lighter-skinned than the Hutus. The arrogant muzungu value system deemed that they cut a more imposing and dignified figure, one more suitable for holding political power. So the Belgians elevated the social status of the Tutsis over the majority Hutus and empowered them through political appointment.

Eventually, the Belgians issued national identity cards which deemed Rwandans officially ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’ – despite the fact that the two tribes had intermarried for generations and are hardly distinguishable (often not at all) from one another. It seems that certain individuals were labeled at the whim of colonial officials. For the first time, Hutus and Tutsis began to distinguish amongst themselves. I’ve written before how easy it becomes to lose touch with ourselves in midst of the world’s material interests (bullshit) and value systems (often bullshit). After long enough, with those values imposed upon them, Rwandans traded their traditional identity for one defined by segregation and politics. The Europeans, fighting for land holdings from thrones and chambers half a world away, eventually unhinged Rwandans from their core culture. They told Rwandans who they were to become, imposed their European values and political interests, and the damage was done.

As the Tutsis gained an air of superiority and the Hutus struggled to maintain their culture and dignity, tensions finally boiled over. In the late 1950s Hutus staged a rebellion and overthrew the Tutsi political hierarchy. When they realized that Rwanda’s political future (and the enforcement of their own interests) had been stripped from the Tutsis, the Belgians turned to support and arm the new Hutu regime. In 1962 Rwanda declared independence from Belgium. The Belgians continued to support the Hutu government in an effort to maintain their land interests. Eleven years later Juvenal Habyirimana assumed the presidency after a coup, and the Belgians and French began to reach out to his government in attempt to enforce their own political interests (simply another form of colonial imperialism) in Central Africa. For 26 years, the authoritarian and pro-Hutu Habyirimana regime stayed afloat by strategically playing both sides of the Belgian-French rivalry, as the Europeans jockeyed for influence in Rwanda (largely in order to gain access to the vast mineral deposits in Eastern Congo).

This was a season marked by political revolution throughout East and Central Africa; Uganda, Kenya and Rwanda each declared independence after armed revolutions, and Tanzania became communist. Besides the desire for political power, the Hutu revolution was a personal vendetta. They had looked on for fifty years while the Belgians favored their minority Tutsi counterparts, whom they used to view as their Tutsi neighbors. The goal of their revolution was to overthrow the Tutsis and establish an entirely Hutu nation. The revolution quickly turned into civil war. When it became clear that the Hutus had gained the upper hand and the Belgians switched alliance, the results were catastrophic. The empowered Hutus unleashed decades of resentment and killed tens of thousands of Tutsi citizens. After independence in 1962, the remaining Tutsis (numbering in the hundreds of thousands) were expelled and fled the country as refugees. They remained refugees for an entire generation while Habyirimana governed Rwanda under relative stability.

Most of the Tutsi refugees settled in Uganda, alienated but given asylum by the Ugandans and unwelcome in their homeland. Many of the young refugees grew up with a chip on their shoulder, feeling unaccepted. Many of the young men eventually empathized with Museveni’s revolution platform and fought in the Ugandan civil war on his side (Uganda has been fairly well-governed and been economically successful, relatively speaking, but Museveni has become yet another generational African leader). Paul Kagame was one of these young men. After rising through the ranks of Museveni’s freedom-fighting army, Kagame withdrew to help form the Rwandan Patriotic Front in the 1980s. RPF was a political movement formed to unite exiled and disgruntled Tutsi refugees in attempt to return to their traditional homeland. Kagame assumed charge of training the RPF military.

With discreet financial backing from many Western nations, Kagame helped shape RPF into a well-trained and disciplined movement. In 1990 RPF launched an offensive and moved into Northern Rwanda from Uganda. France sent troops to help bolster Habyirimana’s RGF (Rwanda Government Force) troops against RPF in the north. RPF easily defeated the French-backed RGF and advanced until their resources drew thin, at which point they were content to hold territory in Rwanda’s Northern Province and plan their next offensive. This was the beginning of a three-year civil war in the north, as RGF troops fought to hold back the RPF onslaught, and leaders from both sides were at an impasse to negotiate any form of treaty after multiple failed ceasefires. In 1991, while Kagame (now a general) was away in the United States, the RPF commanding general was killed during a gun battle, leaving Kagame to assume overall command of the RPF military and political agenda.

While the military forces traded fire in the north, things were unraveling within Habyirimana’s government in Kigali. It became increasingly clear throughout 1992 and 1993 that he was losing control of his own government as many key ministers and RGF commanders began to lean further in a pro-Hutu extremist direction. At the same time, the U.N. became involved in the saga, working to negotiate between both sides and setting up a series of failed peace talks in Arusha, Tanzania, in attempt to set up a coalition government and organize democratic elections. In 1993 Canadian Major General Romeo Dallaire was assigned to enforce peace talk negotiations and assume command of the U.N. peacekeeping force already in place in Rwanda – largely a group of non-combat personnel assigned to aid negotiations, with a few detachments to provide security for ministers and ex-patriot diplomats. The U.N. never authorized a mission designed to protect Rwandans at home.

Finally, in mid-1993, both sides reached a tentative agreement in Arusha to install a coalition government by the end of the year, with organized elections to follow in 1994. For a fairly new movement comprised of generational refugees fighting under a bespectacled and mysteriously soft-spoken commander, it seems that the RPF got the sweetened half of the deal, securing the rights to a number of key ministerial positions and laying claim to half of the legislative number, despite being a traditional minority in Rwanda. Kagame continued to prove his political motivation and savvy while his outnumbered and inferiorly equipped troops pushed RGF forces back further, toward Kigali.

Through the end of 1993, one attempt after another failed at installing the coalition government in Kigali, to the exasperation of the U.N. Each time RPF delegates were brought in under armed escort, Hutu parliament members raised hell and the charade turned into a screaming match across the aisle, ending with an RPF walkout. Between these political headlines, tensions were reaching a boiling point within the government and in the Rwandan countryside. A new movement, called Hutu Power, was beginning to stir within the Habyirimana regime as he continued to lose grip of his own ruling party. For some reason, the government appeared to be purposefully causing unrest and upending each new attempt at installing the coalition, despite Habyirimana’s repeated support of the effort. Dallaire wrote that ministers and military officers seemed to be answering not to Habyirimana (who was attempting to negotiate and accommodate the U.N.), but to a select number of Hutu elitists and military commanders, amongst them the commander of the para-military national police force, the Gendarmerie, and Colonel Theoneste Bagosora, the Minister of Defense. An increasing amount of pro-Hutu extremist media was being broadcast over radio airwaves throughout the country. The Hutu Power message became clear while its mysterious leaders succeeded in stalling the political process – to permanently fix “the Tutsi problem.”

Which brings us to 1994. After five failed attempts at installing a new government, while Hutu extremists in Habyirimana’s government showed considerable savvy in playing France for additional resources and the U.N. for more time, all hell broke loose. On the morning of April 7, Habyirimana’s plane crashed on descent into Kigali, after attending a new round of negotiations in Tanzania. Habyirimana was killed in the crash. To this day, it is almost unanimous opinion that his plane was shot down, but the debate remains wide-open as to who did it. In my opinion it is not such a mystery. Dallaire wrote about meeting with Bagosora that morning to enlist his support in maintaining peace in the countryside and within the government. Bagosora cut short a meeting with other known Hutu Power leaders and showed up to meet Dallaire looking rested and refreshed, seemingly unsurprised about the plane crash. Dallaire noticed that he struggled to hide a smirk throughout their conversation. One current political figure in Rwanda led me through a series of evidence and confirmed that shortly before the crash, French military members were seen in the area of the airport that contained Habyirimana’s prized anti-aircraft missile system. Today Bagosora is under trial for sponsoring genocide.

Throughout negotiations in 1993 and early 1994, RPF and U.N. officials had caught wind of a mysterious ‘third force’ building strength throughout the countryside. Dallaire eventually learned this was a force of armed civilians being trained by the Gendarmerie to fight the RPF. Dallaire fought against the creation of this force under government supervision, but in the end he was simply a U.N. figurehead weakened by the rules and bureaucracy of his own organization; he was powerless to disarm the mysterious third force while the Hutu Power politicians continued to infiltrate and play off of negotiations with the U.N. security counsel.

After Habyirimana’s plane crash, Dallaire’s worst fears proved true. The third force, armed with machetes and calling themselves the Interahamwe (‘those who attack together’) unleashed havoc in the countryside, herding, slaughtering, and raping their Tutsi and moderate Hutu neighbors while the Gendarmerie and RGF looked on. Millions of civilians fled through the countryside and out of Rwanda while hundreds of thousands were caught up and murdered. The worst of the killings happened in Rwanda’s north, where the Gendarmerie had been headquartered (before RPF drove them out), and swept down through the central and eastern regions, with a wave of refugees running away and spilling over into Tanzania. At the same time, RPF mobilized in force to move south, take Kigali and overthrow the interim government, defeating RGF for good. But it took them three months to get there, while the countryside burned and the killings continued until one million Rwandans were dead. RPF saved and guarded as many as they could, but the panic and violence were too widespread to rein in before they controlled the country. As they advanced, there is also evidence that tens of thousands of Hutus were killed (at least) in revenge. Kagame proved his military brilliance throughout the campaign and is widely credited with stopping the genocide and bringing peace, which RPF did, but I am still confused why they waited throughout 1992 and 1993 to move out of their fortifications in the north and launch their final offensive.

In Rwanda I talked to dozens of people about the events leading up to 1994 – orphans, widows, pastors, former and current government ministers, foreign aid workers – in attempt to piece all of this together. For those of us Americans who hear anything about Rwanda, the stories have usually been distorted by the media. Though I don’t understand the depth of what actually happened, or who the main players were behind the scenes, I do know that what happened is not exactly what I’ve always heard, and the implications from Rwanda are far more important than we realize.

The Rwandan genocide was the boiling point of ethnic tension stirred up during the colonial era. It was also fueled by a complex political situation. But it was genocide – it took the American government months to use the term, and many people still doubt it. It was carefully planned and brutally executed - a Hutu government-sponsored extermination of any person that threatened their aspiration to power, primarily Tutsis, and also moderate and democratic Hutus. Fleeing the RPF invasion, the Interahamwe and Gendarmerie slaughtered any person that villagers or neighbors identified as anti-government, carrying kill lists that had been tallied months in advance. As the genocide continued, Kagame lost control of certain members of his army who, infuriated and seeking revenge, pursued genocidaires and Hutu refugees across national borders and killed tens of thousands more, some innocent. So what began as genocide became an increasingly complex political situation and civil war, until Kagame took over Kigali and was able to rein in his army. The conflict was also fueled by the political aspirations of certain world-power nations, with the French and Belgians jockeying for influence with Hutu Power members, without ever moving to protect civilians, the British arming both sides, and the United States silently working in the background of the RPF movement (to what capacity is still unknown). What results is the most disgusting and catastrophic display of human cowardice and failure that I have ever known. The United Nations knew what was brewing, but was repeatedly made a fool of during political negotiations with the same people who planned the genocide. Rivalry and political interests amongst the security council nations repeatedly denied Dallaire the resources he needed to prevent the genocide from happening and then to protect Rwandan citizens after it was too late. In the end, here is how the situation was summed up by a group of U.N. and western bureaucrats who were sent in to 'assess' the situation six weeks after the killings began: "After a thorough survey of the situation, we will advise our governments not to become involved as the risks are high and all that is here are humans."

I think we owe it to learn what actually happened in Rwanda. We all have something to learn from it. In a way, we are part of it.

Part 2 coming very soon - what Rwanda is like today. It feels great to be back; it was time to come home.

Religion

There are a few things I've saved for the end - topics and experiences I knew I would have to think a lot about before I could write anything down. As this adventure is drawing to a close in a few weeks, I'm in a weird state of mind, torn in several directions. I'm really no more reflective than at any other time during months past. Just tired. I miss home, I miss all of you, and some part of me misses Africa already, even though I haven't left. I suppose that's part of the romance in this place.

There's an irony to the whole thing. I came here to have an adventure, to be somewhere that I might have to surrender my ego and insecurities and bear the pain of learning what really matters about me while realizing that many things I had always thought mattered just don't in the end. But I find myself more uncertain than ever, in general. Africa is a place of contradictions. I've seen the best and worst of humanity, government, and church. Slums and corruption, beauty and culture. I have such a mix of conflicting emotions and thoughts that I find them impossible to sort through sometimes.

I want to write about religion. I say all that before to try and relate how difficult and persistent many of these thoughts have been. They surely won't all flow and connect here, and I'm not sure I can put them to a conclusion. I'll leave it to you to connect them in your own way. After all, religion begins as an affair for each of us, as an individual pursuit.

For centuries, the church has come to 'evangelize' or 'save' the Africans. Often the Christians brought along their own interests and doctrines as the only answer to the religious question, scoffing at African customs before they even understood them. The church viewed African culture as a threat. Africans needed to be 'liberated' from the trap of their own culture. That is such an arrogant attitude that it doesn't even make sense. Many well-intentioned missionaries were blinded by this naive attitude, and many still are.

The results have been destructive, fueling conflicts over land and political issues, and fueling colonialism. The evidence is everywhere. From my perspective, many current African dilemmas and issues can be sourced back to the subjugation and compromise of their original culture by the church. These examples are many. Islam is making its way onto this scene now as well, in similar fashion.

On the other hand, there are incredible examples where I have witnessed the church and its missionaries embrace and revere local culture. There are examples everywhere of individuals who have come and sacrificed under extreme hardship to figure out what it means to be African and Christian. There are countless African pastors who labor for years to influence only a few people, and those few people share everything. They worship together with more conviction, faith, hope, vitality, security and emotion than I have ever witnessed before. This is compared to the church (many of the people, and the institution) I have known, that is often content to settle for less. So have I been, in many ways. Yet we seek to impose our model here on people whose culture is richer and more genuine.

Africans aren't 'something other.' And my experience is that rarely will anything sourced in my own American and church culture [alone] suffice as a solution here. If we can only think in terms of our own rules and models, we will (and already have) pillage(d) the beauty of this place.

If there is an answer to the religious question, and many people seem to have found one, then there must be truth out there. If there is a common human plight or struggle, and there seems to be, then that truth must somehow be universal, beneath us all. Truth resonates; we realize it in the moment. And it binds us. There is a sort of fundamental frequency (physics term; I'm trying whenever I can to apply my formal education in my completely unrelated day-to-day life) and human nature that we all carry. I am sure that there is truth to be found in tribal cultures that have persisted for thousands of years. I am trying my best to find it, claim it, and see what it means or how it connects to the beliefs I brought with me (those which have withstood the journey).

I've witnessed religion (and most other things) in an entirely different cultural context here. And for the first time, I feel free to observe and think about religion without self-interest stirred in. After all, at its core, religion probably shouldn't be thought about in terms of its usefulness. Yes, missionaries and groups can come in the name of their religions and build things that are needed and will bring benefit. But religion becomes real when we are nailed up by some unexpected circumstance and we find ourselves doubting or emptied out. The real encounters happen when religion closes in on us, not the other way around. If we approach it proactively, thinking about its usefulness to us, then maybe we're not as genuine as we could be. Religion is not something to fulfill us through some institution of rite. Religion, at its depth, just cannot be realized through an attitude of self-righteousness. We are not central to its purpose. But maybe we reach a point where there opens up something larger to be part of.

I have seen a disconnect here, a self-centered perception of what's going on around us. We just aren't very well in touch - humans in general, Americans just as much as anyone, and myself at the end of the day. We assume fundamental separations in culture and amongst people, and that inevitably leads to comparison and bias. We are apt to alienate the other side or even attack it without ever considering how we're all connected in a common struggle after we throw aside all the details that just don't really matter.

In the book Blue Like Jazz, a certain chapter is dialogue between the author and a friend. The friend is in despair, pondering the problems of the world, feeling invigorated and helpless all at once, wondering how those problems could possibly run so deeply and how he should respond. And in a moment where I find profound truth, he finally has an epiphany and cries out "I AM THE PROBLEM!"

That realization means more to me now than ever.

Religion is beautiful in Africa. It is full of color and emotion. It's faithful and cultural. At their core, Africans are the most religious people I've ever encountered. There is a universal regard for a creator God, for ancestors and familial ties, for the spiritual aspects of nature. I am speaking here of religion in general, not to the particulars of any specific religion or custom or tradition, though I have witnessed all types - from misguided health-and-wealth megachurches to rural diviner ceremonies and medicine men healing people cursed by black magic. Those are stories for later.

But it is in the Christian church where I have seen the most beauty and the most destruction. I've only ever known a church that tends to isolate itself, claiming the interest of faith or purity. But at some point I looked back and realized it was more about fear and insecurity. And here, more clearly than ever, I see the unfortunate evidence of that.

Here is the connection to the mindset I talked about - what happens when we view religion according to its utility for our interests, when we isolate ourselves behind our own claims or rigid doctrines and look out at 'the rest of the people.' In the end, we are those people. We are the problem.

Until we can figure out our own individual places in the struggle, how we each are part of 'the problem,' and learn to respect and seek beauty in the cultural differences, then I am content to leave Africans to their own God or gods. I have learned from them.

I hope I'm not edging on heresy.

Random story - Keith and I have been in Nairobi this week, staying with the Cottars. There's been some business to take care of, and we just needed to get out of camp for a few days. Through a long chain of events this weekend, we ended up at a funeral memorial for a person I had never even heard of. It was a funeral with an open bar. There are too many details to recount after that. Life is crazy here. And a lot of fun.

Peace & Love.

Community Development..

As you can probably see, things have been pretty busy around here.. Contrast this with my last post about Americans. I'm a hypocrite.

(more below)


To make up for my absence the past couple of weeks, please check out David Lansing's blog @ www.davidlansing.com. If you trace the posts back to mid-August (http://davidlansing.com/?paged=7), you'll be able to read about a few of the places I've been hopping around in Kenya. David's blog tells about a few of the key conservation players in this country and should help sort out the web of conservation issues and interests here, also how they play into the web of political organization (which is formidable). Since I've been here, I've been meeting some of these people, listening in on conversations and visiting different areas to learn about the conservation models and challenges. David talks a lot about the Cottars family legacy and safari camp, which is right where I've been working and staying. David had an interesting journey to Samburu and Marsabit a few weeks ago, with Calvin Cottar leading. That region of Northern Kenya is truly a frontier - Somali bandits, warrior cultures, volcanic and desert landscapes. When you walk into a bar up there, you feel like Obi Wan walking into Mos Eisley cantina to meet Han Solo (in other words, there are weapons everywhere and everyone stares). Anyways, back from the nerd Star Wars allusion, if you read into David's journey, you'll get a feel for a few conservation issues and many of the fascinating stories connected to the Cottars family and left over from the colonial era.

Peace & Love.

Stay with me - I'll be back around with a string of new posts very soon. I'm trying to catch up.

I've told myself (and others) throughout this trip that I wouldn't return until I'm ready to, regardless of how much I miss the people or comforts of home. It has been an open-ended adventure from the start. However, in previous weeks a couple of things have happened to make me realize that it is almost the right time to turn back, sooner than later. I'm a little bit restless now. So I'll give myself a little more time to get around, but I've got a ticket back to the U.S. Oct. 15. I'm sure the last month will include a lot of reflection time. I'll be sure to share.

Peace & Love.

Americans

This post is a bit of an indictment.

As Americans, we really don't travel very well. At times, our ignorance of the outside world is laughable, considering our influence and military extend all over the planet. In some ways, we live our lives in every bit the isolated bubble that the Maasai do here. We hear about the Middle East every day, but we really don't know much of culture there or elsewhere in the world. This fact is, all too often, the stereotype for a typical American, myself included. On the other side, one begins to understand why our foreign policy is really a joke. People with the same (mis)understandings climb the political ladder without knowing how to relate to other parts of the world, beyond the ivory tower political issues. We look to exert our American influence through endless rounds of negotiations, we put weapons in the hands of political movements, and we end up with situations like that in Afghanistan today. It's a miserable cycle.

But it doesn't start with political ineptness; it really begins with each of us, individually, when we travel. I venture to believe that America's status throughout the world would be much more amicable if its citizens were a little bit more savvy in their travels.

Countless times since I've been in Africa, I've had conversations with American travelers that have left me shaking my head, inspecting myself. For example, I had a long conversation with an American lawyer in Rwanda. He went to NYU and now prosecutes white-collar crime for the government in NYC. So he's smart and wealthy. Eventually in the conversation, I came around to ask him what his impression of Rwanda was. He said nothing of the nation's progress and wonderful hospitality, nothing of genocide or gorillas. His answer never reached to any level deeper than his own comfort. He complained for a few minutes about the spotty power and lack of hot water. He also complained about the difficulties in transportation (a late flight arrival and uncomfortable roads) and his frustration with trying to wire money over to a bank in advance. I just sat there and nodded, half listening. I'd like to think that I accepted his answer - 'to each his own, I guess.' But I know that I wasn't so graceful. I wanted to shake him, and scream "LOOK AROUND YOU." This must be one of the most stunningly beautiful countries on Earth - the people, the landscape, the wildlife, the culture - the essence of Africa is everywhere. Yet cold water drowns out the surrounding beauty.

We have to realize something: We live in an amazing country. Every day I am away, I look forward to returning to the United States. We are all privileged. But we cannot leave our American bubble and expect the rest of the world to operate the same way. And it's okay. The beauty of other places is to be found in those differences. I learn the most when I learn to embrace the differences and see through them to the underlying culture. We really are never learning much if we only travel with the aim to embrace the comforts of home somewhere else in the world, never willing to drop our sense of entitlement as Americans. The United States seal on our passports in no way signifies that we are better human beings (as my friend Collin emphasizes in his Travelosophy).

I should mention that I can always pick out an American here, because we are the ones that wear safari hats everywhere, even walking around the cities. It makes me laugh. The Chinese and Japanese do it too, but it is impossible to confuse them with an American anyway. If nothing else, the 4-foot-long camera lenses give them away immediately.

I am not immune to this myself. Here are a few of my more 'American' musings over the past few months:

1. At current estimate, I've brought about 8-10 times more bug spray with me than I need.
2. At one point, in the beginning, I went without a shower for 4 days, rather than take one in frigid water. I gave in eventually, and haven't had a hot shower in almost three months now.
3. One night, rushing around Kigali, I agreed to pay a scheming taxi driver 2500 Rwf for a half-mile ride. In my American head, I thought 'that's only about five bucks.' If I were more savvy, I would have realized that I had just paid only two bucks for a 2-hr bus ride to get to the city.
4. My friend Kevin and I took a break from watching an erupting volcano to walk down from the crater and roast marshmallows for supper. Only an American would take up packing space for the novelty of roasting marshmallows in Congo. That large bag of mushrooms could have been replaced with a blanket in our pack. We froze all night, and never slept, in want of that blanket.

A couple of other things:

The latest adventure is brought about by bank fraud. Somebody got ahold of my account info and bled it dry. So here I am in Africa, alone, with no money. It should all be restored in a few weeks, but might cut travels at the end a little short. One of the charges on my account was for 200 bucks at a Canadian liquor store. If nothing else, I threw one hell of a party somewhere in Canada. Gotta love a good party..

A story to end. One woman visiting our safari camp asked for detergent to wash some of her underwear. She washed a couple of pairs and draped them outside her tent to dry. The next morning, a pair was missing, to much confusion. Nobody had any idea where it had gone. But that evening, one of our Maasai guards came to tell us he had spotted a baboon wearing something strange and purple on his head... Hilarious.

Peace & Love.

Quick Update - Bush Life

Here are a few random pictures, just to share... Life is good.

Maasai

For the past month, I've been living amongst the Maasai in Kenya. Our camp lies on the edge of Masai Mara Reserve and is surrounded by traditional Maasai bomas. Maasai warriors serve as our guards.

I find this tribe fascinating. The safari industry has made them a bit of an icon or attraction, but it is not for show. They maintain their culture. They remain herders by nature, moving every few years to new grazing land. They are not nomadic, but migratory; villages are typically deserted every 4-6 years. The Maasai tribe is organized into family clans, clustered in these small manyatta villages. Clans have chiefs and mzee elders who still take multiple wives. A Maasai elder may marry first at 17 or 18 years old, and three or four more times through the age of 60. As such, families are enormous, and manyattas typically form around one elder head-of-household. Wealth is indicated by the size of the herd; chiefs can have hers of thousands of cattle.

Within the household, women essentially do all the work. Children are the herders; from the age of 4 until adult passage, young boys lead goats and cattle to graze. The women work all day, gathering firewood, fetching water, cooking, etc. They even build the simple mud-caked huts themselves. The husband is usually employed and away from the home for weeks on end, often working somewhere in the safari industry. Once a man becomes an elder, he often spends the day resting, discussing politics with the rest of the wazee council, drinking tea and beer.

The Maasai are striking in appearance. They wrap themselves in traditional red or green blankets, with bare legs and hooped ears. They are rail-thin, with small heads, very dark and smooth-skinned. Men and women keep their heads shaved. They have piercing stares and fantastic smiles. Many of the women are beautiful.

They still practice their traditional ceremonial rites. Boys pass into adulthood through circumcision rite; marriages are weeklong celebrations. Maasai warriors are inducted in a special ceremony, after which they must withdraw from society to hunt and learn tactics. They select a bow or a spear, and many of them still earn their rights to return to society through killing a lion (although conservation agreements have shut this practice down in some areas). They have a devastating poison concoction for dipping their spearheads and arrowheads in - some infusion of roots and leaves and animal remains that can bring down an adult elephant after one shot. They also select a few young men to become medicine men. The Maasai warriors are traditionally most feared in Africa.

These are our guards, or askaris. They patrol around camp in silence. Often I am walking around and look left or right to find one of them a couple of feet away, just watching and smiling. They tend to pop out of nowhere like that. It is something special to watch them in action, when a stray buffalo or cat (they leave elephants alone) comes too close to camp. They run like the wind, then move silently through the bush to surround the animal and drive it out, rarely resorting to a fight. However, I'm told our 60-year-old senior askari (the one I piss off in a few paragraphs) can still bring down a lion from 100 yards with his bow. And their senses for picking out animals are incredible. Last week, staring over a vast valley in the Mara, my spotter Soombe located a pride of lions and a rhino from over a mile away. Both were invisible to my naked eye (even through binoculars), but he can see their contrast or locate them by watching the behavior or birds or other animals close by.

As much as any other people I've encountered, the Maasai have held to their traditional culture; they have forced a booming safari industry to respect and bend around their traditions, rather than compromising for the sake of wealth. But they continue to encourage development, and they realize that their business interests lie in wildlife conservation. I think they have struck a balance, using the industry to their advantage while maintaining their customs.

The Maasai have formed partnerships with safari camps that least their land. They are benefitting from conservation initiatives and their leaders serve as shareholders in these camps. They are using profit shares to build clinics and schools. While a few of the Maasai youth are leaving to attend universities and trading their red garments for clothes in our style, the culture remains essentially untainted by the outside world.

While I view these partnerships as innovative and effective, they are not without issue. The process of negoitating with the Maasai community is long and tedious, and very political. Camps agree to employ tribesmen in various roles, but there is a fine line of trust between both parties. The Maasai are fiercely protective of their land rights, and simple border disputes can drone on for months, or even edge on the point of conflict.

I learned this first-hand. Here I have a story to demonstrate. As part of one of our conservancy projects, I am doing a lot of gps-mapping and logging. A couple of weeks ago, reading off of old maps and data, I went out to put in a couple of border posts. We have been marking boundary points to keep herds from drifting into protected areas to graze. At one point, I put a new marker in at an area that was obviously grazing ground. Bad judgment call. Somehow, in the five minutes time it took me to walk back to camp, our askari (the senior one) whose land it was had heard all about it, and was at the office tent already - absolutely livid. We heard him lighting up the radio before we got there. When we arrived, he was waiting, spitting, kicking dirt, yelling to nobody in particular, had one of his arrows out, staring at me with the look of death. In that moment, I represented the second colonial era to him - the white man coming to steal more land. It was a piss fit, to be sure. So a group of us went out and pulled the stake. Sometimes we just have to choose battles here. Though it was in the correct point, it would have meant conflict and countless meetings with the surrounding community. After we pulled the stake, he was the happiest man around, smiling and laughing and thrilled to have his land back. Now, every morning, he walks up and shakes my hand with both of his, smiling a huge toothless smile.

Random note - I was musing last week about how much I miss music. This past weekend, James - one of my Maasai friends - somehow pirated three CD's for me. He gave me Jack Johnson, Matchbox 20, and George Strait. I could have cried in gratitude. One of the best-timed gifts I have ever received.

Peace & Love.

Rwanda Election & Paul Kagame

Elections are a buzz topic in American media. Most of you will remember the major election headlines from the past year: fraud and hopeless corruption in Afghanistan, fraud and paranoia in Iran, violence everywhere - common themes amongst the American-installed 'democratic process.'

But the Rwandan presidential election this week barely grazed any headline outside of Central Africa. I think it's much more deserving of our attention. Perhaps it went unreported because every person in world politics and world media expected Paul Kagame to be reelected in a landslide, and he was. Buw we must read between the lines here.

The Rwanda genocide in 1994 coincided with civil war, as the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) army invaded Rwanda from Uganda in the north, in attempt to overthrow the sitting dictatorship. The RPF primarily consisted of Rwandan diaspora refugees - mostly Tutsis who had been driven out of their homeland by politically-empowered Hutus during the previous generation - and moderate Hutus who sought democracy in Rwanda. At the time, Paul Kagame was the commanding general of the RPF army. Under his command, the RPF prevailed and unseated the hardline government.

Following the brief civil war, the RPF installed an interim government and began to rebuild the country. Eventually they installed their own President, until Rwanda's first ever democratic election was organized in 2003. Kagame won this election easily and assumed the presidency. A presidential term in Rwanda lasts seven years, so the past two months have featured the campaign run-up to Election Day this week.

Today the RPF remains the dominant political party in Rwanda. In recent weeks, RPF propeganda has been everywhere; Paul Kagame is a sort of Mona Lisa, staring down at me wherever I turn. I have loved the political campaigning here. Sure, there are rallies and mini-flags and promisory speech tours, just like anywhere. But there are other strategies that are far more novel and less organized - trucks driving around with music and "Tora Paul Kagame RPF" blaring from a hotwired loudspeaker, with people in back dancing and throwing beads everywhere.

Here's a recent campaign scene: Thousanda of villagers walk to an electoin rally in a small village in northern Rwanda, loudspeaker trucks and campaign busses whiz by with RPF supporters hanging out and singing, wearing shirts with Kagame's face printed on the front. Sidebar - I got one of those shirts myself and wore it throughout my road trip. Fresh from another really and two hours late, the President arrives, driving himself, with wife in passenger seat and a small entrourage riding in back. There is security surrounding, but not suffocating. People can walk right up to greet him and shake his hand. He moves slowly through the crowd toward the podium, calmly delivers his speech. When he is finisehd, sodas are passed around and music plays, just like any other social occasion in Rwanda. The rally ends with President, Coke in hand, dancing together in a circle with his people. Rwanda is truly special. And this is all refreshing to the American who considers elections to be overly uptight, stiff-collared affairs.

In the end - as expected this week - Kagame was reelected, with 93% of the vote (down from 95% in 2003). 95% of the Rwandan population turned out to vote. Please stop to let that number sink in. In a nation where 90% of the people live in rural villages, surrounded by mountains, the vast majority without electricity or running water, with many still subsistence farming, where transport means walking or riding a bicycle, and always carrying a baby on back or basket on head - 95% of people found a way to vote. That number is why we should be paying attention to Rwanda. The progress in this nation is remarkable. In sixteen years since genocide and seven years since the establishment of formal democracy, Rwanda has established itself as the most stable and secure nation in Central Africa, and the most consistent economy of growth in all of Africa. Relic memories of the horrors still remain, but there is a grace and reconciliation amongst people here that I have never witnessed before - in America, in the church, in myself. Infrastructure is coming here, the children are being educated, and the people unify under the banner of healing and national development. They have formed their own government, in which over half of the representatives are women. They thirst for democracy - for a collective voice. And they have created their own, dancing and singing through each election season. We Americans were too preoccupied with Iraq, Israel, and Somalia in 1994 to step in and protect 800,000 people from a FAR (national military)-sponsored genocide. Something doesn't match up when we compare the current status of those nations to present-day Rwanda.

I also want to comment breifly on Kagame. Before I went to Rwanda, I really didn't know what to think of him. He is quiet, rather mysterious. He is Africa's darling in the Western political world - a champion of democracy and free-market development. But questions linger about his motives and connections leading to the invasion in 1994. In the media he is often criticized for holding a tight grip on national press in Rwanda, and for stamping out dissenting voices. So I was eager to get there and find out for myself what makes Kagame tick.

For what it's worth (and I hope more than when you started reading this post), here is my impression. Paul Kagame is brilliant, no doubt. In person, he is light skinned and rail thin and tall, very quiet and discerning, with eyes that emphasize he has seen more than you can imagine and from that experience he is staring right through your courtesies to the soul of your integrity. He leads the nation with conviction and a chip on his shoulder, from never owning a sense of belonging as a refugee child. He is passionate about education. He has a vision for Rwanda, but he is protective of Rwandan culture as well. I have come to believe that he is a remarkable leader, truly distinctive in Africa. He does hold a tight grip on freedom of speech and press. However, he his not simply seeking out dissenters who may challenge his reign of power. To my observation, his goverment has moved to silence (through deportation or imprisonment) those dissenting voices who are motivated to spread hardline ethnic rhetoric - using similar implicit tones and messages that led to chaos sixteen years ago. Kagame is not about to tolerate such divisive motives. Despite the progress in Rwanda, I think Paul Kagame knows the country is still fragile and healing. Did his army retaliate to murder many of the perpetrators of genocide before they stood trial? Probably. Has his government pillaged resources from the shadows of Eastern Congo? Strong possibility. But if Kagame distinguishes himself by actually leaving office as his is supposed to in seven years - not changing the rules or usurping power like leaders all around him have done - and elections go through peacefully, then Rwanda will have made it, largely because of his leadership, and he will be one of the best things to happen to Africa since Nelson Mandela.

I have seen the way Rwandans adore their president. They seem to need him. At, at least while he is at the healm, Rwandans take a collective ownership of their government in a way I have not seen before amongst Americans.

Random Story -- There was a herd of elephants about 100 feet outside of my tent tonight, ambling through the bush and breaking trees down as the went. I was fairly terrified. When an elephant is close, so close you can hear it breathing, the males make a rumbling noise that sounds like a growl and puts your hair on end. A couple of times, two young males got into a skirmish, roaring and trumpeting and stamping. Sleep was scarce.

Herds are on the move right now, all around the camp - elephant and zebra and wildebeest, with lions and leopards in tow. The elephants are the most dangerous, however, and the most destructive.

There was an elephant stampede yesterday. It was one of the most exciting things I've witnessed in Africa. It is almost an everyday occurrence to see an elephant here, but a stampede is much rarer. In the late afternoon, we were in camp and heard the approaching rumble of huge running feet, followed by the unmistakable trumpet of a large bull elephant. We heard Maasai herder boys yelping about a quarter mile away and set off to go see, blazing through bush and forest, with thorns reaching and cutting and mud sticking, until we reached a clearing and found the boys safe while about 40 elephants rumbled past, within 100 yards of us. It was a site to see. On the way back to camp, walking in a line through the tall grass, the Maasai behind me yelled suddently and held up his hand. Everyone wondered what he meant by it, until he pointed down as a Cobra slithered through the 15-foot gap separating me from him. I don't know what's more unnerving - shadowy gun silhouettes behind every twilighted corner in Congo, or knowing at any given moment there are at least 5 things within 100 yards of you that can kill, watching you come and go...

Peace & Love.

Road Trip

Here are quips from the road trip last week -- four days between Rwanda and Masai Mara in Kenya. I decided to go overland because I'd heard horror stories and adventure tales. Western Tanzania is absolutely desolate, with one real road out of hundreds of miles of bushland, and nobody drives after dark. So I pieced together enough taxis and minibuses to get myself over to Kenya, saved a lot of money, visited new tribes and towns, and met new people.

I crossed out of Rwanda at Rusumo Falls. Here Rwanda's steep green hills give way to brown, rolling bushland. I hitched a minibus from Kigali to Rusumo, hopped off and walked across to Tanzania. There is a raging river and waterfall here that feeds into Lake Victoria downstream. Even at the height of dry season it is running swiftly. Like so many places in Rwanda, the beauty cannot be easily separated from the legacy that genocide left behind. As militias fled the RPF invasion in 1994 and carried out genocide as they went, they were backed into this corner of the country before crossing into Tanzania as refugees. Tens of thousands of bodies were dumped into the river here and turned up weeks and months later in Lake Victoria.

After crossing into Tanzania, I lugged myself and luggage up the hill to find the migration office and a taxi. It had turned unbelievably hot, it was the height of the afternoon, and it took about four tries, but I made it. My huge travel duffel - containing six months of livelihood and weighing in at about 60 pounds - was a constant pain in the ass, throughout the roadtrip. It will be a recurring character in this post. Anyway, I found a taxi at the top of the hill to take me to the nearest town, 30 min away, called Benako. They graciously gave me the front seat. We set off, drove about 100 yards, and stopped to add another passenger, drove another half mile and stopped again, and again, and again. After 15 minutes we'd gone about two miles and had 10 people in the car, a station wagon, with three people straddling luggage in the back. I ended up with a 3-year old boy in my lap while his mother held his twin brother behind me. As with almost every leg of this trip, I was constantly glancing to the rear to make sure my bag wasn't being rummaged through.

In Benako I found the last minibus to a town called Kahama, where there were rumored to be a few hotels and guesthouses, about four more hours. The van wasn't leaving until we found at least four other passengers, so I sat by and waited for a couple of hours. Benako is essentially an outpost of about twenty tin shacks in a row along the highway. I dropped my bag off in the parked van and strolled over to a cafe, where four men were sleeping away the afternoon in the shade. I went in and was thrilled to find Miller High Life on the shelf. Who knows where it came from. I cracked a High Life, sat out under the awning with the napping men, listening to African music float in from somewhere far off, enjoying the break in travel. If that's not a High Life moment, I don't know what is.

Made it to Kahama by 9 at night. On the way, we put 25 people in that 12 passenger van. I ended up on a lap, half standing and hanging out of a window for a full two hours. I found Kahama to be a bustling town - the only electricity I saw for a full day and a half. Even at night, the market was bustling. Apparently Kahama is the primary bus hub in Western Tanzania for travelers trying to get to places like Arusha, Dar, or Nairobi. So I found a guest house for about ten bucks and got a cold shower with it as well. I paid an Indian man named Mohammed about eight bucks for the next leg of the journey, leaving at 7 a.m. the following morning. He owns a bus company called Mombasa Raha - giant blue buses with Simba painted on the back and Genie (Aladdin) on the side -- at least that's what mine looked like. I grabbed a cheap, hardly cooked dinner and walked to the nearest bar, where every businessman in town saw fit to buy me a round. I meant to be in bed by 10, but got back to the room at 1, started to unpack for a shower, and discovered that my shaving cream had exploded in my bag. Amateur mistake. Fuming, after an hour of cleanup, with half my belongings laying around my room to dry, I collapsed in bed. Over my head somewhere, a loudspeaker was blaring hardline Islamic propeganda out into the night, following the final call to prayer a couple of hours before.

The next morning I woke and set off, lugging all my stuff yet again, walking to the town square to find my bus. It was chaos already, with people bustling about to load buses and sell goods and ask the white man for money or business advice. I saw no Simba buses, went to find Mohammed, and learned that I had unexpectedly crossed time zones the day before, and was an hour late. So I waited another two hours to grab a seat on Genie's next magic carpet. During this time I foiled an attempt by a 'porter' to steal my duffel and shoes. I handed my stuff over to load onto my bus, and just noticed them load it onto another bus running a circle route back to town in the evening, where it would be sitting for them to retrieve after I had hauled off to another part of the country. I got off the bus, yelled at them, and then actually paid them after they claimed it was a mistake and still demanded a tip for taking care of my luggage. I just wanted to leave, so I gave them what I had in my pocket (Rwanda currency-HA). I didn't want to start a scene amidst the Islamic-affiliated AK-47s that were all around.

Bus ride from Kahama to Mwanza - awful. Kept close eye on my bag the entire way. Bus felt like the rear axle was just welded straight to the frame. Every bump was a bone-jarring back injury waiting to happen. On the bright side, met an attractive pair of sisters from Mwanza who helped me transfer money, organize my next trip leg, and bought me lunch.

Caught bus from Mwanza to Musoma. On top were about fifty live chickens strapped down. The buss bumped and weaved so much that only about ten of them survived the journey.

Musoma is one of my favorite spots in Africa so far - a sleepy beach town on the shore of Lake Victoria. Breezy, clean air without any of the crowd and hastle of Mwanza. Ran out of money, slept out on beach. Met two brothers in town who helped me out immensely; I may still be there otherwise. They took me to exchange more currency and find the right taxi back out of town to the highway. They were the only two people I met all day who spoke English. On the spur of the moment, Africa continues to award spontaneity in travel. Every time I'm clueless, rescue shows up right in time.

Took taxi from Musoma to Kenya border at Sirini. My goal for the day was to make a town called Migori, where there was rumored to be a fantastic local market. I had no idea where to go at the border, but in the taxi I met a man named Donald. Donald spoke fantastic English, and it turned out he is a pastor from Migori - in the Anglican church. He had heard of Bishop John in Rwanda. He stuck by me for the rest of the day, helped me exchange currency again, pass through migration with ease and then find the right transport to reach Migori. He took me to the church house when we arrived and showed me to a spare bedroom. So I scored a free room for that night. I bought Donald a late lunch in gratitude, which came with the best passion fruit juice I've ever had. He arranged my transport for the next day, and then took me to a party. It turns out that his congregation's choir had just won the national competition in Kenya, and they were having a blowout to celebrate. There was food everywhere, and dancing of course. The choir sang as well, and it was the most beautiful singing I've ever heard - only 20 of them, might as well have been hundreds. I can't describe it. Singing and swaying and dancing as only Africans can. I exhausted myself with festivity, joined the pastors for tea and collapsed into bed.

The next morning, I bid them a bittersweet farewell - they had helped me so much in the 18 hours I knew them - and hopped the next taxi to Kisi'i. I met Moritz there, a Canadian who works in camp with me, and we made our way five more hours to Narok. That morning was fairly smooth. But, as I should have known, the last leg of the trip turned into a real adventure. We found an old 'bus' at Narok to the final destination - Oloolamutia, outside of Masai Mara. This 'bus' was essentially an iron box with seats, welded onto a flatbed truck. We packed in and strapped our luggage and potatoes onto the roof (next to live chickens again), and set off. The old bus couldn't go much more than 35 mph. The journey took about four hours, over rutted dirt roads full of washboards. The bus and windows vibrated so loudly that we might as well have been in a Normandy foxhole. My window sounded like an anti-aircraft gun, and my ears rang for a full day after that ride. Needless to say, the chickens died again. One of their heads flopped over the edge of the roof and bounced around on the other side of my window for the rest of the ride.

Random note - A hyena is going crazy about 100 ft outside my tent. Just beyond his howling, baboons are raising hell. It means there's a leopard somewhere close by.

Peace & Love.

Congo

During my final week in Rwanda, my friend Kevin and I decided to brave a trip into Congo to hike the infamous Nyiragono Volcano in a national park outside of Goma. Eight years ago, amidst a spiralling civil war and peacekeeping effort, Nyiragongo erupted and destroyed much of Goma, forcing millions residing in refugee camps to relocate yet again. The volcano remains active and continues to send smoke and steam out over the city from time to time.

I had really wanted to make this trip for weeks, but I was wary to go alone. If nothing else, I think a part of me wanted the Congo stamp in my Passport - basically akin to just tatooing 'Hardass' on the inside of your forearm. So I'm really grateful that Kevin came along, just in time.

Once in Goma, we met an acquaintance and caught a ride out of the city to the park. On the way, we passed the various UN compounds and headquarters for the near-impossible peacekeeping mandate in eastern Congo. Supply trucks are everywhere, in and out of the city. Those entering were often hauling large groups of villagers, sitting on top of supply loads and clutching their belongings. The refugee crisis here has essentially gone on uninterrupted since the diaspora following Rwandan genocide in 1994. Many people fled to settle in the jungles of the Kivu Province in Congo, but the conflict followed, and continues to be fueled by competing claims to the vast natural resources in the region. Villagers have moved in and out of refugee camps around Congo for over a decade, fleeing an ongoing and itinerant war.

We met up with our porters and guards at the park to begin our hike. Our group was armed throughout our time there, to protect the rebel militiamen who tend to encroach on park boundaries. Five hours later, we reached the clouded summit of Nyiragongo. At about 12,000 feet it was spitting rain, too foggy to see 20 yards ahead, and howling wind. We scrambled to put up a tent to block the wind, and we huddled inside to nap through the evening.

Throughout the afternoon, the crater had radiated heat and let out a constant, low rumble; but we could never see down through the fog. But by nightfall, we awoke to find the fog had cleared out, and directly below us churned a lake of lava. These are the pictures I posted below. We stood transfixed, watching it stir and spit and spew for several hours. The orange haze lit up the night sky above. It is one of the most incredible sights I have ever seen. We camped there that night (too cold to sleep really), right on the edge. One feel slightly less significant while standing over a bubbling volcano.

The coolest thing had to be the sound. The lava lake sounded just like the ocean, under constant motion and pressure - like large waves breaking over a reef.

Random note - lost 10 pounds in Rwanda. Year to date: 15. Welcome back to high school. This is despite the fact that I'm pretty sure every carb in the world has passed its way through my African diet.

Peace & Love.

Quick Update

Sorry I've been out of touch; I just wrapped up a four-day road trip by bus between Rwanda and Masai Mara, Kenya. I'm at Muthaiga now. It was quite an adventure. I will catch up with the Congo post soon, and in my head, I am about four posts behind. But I'm back within reach of internet now, and a few stories will follow very soon. I miss Rwanda already.

Peace & Love

Congo

Stories (and more pictures) to follow.

Dancing

I used to dance, often. I'm convinced that dancing can turn any circumstance into something free and spontaneous - even when we have to force ourselves into rhythm. Few things have such an effect.

But at some point, I quit dancing. Life became all too serious. During college, it seemed like there was always another pending decision or opportunity. And there were any number of voices tugging at my attention. Through ignorance or confusion or pride or insecurity (probably some combination), I just wasn't very good at sorting through, terrible sometimes. I tended to isolate myself. Somehow, I let go of certain parts of my personality. It's amazing how easy it is to lose touch with self, no matter how independent we think we are.

Sometimes I think this adventure is about simply muddling through on my own, being quiet for long enough to figure out where I lost touch. Africa brings with it a lot of perspective. As much as anything, I wish you could see the way they dance here. Any momentary celebration or rush of emotion is reason for dancing. They dance with their entire bodies - hands and wrists and arms and heads and faces and feet and ankles and legs - all flailing about. They chant and sing and clap and yell. Africa is unique because - perhaps more than anywhere else - the people remain deeply in tune with their identity and culture. It is a culture filled with color and emotion - greens and purples (and blues and reds and yellows) and sufferings and elation like nowhere else on earth. And they wear it all on their faces when they dance.

I'm swept up, and I dance with them, more often than ever before. Every day brings some cause for dancing. Here are a few highlights:

• The night before the World Cup kicked off, I was in a massive crowd of people in Rwanda, watching the opening ceremony in a public square. There are two signature songs here for the tournament. People are crazy about them, and strike into dance whenever they are played in public. But never like we danced that first night. During the concert - hundreds, perhaps thousands of people stomping and yelling and cheering, relishing their moment to host the world's attention. I was right in the middle, hugging and stomping along. Everyone in that crowd owned the moment individually, for different reasons, but danced like it was their moment to share. And it was. Their passion was contagious. In that moment, I felt slightly more African myself.
• When I arrived here, there was a group of American college students visiting and staying in the same guesthouse. They all had great insight about being in Rwanda, and I hit it off with them quickly. They stuck around for my first couple of weeks before turning to go back to the States. The weekend before they left, I went to meet them in Kigali, and we decided to go on a bar crawl. Clueless of anything around us, we set out in a general direction to see what we'd find. But I was insistent that we find a way to go soak of the atmosphere of an African night club. They all attend a small Christian university together and hardly make a habit of dancing at all, but we found our way to a place called New Planet nonetheless. The club is divided in half (similar to Workplay), with a local music venue and a dance venue. I was interested in the music, so we went with that half first. It was absolutely packed, and there was a midget rapping on stage. He was incredible. Except that, on closer inspection, this 'midget' turned out to be a kid - no more than ten years old - absolutely tearing up the stage. But this was only a detour. Dancing was the goal. We crossed sides to find a weak scene - three people on the floor while the rest sat around the edge in conversation. The DJ was good, but the juvenile rapper had stolen the crowd away. I wasn't about to give up on the place, so I walked out and claimed the floor for myself, yanking along my friend Heather (who looked utterly terrified), dancing about and winking at all moderately attractive African ladies around the edge. Soon enough the gamble paid off and the enthusiasm began to catch on. For them there was novelty in dancing with Americans; for us there was novelty in simply being in a night club in central Africa. People began to drift over from Kris Kross 'R Us to join this American style of dancing. Fast forward three hours, and it was absolutely ferocious. People everywhere, laughing and jumping about - a hot, sweaty, ecstatic mess of Africans surrounding a few white faces. I dare say the Americans made the party. By the end of the night, I was shirtless, drenched, and too tired to walk home. It was one of the best dancing nights of my life.
• I mentioned the local trade show in the previous post. Really this was more like a fair in the evenings. There was food, drink, music, and local business, so everyone turned out. In a place where such events are rare, it was the thing to do for five nights. But my favorite part was the dancing. Like clockwork at 8 each night, the show turned into a community dance fest, with hundreds of people - mostly children and teenagers - dancing together in the middle of the soccer stadium. For the countless orphaned children who don't attend school, this was a rare chance to join the party, and they certainly didn't waste it. They danced like crazy. It was hilarious. I joined in one night, but most of the time I had to stand by and man our product booth. Apparently many of these children wanted to show the white man their skill(z), so they made a habit of forming a huge circle right in front of our display. It may have kept a few customers away, but I loved it. On the final night of the show, I walked into the circle, held up some money (about three bucks) and offered it to the winner of a dance off. My judgment here was questionable. Twenty people quickly turned to over a hundred, but it remained peaceful. One little boy danced like mad for about ten minutes and even showed a little Michael Jackson improv; he was clearly the winner. After two songs I presented him with the prize money, which was promptly snatched away and ran off with. I should have thought that through a little better. In case you're wondering, I did pay him again.
• The most recent story: I visited a village called Nyamutera yesterday. There is a savings group there, our largest with 217 members. This group is remarkable because it is a so-called 'reconciliation group' - meaning it is filled with Hutu and Tutsi neighbors who literally killed each others' family members during genocide 16 years ago. They have reintegrated their villages, returned from refugee-status, and born the painful and monumental (though not impossible, as all of Rwanda has proven) task of forgiveness, and formed this association together to share their savings and loan to each other. Like the visit to Jomba last week, they greeted me with a ceremonial dance. However, this was not a rite of passage like at Jomba. It had another meaning. They drummed and clapped and danced to celebrate unity in Rwanda. I was sitting at the edge of the circle, watching two young men and one young woman dance in the center. The moment was significant because of the meaning, and everyone there was overjoyed - the type of joy that can only be understood (paradoxically) through suffering and healing together. They were proud to have a visitor recognize their progress. As I was soaking up the moment, the young lady started to dance in my direction. I should mention she was absolutely beautiful, wearing a hypnotizing yellow and blue swirled skirt. She stopped in front of me, smiled, grabbed my hands, and started to lead me to the middle. I had a split-second decision to make - pull away because you have no clue what this ritual is, or say to hell with it and claim another magical African moment. I kicked off my sandals and waded in. So I just danced like I knew how, to the beat of their sheepskin drum. They went crazy, and other villagers quickly ran to join the commotion. Eventually it turned into a bit of a dance-off between myself and the girl, which was the most fun. It all lasted about five minutes, and when the drumming stopped everyone erupted. I was laughing hysterically. Later I was told that the young lady was the 'village virgin' - their most eligible. I concur.

For those wondering, I haven't even busted out the Justin McKay moves yet.

Random Note - In the absence of American music for such a long stretch, it's interesting to note the songs that come and go through my head. For some reason (apparently the setting), they are different songs than normally stick there when I'm at home. Today it was the White Stripes (Seven Nation Army), out of nowhere. Phish and the Beatles have been mainstays in my mental playground.

Remember: Music is our common ground. There ain't no other way around. Dance this week.

Peace & Love.

Week In Review

This has been my busiest, most productive, most fulfilling and most exhausting African week. I think it deserves a recap.

The initial learning curve here took a couple of weeks. I couldn't always communicate or travel independently, but I worked as much as I could. There were more meetings than anything at first. Since then, I feel like I've constantly been chasing after resources - contacts and informants, materials and manpower. There are things to build, transport and publish. I realized about a month ago that I would not have nearly enough time here before moving on to the next place.

At the very beginning in Rwanda, I was tasked with following up with construction of four church buildings (and seeing through the completion of one of them in particular), locating/training/updating each of the 24 cooperative savings groups around Northern Province, consultation on the design of new science labs at a prep school, and various marketing and consulting projects for a local construction company. All of these projects are funded, in some part, by American interests. As of three weeks ago, I hadn't yet seen one of the church sites or met any one of the savings group leaders.

So I've been chasing, around the clock - running and jumping and calling and gathering people. But all may have come to a surprising head over the past five days. The construction company (Haki Construction Solutions) is in good shape. I finished a records database for them a couple of weeks ago, and they are learning to update it independently. Also, we presented products at a regional trade show last week and received a lot of attention, along with very positive feedback. Apparently it works as a marketing ploy here to simply stick a white man next to your product. So, much as I love spending the days alongside the company laborers, I felt comfortable to withdraw during the past weeks and focus elsewhere.

Last week, I was able to meet with all 24 savings group leaders in one place. That was a small triumph. I learned about their projects and different group issues, and this week I set out to visit three of them. I will not be able to visit them all, but it was most important to meet the leaders, to encourage them and begin to implement basic accounting principles as the groups grow. They are very innovative, with members sharing loan funds and businesses, and they are quickly growing independent from the sponsoring entities that organized their start-up.

Also, by this Monday I had finally seen three of the church sites (at various stages of completion), but not yet the one that was most important to complete - by July 20, this Tuesday. They are all very remote, with exquisite views, but in extremely poor villages (average income less than 250 USD/year). There is only a 'road' to two of them. The other two are reached by path. To transport materials for construction, hundreds of villagers (children, elders, women, men) walk up and down the hills in line, carrying cement and wood and stones, on heads of course. This cannot be much different than building a pyramid 3000 years ago. The first time I was taken to see the construction sites, I rode with a local Anglican Vicar on the back of a dirt bike. The journey was agonizing, impossibly steep, slow and bumpy over countless soccer-ball-sized stones, with blinding-dust sand dune stints due to the height of the rural dry season. We tipped over sideways three times, killed the bike countless times, lost it sliding back down a hill once, and started to flip over backward once (I bailed every time). But there was a minor victory in finally seeing these church projects first-hand. But the final church - in a village called Regeshi - remained a mystery. Of all my work objectives here, the completion of this small obscure church had been repeatedly emphasized. Yet I had not been able to see it, and my questions were skirted by the locals. I took this to mean that they had diverted the American money given toward construction to other community projects. But I kept pressing, passed on from person to person, looking for answers and accountability from someone.

Exhausted and frustrated, I took two days this week to help the Tom's Shoes project. I posted pictures from this experience below. I'm afraid it was one of those distinctly African experiences that I could only cheapen in an attempt to describe. Let the pictures speak. Suffice it to say that the other half of the Tom's Shoes business legitimizes the American style craze. This is one bandwagon worth jumping on. I realized the pictures and faces and expressions I came away with in my mind are the reason I traveled to Africa in the first place. In that experience I found part of what I came to search for.

Yesterday, I decided to simply take the day off and go adventuring. I haven't taken an off day in two weeks now. I've been running to see and finish as much as possible. I had given up on the Regeshi church deadline, and was very frustrated and disappointed. It would not be finished, and not for lack of effort. I had insisted and annoyed as gracefully as I could to push the project along,
but I wasn't receiving good information and I had run out of avenues. So I took off early yesterday with my friend Francis to go to Lake Burera on the Ugandan border - an absolutely gorgeous water-filled volcanic crater with multiple islands, skirted by banana and tea farms and stilted thatched huts. We found a fisherman tying his boad (a hollowed-out tree trunk) and asked him if he would paddle us out to the first island, about an hour away. He insisted we pay him ten U.S. dollars (two weeks' wages, at least). I had been willing to offer five, still generous considering the average bus ticket around the country costs three. But he was hell-bent on his price. So we acquiesced and he fetched his 12-year-old son to help paddle, and we shoved off. The day was perfect. While we cruised, I felt more relaxed than I have in a couple of weeks. The man and his son ended up being remarkably hospitable. They walked the perimeter of the island with us, showing off the best lookout points and lagoon spots. The island was inhabited by two families; they harvest bananas each morning and float them along shore to be picked up by a passing boat. I felt like a castaway. They could have left me there.

By noon we had to turn back so Francis could go teach English. She teaches in a village called Mwico, on a hill point that juts out into the lake, surrounded by water on three sides. I set off on my own to explore the shoreline and take some pictures. We met again in a few hours to return to Musanze, thoroughly exhausted. On the way back my phone rang, and I picked up to speak with the same Vicar who had showed me the three churches a few days before. He was out of breath, and there were hammers pounding in the background. He told me they had managed to organize the funds, and the villagers in Regeshi had come together to help finish the church. They were removing stones to pour the final concrete, so it would be dry by Tuesday exactly - the day that the contingent of Americans who funded the project will arrive to visit. I couldn't believe my ears. I was more proud than any other moment in Africa thus far (Landon Donovan's goal a close second). I have not seen the place myself, but by some good fortune I have been able to coordinate its completion through connecting the right people. In the overall scope of things, this lone church building is insignificant when compared to the other, larger projects - but it feels like my biggest work-related victory in Africa.

Last night, I was invited to take dinner in a family's home, and I arrived to find a spontaneous, raging house party. I was handed a Coke as the surrounding mass of Africans sang traditional tribal music and danced ferociously. I stayed for a couple of hours, returned to my guest house and collapsed. Perfect.

Everything can slow down now; I am largely finished with my work commitments, slightly ahead of 'schedule' (whatever that means here). I can move on to tie up lose ends and polish the details this week, as well as host groups of visitors from the U.S. So I breath out. I have ten days left here. After that I'll travel for a couple of weeks on my own, to Congo, back through Rwanda, then overland to Kenya. The adventure begins anew.

In other news, I have the beginnings of an awesome beard, the 24 DuPont Chevrolet tops this weeks NASCAR Power Rankings, and - for what it's worth - it is nearly unanimous opinion amongst Africa's GenY that Tupac is still alive. Also, with my departure, I must have popped the cork on engagement and wedding season. Congrats to Jake & Kara, John & Maggie, Kallie & Chris, TB & Sam(B), and Nate & Erin. I toast you from afar. The untimely 8,000 miles I've placed between myself and your respective festivities probably symbolizes the relative distance I intend to keep between myself and marriage for the foreseeable future. (although a wife in Africa is ripe for the picking.)

Peace & Love.