Laughter and Forgetting

I've been thinking about history lately, about remembering, and about forgetting. I think there's an Hegelian dialectic, the synthesis being the search for truth. I realize that I should've brought "the Book of Laughter and Forgetting" by Milan Kundera. He writes about this.

It makes me think about my own memory, and my own forgetfulness- selective, and spotty. I think about entire nations working with collective, national memories. I think about Stalin and the Russian intelligentsia. I think about Kagame and Museveni. I think about comparisons.

And then I forget.

Graves of Kerouac

I found new words for lust,

which is appropriate for the times,

pretty girls make graves,

and I used to think it was just the Smiths,

but turns out I should just be thanking Kerouac,

or maybe the search for truth.

The Leviathan

27 January 2010

Uganda entry: 3

The day is hot, and the sky hangs heavily laden with a thick layer of smog from the night before. In it, I can see the slow moving mutatus and speedy bota-botas, the drivers chewing on qat, a natural stimulant similar to cocaine leaves or espressos beans, as they transport drunken Ugandans who stay out every night until the early morning. They leave behind more than empty bottles and dirty ashtrays; they leave behind this thick air. I can see out the open doorway of our modest classroom with its white walls and testy outlets, the hills of Kampala, birds searching for morning worms, and employees hanging the day’s laundry to dry. As I lose myself in the scenes that play out, our professor rambles on about the tribes of Kenya and Tanzania, about the Kipsigi and the Luo, about circumcision and the rites of passage, about livestock and concepts of wealth. His delicate glasses hang loosely and lopsided off of his flat African nose. His forehead wrinkles with the questioning expressions of his eyebrows as he grunts rhetorically. His name is Mpagi, and he twirls his pen as he excitedly reads from his repetitive lecture that he has typed out. Other students ponder superficial questions in an eager, but futile attempt to justify their own ill-founded beliefs to those found in traditional African culture. I simply attempt to keep myself from falling into a yawning apathy.

In an essay I wrote for this class, I concluded my argument by maintaining that the articles we were assigned wholly disregarded the factors of racism and oppression that inseparably accompanied the Christian penetration of the African continent, and it became a realization that my time here has been generally unscathed by the factors of economic imperialism and civil violence that confront this nation today. Yesterday was the anniversary of Museveni’s 24 year reign over Uganda, and it was celebrated without haste, but with an almost forced sense of submission. The violence of Northern Uganda can seem irrelevant to life in Kampala; it is nothing more than stories in the newspaper or quietly made comments. I read an article about a man whose genitals were removed in a back alley brawl, about the children marching in support of the Homosexuality Bill that is on the floor of Parliament, about the fight to end female genital mutilation. In my reality, genital mutilation and the state-sanctioned murder of homosexuals do not exist, yet I am here, and I am a part of this society, to whatever extent that may be true. Though it might be easy, because of my status in the social hierarchy, to ignore these issues, which most of my peers have resided themselves to doing, my grasp on ethics and morality make that impossible. I could simply sit in yawning apathy, taking in the beauty of my surroundings and justifying to myself the abject poverty that I have experienced. I could think about the present, and talk about the past in laughter. But in order to be fully penetrated by my experiences here I must, to the greatest extents of my humanity, attempt to see from the tragic, yet hopeful perspective of true Ugandans, prideful Ugandans with ambition and desire for a better future. I realize the extent to which I am able to empathize with others who have such a different lifestyle and cultural past from my own. I will never understand the Rwandan genocide, or the corruption that is allowed to run so rampant here in Uganda. I will never understand the perspective of those who find Christian morality in the death of homosexuals. But I can understand their hope, and I can be a part of that.

I’ve found myself falling into the dark pits of lethargy and apathy for the past week. Since my partners in research left for the shores of America, I haven’t found the inspiration of shared intellect or the dedication to comprehension that was once inside me. Reading and researching and passion seem to have gone into dormancy. I find myself talking about other students and my hopes for mental health, but the meaningful issues have evaded my cognition. I can feel their resurgence though, like the Battle of Normandy. The articles and readings we are assigned have proven quite useless, and the homework has proven even easier. I must push myself, as Daniel says, “Without a Leviathan looking over my shoulder.” I know I must do this, but now I know that there is a Leviathan, and it does not come from the sea or from a professor; it comes from within me, from my passion and my purpose. Fear is instilled in me from within, from the deep red sea of my person arises a monster of hope that drives me to study, to read, to research, and to learn something from my experiences. And as my professor continues to ramble confusedly about next week’s assignment in the Ugandan English that makes little sense in the context of grammatical correctness, I am sure that my Leviathan, with his horns and fins and saber-teeth, is powerful, and that he is capable of overcoming the superficiality of my education here. I can respect the relaxation and warnings against perfection in Ugandan tradition and culture, but I am myself, and I have to pursue my own goals regardless. To quote an African proverb: I am because we are, and because we are, therefore, I am. Though I am a product of my environment, I cannot allow that to rule who I become. We are, and I am, and those two are mystically connected without being the same.

Learning is Never Easy

26 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 10

My birthday was yesterday and I almost forgot. Rachel woke me up with her well wishing. Our director Kate gave me a ride in her Rav 4 with the steering wheel on the wrong side up the steep incline of Tankhill, the road that we walk to class twice a day. Everyone in the house told me happy birthday, and it was written on the whiteboard that displays the daily announcements. So I remembered. I found that I can distract myself during our long class hours filled mostly with lectures on how Africans are related and culture changes by focusing on work that I find more important, like writing a new Odyssey proposal for Eastern Europe (see bottom of post), or my CV for my internship at the Rwanda Development Board.

After class, like most days, we went to the fitness club/restaurant/”café” next door and complained to one another about certain individuals who often times offend our sense of intelligence and our desire for higher education. I’ve always found it frustrating to be around individuals who have little or no desire to escape their ill-founded worldview. It is a challenge that I often find myself struggling with. I’m not a nice person when I’m put into this situation and I’m not at all sure how I feel about that. One person in our class consistently asserts that people should be able to do whatever they will and do not deserve to be critiqued for it, and she is especially adamant about this fact in the context of literature. Ironic as this may seem, it is even more ironic that she is a staunch Christian; every time her gaze lands on me, the feeling of judgment becomes palpable. Regardless, I have come here to learn, not particularly from my classes or my fellow students, but from my surroundings, and from the people that I meet and the experiences that I have.

We went to a traditional dance performance put on by the Nderi tribe (pictures on Facebook). The vibrant colors and smiling faces lift the spirit. The musicianship wasn’t perfect, and neither were the dances, but what I’m learning here is that perfection can be a vice. I heard a proverb the other day that told the story of a man who was the best trapper in his village. He was known throughout the land as the most skillful, and experienced in his field. Partly, his ability was due to his desire for perfection and how unrelenting he had become in this ambition. One day he decided to build the perfect trap, a trap that only he could undo, and that no animal could escape from. So he built this trap, with all the perfection he could muster. He was meticulous and precise and he accomplished his goal. After he had finished, he stood back to look at the trap that he had built, but in his perfectionism, he noticed one small strand of rope that was out of place. As he went to fix this small problem, he became caught in the trap. He yelled and shouted and attracted a great crowd of people, but no one could get him out of the trap. And now we all know the fate of the perfectionist. This proverb struck a chord within me. As someone who values my work and strives for perfection no matter the cost to my relationships, or myself it’s often hard to see the faults in my system. Pulling all nighters, becoming frantically meticulous, what is the cost-benefit analysis? I know my passion is meaningful and I do not expect that I will soon give up on my ambitions. But there is something relaxing about this culture. They walk slower and I envy that. I do not see myself becoming less of a perfectionist, or less ambitious, but I am now aware of another one of my vices. I think awareness is a powerful tool. Perhaps awareness is an end unto itself. I think the experience is all there is to it. The dancers were beautiful and happy and their imperfections were meaningless. Perfection was not the goal. Near the end of the performance the MC called up an Englishman named Martin, it was his birthday. After holding an awkward conversation with him for 5 minutes or so, he asked who else’s birthday it was, and having the great friends that I do, everyone pointed and yelled at me. The MC promptly came over to retrieve me from my seat to which I had firmly stationed myself. He called up other people whose birthday it was, those who had a birthday that week, that month, and soon the stage was full of about 15 people. The musicians began to play and the MC invited everyone to the stage to dance. With my best friends by my side, along with new friends from the past week, I felt what it all meant: to the dance, to be a part of a culture, to show that to others. It wasn’t about perfection or being meticulous, it was about community, about love, and about personality and tradition. There were people from all over the world on the stage, India, Vietnam, America, England, Holland, Uganda, and we all danced in our own awkward way. But in that moment, I think we knew something about one another. That was the best birthday present I could have received.

I bought a chicken on Saturday. Her name is Janet Museveni, and yes, she is a live chicken. We went on a tour of Kampala, including the Saturday market, locally named Owino. Getting off of the mutatu (van taxi), we immediately entered into the chaos of Kampala. The streets, generally covered in dust and garbage, were covered with mud and garbage. The abhorrent smell of smog and the excretion of the city were now accompanied by fresh meat, Ugandan cooking, and the dense concentration of people selling anything from used clothes from America to electronics from China. In the midst of it all, it’s actually easy to find beauty. The aged women hunched over stew pots stir their own mixes of vegetables, nuts, and meats. Men ride bicycles heavily laden with 15 foot steel bars or their large inventory of shoes. Rows of grinders growl as they turn peanuts into paste. Sewing machines whir as women mend and produce dresses and shirts from the fabric their daughters have sold to muzungus who want a souvenir. All this beauty, though, is surrounded by the most utter sadness: small children no older than 4 sit alone on the roadside, their hands extended in hopes of receiving the equivalent of $0.10. Piles of rotting fruit and shit are swept into dumpsters by dozens of women and men. There is also frustration: the constant yelling and hand grabbing, “You are welcome,” meaning “Come and buy something from me.” Taxi drivers tell us that is cost 20,000 UGsh to get home, when in reality it costs 4,800. The girls get marriage proposals. It is an overwhelming experience full of so much life and vibrancy. I don’t know if I could get it anywhere else. Of course there are negatives to life in another country, in another culture. But I’ve come to learn that I must accept those along with everything else. Learning is never easy.

Odyssey Proposal for Eastern Europe (let me know what you think):

Remembering History:

Memorials of Conflict, Reconciliation, Justice, and Retribution

History tells the story of conflict and reconciliation again and again. A conflict tears a people apart. At the end of it all, we must find a way to rebuild, to live in peace, to forgive, to remember, to change. Reconciliation poses many questions. There are many variations to this story, and many different answers. How do we heal from conflict? What is the role of justice and retribution? How do peoples, political parties, and nations rebuild after tragedy? Most especially, how is history remembered, and how does that memorial reflect the story of conflict and reconciliation? We are often told that the victors tell the story of conflict. Is this universally true? How is history truly remembered? I am currently studying abroad in Rwanda, a country that less than 20 years ago was engulfed in one of the most horrific and catastrophic conflicts the world has ever seen. Today, this country continues to deal with reconciliation in a post-ethnic frame. I hope to explore the questions of reconciliation that exist here. I will travel to the Kigali Genocide Memorial as well as the church at Nyamata. Both of these locations memorialize the genocide and its victims in ways that are unique to the people and the conflict. I will photograph the experience, and these photographs will each be accompanied by a written description, both personal and analytical. When I leave Rwanda in July I will travel to Eastern Europe. I will travel to Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Romania to several sites of the European transition out of communism from 1989 until 1994, commonly called the Velvet Revolutions. Each of these countries has a different story of conflict and reconciliation. Each country has a different memorial to remember that history and that reflects their story of reconciliation. In Hungary I will travel to Budapest, to Szoborpark or Memento Park. After the fall of communism in Hungary, the statues of the fallen leaders were put into Memento. How is Memento meant to memorialize these leaders? Are the Hungarian people putting these statues into the garden in order to remember, or to forget this history? Does Memento park give the Hungarian people a sense of justice and retribution? I hope to investigate the meaning of Memento park in the context of historical commemoration. I will then travel to Bratislava in Slovakia, to Hviezdoslav square, the site of the 1988 Candle Demonstration. This was the first mass demonstration against the communist party in what was Czechoslovakia. Hviezdoslav square is an important site in that it represents the first instantiation of dissent against the communist party in Czechoslovakia. What type of memorial does this represent? Is this site remembered for heroics? Does this memorial give justice to the demonstrators, and incite retribution on their oppressors? I will investigate, through word and image, how Hviezdoslav square serves to remember the Candle Demonstration and the transition out of communism in Slovakia. In the Czech Republic I will travel to Letna Park, the site of several anti-communist demonstrations, as well as the location of “Stalin’s monument.” Stalin’s monument is a large marble pedestal that once was the base of the world’s largest monument to the Soviet leader. The monument was destroyed in 1962, but the base remains. I find this to be an interesting site metaphorically. Though it was once the site of the largest memorial to the leader of the communist world, and perhaps the most oppressive of them all, it now serves as a memorial of the transition to democracy and freedom. Stalin’s monument, it seems, remembers the communist world under Stalin; but it also celebrates Stalin’s downfall. Finally, I will travel to Bucharest in Romania to Revolution Square. Revolution Square (named so after the 1989 revolution) was the site of both the beginning and end of Ceausescu’s regime. In 1968, a massive rally marked the height of Ceausescu’s popularity. Another in 1989 marked the end of the communist regime, and Ceausescu’s life. Revolution Square represents both the height of communism and its eventual downfall. How does Revolution Square serve to remember this history? That it is now named Revolution Square shows how this location perpetuates justice. All of these locations stand as symbols of a conflicted past. Each reflects a different answer to the questions posed by post-conflict reconciliation. As I travel to each location, I will document with photography and written descriptions. I will seek to understand the similarities and differences between Rwanda, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Romania and their experiences with conflict and reconciliation. As well, I will explore the issues of justice, retribution, and memorial. Are we able to see parallel’s within these histories? What do these memorials tell us about the human experience in itself? My use of both photographic and lingual interpretation will provide a visual, personal, and analytical frame within which I hope to convey both a particular understanding of each history, as well as a general understanding of the ways in which history is remembered in a global context. This project brings together artistic, historical, and intuitive methods of experiential learning. It exemplifies the spirit of engaged learning as it goes beyond the opportunities offered by any single course. This project will allow me to experience history in a non-traditional way as I approach these historical topics with artistic and interpretive methods. Therefore I will submit this proposal as a Special Project.

When Can I Start?

19 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 9

I find it difficult to reflect on my experiences when those experiences are devoid of others. The past week has truly shown me the meaning of having others in my life, especially those who I care deeply about. I’ve never found it easy to be alone. Even in the most stressful, overwhelming moments, I find comfort in others. So when I spent five days in Kigali and Kampala last week, even though I knew that I needed a break and that it would be a good time to get some rest, I found myself anxious. I felt as if I had skipped over the bulk of my lifetime and gone straight into retirement. The climate in Kigali seems like that of a retirement community in Florida or coastal Alabama. The house I stayed in was decorated in a style not altogether distinct from that of an octogenarian woman who also enjoys floral printed, shoulder padded blouses. It had some African spice, and it is a beautiful house. Nonetheless, the experience taken as a whole was too close to weekday golfing and Chardonnay starting at noon.

Aryn and I flew to Kampala on Saturday night. We got to Entebbe (the airport 30 minutes outside of Kampala, literally on the shores of Lake Victoria). Our taxi driver, Godwin, drove us into Kampala, to the immaculately austere Go-ED guesthouse. In Uganda, you drive on the other side of the road. It’s like England, except, really, the driving thing is the only similarity. I couldn’t see Lake Victoria aside from the city lights that occasionally reflected off of its uneven surface. Kampala is much dirtier and vibrant that Kigali. Garbage is strewn and often burning in the gutters. Dirt blows across the street. Vendors offer their wares on the sidewalk without respect to those who actually want to use the sidewalk for walking. And I would recommend that, if you’re ever in Kampala, you use the sidewalk. I used to think that driving in Kigali was nerve-wracking. Looking back, it seems serene. Bota-botas (moped taxis) wiz by in both directions, sometimes coming within inches of my anxious arms. Close to the house, we went through what Aryn referred to as, “sort of the Red Light district.” There aren’t any brothels that I saw. Mainly just vendors selling electric irons without boxes and clothing hanging off of spike-tipped fences. There was a restaurant called “I Feel Like Chicken Tonight.” “Me too,” I said.

We called in an order for Indian food close to the house. Aryn asked Godwin for the number of the restaurant, but I’m fairly sure that he gave her the owner’s cell phone number. At the house, I eagerly ate chicken curry and that spinach, cheese square Indian stuff. I don’t know if it’s my excitement about being here, or reality, but I haven’t experienced a bad meal in the past two weeks. The words free range don’t really apply to Rwandan and Ugandan livestock, mainly because I don’t think that there is an oppressed range here (I guess I can use this as the opposite of free range right?). The food is fresh, flavorful, and bright. Tree tomatoes, mangoes, apples, bananas, pineapple- the fruit selection and quality is astounding. They only have these tiny bananas, untouched by most pesticides or growth hormones. They’re like banana concentrate without all the processing.

The next night, Aryn and I went out for Ethiopian food (as you can tell, the main focus of most of my days has been food). In Ethiopian restaurants, you’re expected to wash your hands at one of the many sinks that have been placed randomly throughout the restaurant. At this specific restaurant, there were little huts that served as dining rooms, and a large crowd on the patio watching a football game (see how assimilated I am, I’m already calling soccer football). There were sculpted rock formations over doorways and neatly thatched roofs. We ordered a vegetarian mix. Our food came in several small bowls sitting atop a spongy, sourdough flatbread. The server subsequently dumped the 6 or 7 bowls onto the large bread-covered platter that they had come on. There is no silver ware. You eat by tearing off pieces of bread and pinching up bits of stewed lentils, chick peas, cabbage, green peas, and spinach. Again, it was delicious and fulfilling.

I was excited that night for reasons other than food. Morgan and Rachel would be arriving soon. After dinner I sat in the house, watching illegal downloads of Dexter Season 4. Don’t worry, no spoilers. I was anxious to the point of delusion, walking across the room to look out the window every time something with a motor drove past. Finally, an hour after their supposed arrival, the bus pulled into the driveway. I never know what to do with myself at that point. But I ran outside to greet not only Morgan and Rachel, but a group of 14 students I had yet to meet. The bus was burdened with luggage, and the students were burdened with jetlag.

I suppose it’s given me more courage, having others here. I don’t feel anxious going out. Before I suppose it was a bit lonely to go out. I suppose it was also a little intimidating, being the lone mazungu. Perhaps it’s simply my personality. I enjoy having others around, to talk, to argue, to interact. To sum it up, my experience has changed completely in the past 2 days. As a group we have begun to explore, not only the city, with its gelato stands and fearless taxi busses, but also our own concepts of development, transformation, and poverty. I’m still not sure what poverty means. Is it soap and salt? Or is it something more? When I look to my future, I think of all the places I might go. I think of the people I will meet and the work that I will do. We talk about charity and aiding the poor. But how should we do that? One answer is through law. I believe that by developing accountable and ethical institutions of government, countries become able to increase their own capacities, sustainably (if anyone knows what that word really means). Still, how do we develop government accountability? When can I start? Is any of this possible for me? I now hope to attend a Masters program when I finish Hendrix. I am looking (by looking I mean thinking about and talking to people who are actually looking) at programs that have joint MA/JD programs. Maybe all of this is premature. Perhaps I myself am underdeveloped. I suppose I myself am developing, and the future isn’t static. But being here compels me, not only to think, but to do. I am prepared to confront the world, so full of ethical quandaries and moral dilemmas. And now I know that I cannot do it alone. Of course I knew this before. However, I see clearly now that wherever I go, whatever I do- the relationships that I cultivate will mean the most. If I can aspire to achieve something in life, it is simply to know others. And I can do that right now.

Assimilation, Difficulties?

15 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 8

I’m sitting in my new favorite place right now. It’s a coffee shop in Kigali called Shokola. I think Shokola means “taste it.” It’s an interesting mix of cultures here, as are most things in Kigali. There is an Indian rhythm subtely combined within a Rwandan frame. The small building contains nothing more than a bookshelf, a cashier counter, and a couch. This opens up into an expansive backyard with small cabanas and a massive canopy covering several cozy couches where you can smoke hookah. I’m working on my second macchiato and the night is coming. I finally have plans to go out with some of the people that I met through my research project. Good thing the expat community here is tight. All the mazungus I’ve met so far know the others. It’s almost difficult to get away.

I haven’t done much for the past few days. Being here by myself has been a bit boring. I go to bed around 11 o’clock and wake up at 8 for breakfast. I found a new fruit, they’re called tree tomatoes. Martin always ordered the juice when we went out. They look like tomatoes, and the insides are similar. They’re tart and juicy and delicious. Breakfast usually consists of one of them, along with some granola, or tiny Rwandan bananas (condensed flavor), or croissants (remnants of the French), and, of course, Rwandan coffee (superb). I usually walk to the Ndoli’s supermarket to get yogurt or cigarettes or Fanta. It’s only two or three blocks away. Walking through the densely populated streets of Kigali is unexpectedly enjoyable, just seeing all the different ways of life that comingle in this city. You see women in traditional African dresses, and you see others wearing used American t-shirts. I think I seem less like a tourist if I walk with purpose, wear my sunglasses, smoke a cigarette, and look angry. I’m learning more words in Kinyarwanda. I think that helps. I can actually respond to people without seeming utterly confused. I can hold small introductory exchanges: “Muraho” I say, “muraho, amakuru?” the doorman responds, “amakuru neza” I say in return, “I’m doing very well.” It’s simple but meaningful to me. I will take classes soon. Then I can go to the market and get something besides the mazungu price.

Aryn, the woman I’m staying with while I wait for the others to arrive, had some friends over last night. It was good to meet some people, to interact and be social. It was a nice change from the past few days of isolation and retirement. They weren’t even expats, which was a nice change from most of the people that I have spent time with since my arrival. They were witty, and funny, and we talked about film and smoked cigarettes. We played Apples to Apples and they didn’t get a lot of the words because “you must have to be from America to get that one,” like Pop Rocks. I tried to explain, to no avail.

The macchiatos here are only $2, and comparable to the $4 macchiatos you get at most American coffee shops. I go to Uganda tomorrow. There, I will lose all of the assimilation that I have gained in the past 2 weeks, but, if I’ve learned anything from my time here, assimilation is never too difficult. Weybahley (sp?). It means thank you in Lugandan (Swahili derivative). See, I already know something.

Home in Africa

13 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 7

I walked on American soil the other day. It wasn’t quite like being home.

I walked on British soil yesterday. It wasn’t quite like being in England, especially since we met with an overly precise Canadian woman. She told us about Dfid, the British version of USAID that has basically funded land reform in Rwanda.

The U.S. embassy in Rwanda is the largest embassy in all of Africa. I suppose America intended to make a statement. Maybe they intended to make a home. Like most buildings in Kigali, the embassy sits atop a hill. You can see the oversized American flag waving from far in the distance. Once we passed through the layers of security, we were able to talk with a few people from USAID, America’s department of international development. Inside the embassy, it seems less like a fortress and more like a contemporary art museum- traditional Rwandan baskets on the walls alongside extravagant quilts. The walls are off-white; the architecture is austere, yet stylish. The ambassador spoke to us on his way up the stairs as we sat in the lobby of the main atrium. I suppose there's something universal about Americans and loudness and friendliness.

Perhaps the most exciting aspect of our trip to the embassy was seeing the pictures of Barack, Joe, and Hillary prominently displayed at the entrance. There’s something uplifting about that reality. It made me think of the pictures that had been up for the previous 8 years, and how scary it must have been to see Dick staring back at you. Seeing those framed head shots made me feel proud to be back in America, technically speaking.

Being back onto American soil got me thinking about home, and my time abroad. My team left yesterday. I watched as Daniel, Amanda, and Ashley all went through the embarrassing motions of airport security. Martin dropped me off at the house where I will be staying during my time in Rwanda. I knocked anxiously on the thick metal of the gate to the Go-Ed house and was let in by someone who didn't speak English. They must have been expecting me because they let me in.

Now I am on Rwanda soil. Since I’ve been at the Go-Ed house, I have forgotten all of my early worries about what would await me here. The environment that I have found here is welcoming. Ida cooks for us, and she makes delicious food. Today she taught me, in broken English, how to use the laundry machine. Her young son lives here. I’m fairly sure he speaks no English. But his smile is enchanting. I think there’s something about the culture here that makes it acceptable to stare at white people. It’s usually awkward, but when Ida’s son does it I can’t help but smile. There are two dogs here, TJ and Bubbles. They must be Rwandan dogs, because they’re the calmest dogs I’ve ever met, but friendly. The view from the porch spans the tan houses of residential Kigali. I have sat there for most of the day, reading, writing, and drinking coffee. I still have many unanswered questions. But I can see myself growing already. I guess the future has just never been that intimidating to me.

I have been thinking about the typical abroad experience, the ones you hear about before you go abroad yourself- the homesickness and the culture shock. So far I haven’t felt any of that. Of course I miss my family and my friends, but I don't anticipate a personal crisis or shock of culture. I have only been here for less than two weeks, but I already sense something different about my experience. Traffic is nerve-wracking. Service in restaurants is excruciating. Even if people don’t understand you, they act as if they do, and then just bring you the wrong thing. People speak so quietly that it is often difficult to distinguish if they’re talking at all. No one understands my French. I don’t understand Rwandan French. Why do waiters have to be so meticulous about my place setting? Why can’t I carry my own ashtray to my table (in Daniel’s case)?

Rwandan culture is truly different from what I am accustomed to. But instead of being discouraged by these differences, I look for meaning in them. Studying Africa in books and then being here to live has been an amazing experience. Seeing the aspects of African culture that I have read about for the past two years gives them new meaning, a personal meaning. It’s as if I have studied Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture for years and now I’m living in Falling Water. It’s just cool. I don’t know how long it will take me to get used to it. Being here, of course, I am getting accustomed to certain aspects of society. I know how to function at the market. I know how to say “thank you.” And I know what to expect when I order pillipilli, bahjia, and mukeke. But there’s something about this culture, specifically Rwanda, that is perpetually stimulating. And I’m not trying to say that Europe is boring, or that students that go to Europe are non-adventurous. I want to go to Europe too. But for my passion, and my education, Africa is where I want to be, and it’s where I need to be. I study development, and political philosophy. In Rwanda my studies come to life. Questions of French complicity, democracy vs. authoritarian rule, post-conflict reconciliation, a distinct frame for development- all of these play a major role in Rwanda culture and politics. I am learning something here. I am learning something more than what I learn in my classes. I am experiencing a culture that is incomprehensibly different from my own. And this is real life. In a few short days, I have learned about what it is like to be a minority, however comical that may be. The word poverty now has new meaning to me. I realize that defining wealth in numbers is useless here.

I don’t know if I haven’t been here long enough, or if I’m somehow unique. I always hope for the latter. But I don’t see my excitement and intrigue for this part of the world going away soon. I still have too much to learn, and too many people to meet. I have yet to go white water rafting on the Nile, and I have yet to muster the courage to drink banana beer (they make it with water in the rural areas, and diarrheal diseases never sounded appealing). The heaviest of the rainy seasons has yet to come. I await it with anticipation. I look forward to the next 6 months, because, for some reason, I already feel at home in Africa.

Questions of Reconciliation

8 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 6

There’s something to be said about openness in reconciliation. The process of moving on after a tragedy is a difficult one. The strength of imagery can prevent forgetfulness. But where does that strength come from? Can openness go too far?

Today we traveled to the Millennium Village in Mayange. The Millennium Village is a project meant to actualize the Millennium Development Goals that were set forth by the U.N., to be achieved by 2015. The MDGs confront development with an integrated approach, including health care, access to education, and improved farming techniques (among many others). Our guide, Florence, showed us around the project today, a sprawling community with 25,000 people, and signs of progress. Upon arrival, we went to a church that was the site of the 1994 genocide. 11,000 people had gathered there with the hope of safety. When the Hutu militia came, however, they were hopelessly slaughtered. From the beginning, I understood that this was going to be an intense experience. Florence told us that the guide at the memorial was actually a survivor. He had hidden under the corpses of his friends and neighbors for three days, and he was now here to tell the story of the massacre.

The door to the church was mangled and broken. The militia had thrown a grenade at it, and the concrete below the door was indented, the tin roof above shredded with shrapnel. Inside, the smell of dirt and pain consumed me. The church was filled with benches, on top of which were the tattered clothes of 11,000 victims. The benches were still situated as if church were going to be held the next day. At the front of the church was an altar covered with a stained cloth. Stepping over the mounds of clothing, Florence touched the altar telling us that the stains were the blood of the pregnant mothers that had been killed in front of the captive masses.

The church was hardly a large one; I found it amazing that 11,000 people had managed to fit. Our guide, Charles, showed us were he had hidden for three days, his head wedged into a hole in the brick. He had been 7 years old. At this point, he led the group downstairs, where, from the top, I could see skulls. I could not find it within me to continue, so I went outside to calm myself. I turned around to see the bullet holes in the brick wall.

Charles then led us behind the church to see the mass graves where thousands had been interred. Again, he led the group down a set of stairs into the crypt. Again, I abstained. While I waited, I pondered the question. There is a certain blatancy about the genocide here. While it’s not openly discussed generally, it can, at times, become over-whelming, most especially for outsiders. The tragedy that has occurred here is unfathomable. Perhaps the reconciliation that is necessary is also unfathomable.

We toured the Villages that comprise the Millennium Project. We went to a basket weaving cooperative where women in the community pool together their resources and talents to sell their impressive crafts. We were greeted by a crowd of children and a small group of women that were sitting outside the basket store. We all said “Muraho,” (hello/how’s it going) and clasped forearms. The store was full of baskets that they had woven. These are the baskets that people in the U.S. sell for upwards of $60. Here, they sell for 3,000 Frw, about $6. I bought a few, each with the name of its maker on the inside. Of the few that I purchased, one had been made by one of the women that was sitting outside. I met her and told her how beautiful her craft was. She was holding a blue BIC in her hair. Before we got into the Land Cruiser to leave, one of the women approached us an offering. Florence told us that they didn’t want us to leave without receiving their gift. She offered all of us a traditional Rwandan peace basket. They are beautiful. As we drove away, children stood outside of the car, giddy with excitement when we took their pictures. We realized that one of the children, no more than 10 years old, held up a small bottle of gin.

At the end of our tour, we went to what they call the Reconciliation Village, where perpetrators and survivors live side-by-side. Driving in, children ran after and jumped onto the back of the Land Cruiser, grand smiles on their faces. The houses are the light brown of the dry dirt on the ground. As I got out of the car, a small child ran up and immediately embraced my legs in greeting. I said “Bite” to the small group of children that had surrounded us, high-fiving their tiny brown hands. We were greeted by Janet- a survivor. She led us into her modest living room. A pink tablecloth covered the coffee table; a picture of her military husband who died in the Congo adorned the wall. Frederique- a perpetrator- entered the room and sat down on one of her wicker chairs. Amanda filmed as the two told their stories, of regret and of forgiveness. Again, I found it overwhelming. How could these two people, 16 years after the genocide, sit down beside one another and hold a conversation about such a tragedy? I asked Janet, through a translator, where she found the strength to forgive. We looked one another deeply in the eyes, despite the language barrier that separated us. We saw something in one another that was powerful, human. Her eyes glistened as she explained her obligation to forgive, to move past the death of her parents. As we left, I took a picture of her. She was smiling as she stood next to the man who represents all the pain that she feels about the genocide.

I find it impossible to imagine that sort of reconciliation. I think of the grudges that I have held in my lifetime, for things like poor music taste and insensitivity. I think of the pain these people experienced. I can’t imagine what that must be like- to live next to the people who killed your family. Even further, I can’t imagine what it might be like to live next to the people whose family you have killed. I find it incomprehensible. I don’t know if this is a triumph of humanity, or a perversion of forgiveness. I suppose I can’t see into someone’s heart. But I can see the realities that are present. The welcome in this community was palpable. I have had an amazing experience here in just 6 days. I don’t know what awaits me, and I don’t know if it will ever get easier to understand the questions that I have about reconciliation. I know that the search will be worth it.

Urwego Opportunity Bank

6 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 5

Urwego means ladder. Today we met with Urwego Opportunity Bank, it’s a micro-financing institution that works in Rwanda. They loan small amounts of money to women, who then form what they call trust groups. These trust groups work together in their community, form bi-laws, and promote development in both economic and social capacities. This morning we traveled out of Kigali, to the west. The paved roads in the city are in excellent condition, even in comparison to American roads, at least those in Arkansas. The sun was out, and the breeze was cool. As we left the city, open hills came into view. The road was lined with corn and cassava. Rwandans traveled alongside us- on mopeds, on bikes heavily burdened with wood or food for the market, and on foot, the typical carry-stuff-on-my-head model.

We finally reached the first town outside of Kigali, and turned onto a dirt road. Whatever impression of development I had experienced on pavement was thrown away at this point. Martin called it an African massage. I however did not find it so soothing. We were accompanied by two Urwego employees- one named Daniel, the other, a beautiful woman who didn’t speak English. As we drove along dirt roads crowded with vendors and bicycles, shouts of mazungu (white people) emanated from the chaos. The facial expressions were intriguing. Children looked at us with a gleam of hope in their eyes. Others had an expression of confusion, maybe caution. As we traveled through the rural villages, hoardes of people came out of the woodwork. Children yelling “mazungu mazungu mazungu” ran after the Land Cruiser as it bounced through the ruts mud. It was as if I were a mythological creature, a rare species. It was almost flattering, but at the same time, very strange.

We were going to see a UOB trust group in a small rural village. The dirt roads led us through hills and valleys covered with crops of avocado (which I’ve had at least one a day since I’ve been here), cassava, corn, goats, the occasional cow, and the occasional cluster of cottages. When we arrived, we were greeted by a group of men standing around a small fire, grilling pork skewers in the hot sun. We were led through an alley way by a young, squatty woman into a small room. The room was filled with over 40 women sitting closely on small wooden benches. It smelled of agriculture, of chickens and dirt. It was dimly lit from a small window and the light from an open doorway. We were led to the front of the room and sat on a bench in front of the women, who looked at us with wonder and question. One woman was breast feeding her child, another was counting Rwandan francs on the table in front of us. There were children peering through a shuttered window on the back wall, waving at us incessantly with glee. These women were clients of Urwego. They had all received loans ranging from $20 to around $200. The had formed this trust group, given themselves bi-laws, and built a community around the money that they had earned and invested. We introduced ourselves through a translator. We told them about our research and why we had come to them- to learn what was impossible to learn from books and the Internet. We asked them questions about their lives and how the loans they had received had changed their community. Several women stood to tell us their story. One woman had been a scavenger, searching for bits of food and small amounts of money to pay for any amount of subsistence. Because of Urwego, she was proud to tell us that she could now feed her children and that she had 3 goats. Another woman told us of her frustrations within her marriage. She used to ask her husband for money to buy salt and soap. It was a strain on her marriage, yet it was so simple. Now, she said, she could buy her own soap and salt. Now, when she goes to the market, she will bring back a pint for her husband.

The most profound part of this experience wasn’t the individual stories that these women told however. It was about the changes in the community, and the security that they all felt. The trust group gave them a sense of empowerment, a sense of autonomy, and a sense of responsibility. Instead of saying that the loans made them more powerful than their husbands, they said that now, their families worked together to promote their investments. One woman owned a barbershop; another owned a boutique. But all of these were family operations. And all of these operations were related back to the trust group dynamic. The group gave these women hope, and purpose. They relied on the group as a safety net and as a structure of friendship. And they pushed one another to achieve new goals. One woman stood up, and said that their slogan was “Make your bed.” I suppose this is the literal translation, but it means, “Put things in order.” She said that the trust group enforced a set of expectations. If a woman comes to the group and she does not have good hygiene, or her children are malnourished, she is ostracized. So that woman comes back the next time and she is clean and her children are fed. “Make your bed.”

Urwego is more than a loan officer. The bank trains these women (85% of their loans are to women). It gives them information on HIV/AIDS, malaria, family budgeting, and general health. Education lays the foundation for these loans, and the social cohesion that they have. It was a beautiful experience, to see the pride that these women had for themselves, and the gratitude that they, for some reason, showed to us. As we were leaving, we asked them to take a picture with us, and they were excited to oblige. We exited the small room and went back to the street that served as the center of their village. Children played in the streets, and the men cooked pork. After we took the picture, we shook hands with the women. “Murakoze” (thank you) was the only word that was spoken, but in it, I found so much meaning. Though we could only talk through a translator, we could still know one another through the most innocuous of phrases. Thank you. I’m not quite sure why they were thanking us. Maybe it was because we gave them an audience for their pride, an affirmation of their success. I know why I thanked them. As someone who studies development, these women were the image of hope in that field. It was very moving to see how much faith they had in themselves. Gender and the vulnerability of women in many societies confront development, and treats equality as an impossibility. These women were powerful. The three or four men that were present at the meeting were there as a replacement for their wives. I made sure to ask the men questions, and they seemed to be in agreement with the women about their common ventures, the development of their society. The men were proud of their wives. I would like to think that when we left, we were more than mazungu- maybe not. As we inched our way through the mountains, back to Kigali, there were still bewildered looks. But my interaction with these women was uplifting. 3 goats meant something, and so did making your bed. In my life, I probably won’t ever have a goat, and I usually don’t make my bed. But I am beginning to understand the meaning behind these symbols- putting things in order. My life is significantly easier than those of these women, and it’s quite different. There was something in this experience that connected us. Urwego means ladder, it means bringing up your community, and we can all do that.

Heaven in Kigali

5 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 4

We went to Heaven last night. I like the sound of that sentence. However, this experience had little to do with the after life. Heaven is a restaurant. The wife of Josh Ruxin who runs the Millennium Village in Mayange, Rwanda owns and runs the restaurant. Heaven overlooks the hills of Kigali, spotted with the lights of overpopulation. We met with Josh, who is one of our contacts for our research. He’s a well-dressed and articulate man. His sarcasm emanates from behind his thick-rimmed frames. When ended up having dinner with some others guests as well, one woman from Hope College in Michigan, a witty Indian Politics professor, and Phil. Phil works for the center of Urban Planning; he attended both Cambridge and MIT. It was an impressive dinner, in an incredible setting. We were invited back on Saturday to view “Where the Wild Things Are” and “Invictus.”

Daniel and I conversed over Primus by the pool after dinner. We reflected on our experience at the Genocide Memorial. It was somber, yet revealing. It was a hard conversation I suppose, but nonetheless productive.

Today, we had a full schedule of meetings- with Catholic Relief Services, with a gender studies program at Kigali Institute of Education, and with the Ministry of Economic and Financial Planning. Leia, from CRS, was a contact that I made serendipitously at the Milburn’s Christmas Eve party. Her parents were in attendance, and gave me Leia’s information with excitement upon knowing that I was going to Rwanda. Leia was fantastic. She provided us with useful information, gave us some perspicacious examples, and provided us with a long list of relevant contacts. The world has never seemed so small.

Camilla, from K.I.E. was helpful in establish a thorough network of contacts. She came to know the son of the U.S. ambassador to Rwanda while studying at Yale. Today has given hope to an academic relationship between Hendrix and Rwanda. Camilla gave me hope that, during my stay, I have a reprieve from the Go-Ed program.

The Ministry was an austere place. The façade, like so many new buildings in Rwanda, was composed of reflective blue glass, gleaming in the sun. The inside was bare, and European. The receptionist whispered in French, a sign of education. Mr. Sebera’s office was on the 3^rd floor, and he met us outside of the elevator. He is a tall man, legs stretching to my chest. Like most Rwandans he was quiet. Like most government officials, he spoke well of his country. He gave us a somewhat new perspective of development, that of the government. The Rwandan government promotes a progressive image of African governments. Free of corruption, transparent, and principled- the government here has priorities, and they are determined to maintain those priorities in the face of stilted donors. This is what makes international relations research in Rwanda such an interesting case study. There’s something different in this country. I’m not sure if it is because of the genocide, it has definitely been shaped by that tragic series of events. Not having traveled outside of Rwanda into other African countries, I can’t yet posit an opinion on this. But I look forward to investigating what it is that sets Rwanda apart. I think it’s something about the people here, their soft smiles, unassuming personalities, yet somehow, they are largely aware and determined. Heaven is in the capital city, overlooking the struggle of development, seemingly untouched.

Into Kigali: the Genocide Museum

4 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 3

Rwanda bears a painful history. Despite the efforts of those who attempt to forget, the past casts an unforgettable shadow over this country. None of the people that we have met during our stay have so much as acknowledged the genocide, or made any reference to ethnicity, or the history of this nation. I don’t expect them to. The past is a dark and emotional place.

Today was our first day in the city. We went to exchange our U.S. dollars for Rwandan francs. They say that you should only trust the Muslims. We made our way from the hotel with Martin at the wheel. Traffic here is consistently nerve-wracking. It’s slow traffic; we mainly travel between 10 to 15 miles per hour. But without road signs, or any attention to traffic lanes, cars, people, and motorbikes whirl around intersections and roundabouts. And there are people everywhere. Rwanda is a densely populated country, and it is apparent in Kigali. I can’t remember a street corner or sidewalk that was not thickly crowded with hundreds of people- women wearing traditional dresses, men in slacks and Oxford shirts, and teenagers in colorful t-shirts of every fashion.

It was an odd experience, to be the one that people stare at as a result of the color of my skin. Parking the car, I could hear shouts of “Amafaranga”-money. People reached open palms up to the windows of the Land Cruiser. There were others offering magazines, La Jeune Afrique, and maps of Africa. It was an intense experience, so many people, being the outsider, the colors and whirring automobiles. But the sites of the city eventually presented me with a reprieve. The hills of Kigali are covered with buildings- houses, offices, etc. It’s quite impressive. Daniel compares it to Los Angeles, and I find that interesting. Thick smog hangs above the hills, a threatening reminder of globalization, and the air that we all end up breathing.

We went to the Genocide museum. The museum itself is situation on the edge of a hill, looking out over the commercial district. We took a picture with the city set as the background. Amanda and Daniel had previously been to this museum, and I could tell that they were quietly preparing themselves. I, however, was completely unprepared for what was to happen next. The museum is thoroughly guarded by military personnel that demand empty pockets and open bags. Entry into the museum is accompanied by a brief synopsis of its opening and a description of the grounds. It was an ominous introduction. The museum itself is impeccably organized, starting with a history of ethnic tensions in Rwanda, and progressing chronologically all the way to the present, and the issues that confront Rwanda today. The museum is filled with photographs and descriptions of the genocide that are unforgiving of history and brutally realistic. The exhibition is spotted with video interviews of survivors. They spoke of their experience, and the horrors that they witnessed, the family members that died, and the people that had perpetrated these crimes. To compare the Rwandan genocide to others throughout history would be inaccurate. Here the genocide was not perpetrated by a military, but by one “ethnic” group against another. It was not about an ideology, other than some fabrication of Hutu superiority perhaps. The genocide was neighbors, families, and acquaintances killing one another. Over a million people were murdered within 100 days, not to mention the 2 million refugees and internally displaced people. It was a systematic approach to mass murder that included a majority of the population, incited by the government and the media, and ignored by the global community at large. Not only is it a scar on the history of Rwanda, but a scar on the history of the international community.

This was all very moving. At the end of the first exhibit there were three rooms. Each had a different theme, and each had a different video interview to accompany it. In the first room, the walls were covered with pictures of the victims. The second, I refused to walk into because it was filled with the skulls and bones of the dead. And the third was filled with clothes, reminders of the humanity of the victims. I found the video in the third room to be particularly motivating. The interviews were about forgiveness. Can survivors forgive? One said that he must know whom he is forgiving, that someone must ask for forgiveness. Another said that only God can forgive, it was not her responsibility. The third said that forgiveness was not the question, but his responsibility to maintain a connection with other survivors. To even contemplate forgiveness after such a tragedy was astonishing. I began to empathize with the realities of reconciliation and forgetting. I realized why no one talks about it.

At this point, I felt exhausted and overwhelmed, but the museum went on. The upstairs had a chronology of other genocides throughout history, the Armenians, the Holocaust, among others. We went in the wrong door, so we viewed the exhibit backwards. It was more crowded than the first exhibit had been, and I was still consumed by the potency of the first exhibit so I didn’t really absorb much of this one. Next, we went through the children’s exhibit. It was a brief section; the walls were covered with enlarged photographs of maybe 10 or 15 children, victims of the genocide. On the placards in front of the wall it had the child’s name, favorite past-times, favorite toy, common behavior, favorite food, followed by a blunt description of how the child was killed. So the placard went something like this: Didier, chips and cake, quiet and well-behaved, toy car, stabbed in the eyes and head. The somewhat light-spirited categories that outlined each child were powerful juxtaposed with a brutal retelling of that child’s death in the genocide. Though it was the shortest exhibit in the museum, I found it to be the most powerful. The child victims of the genocide were described as “The Ones who should Have Been the Future.” This is a powerful message. Has Rwanda’s future been stunted? The genocide forever changed the face of this country and the entire world. Its brutality has been unmatched. Machetes, clubs, and mostly any blunt object were used in the murder of over one million people. As we walked outside into the garden, I again expected a reprieve. The gardens were beautiful, and overlooked the city from a well-thought out angle. But I remembered the introduction to the museum. The curator told us that around 280,000 victims were interred throughout the gardens, mostly in mass graves. I can’t find the words to describe how I felt about this, how I still feel. My stomach sank, and a sadness came over me. Even now, it’s hard to think about, and it’s even more difficult to write. The museum was incredibly powerful, and I would recommend it to anyone. It is something of beauty, but also something of disgusting tragedy. It provides a deeper understanding of this country, and of its people- of their kindness and their ability to reconcile. But it depicts a violent past. I suppose there are contradictions within every culture, unresolved paradoxes. I find those in Rwanda to especially delicate, wounds that are fresh. Rwandans seem to be a delicate people, a loving people. Their culture is far different from my own, but similarities are never too hard to find.

Same day, continued.

3 January 2010 Part 2

Rwanda entry: 2

Today turned out to be quite magical. After our “work,” we stayed by the pool, reading mostly. I was reading “Aiding Violence” by Peter Uvin, a book about how the development industry played a role in the genocide of 1994. I had put on my swimsuit, thinking that at one point I would get into the pool. Instead I just had to deal with the awkward effects of swimsuit netting in concert with butt sweat. Nevertheless, the afternoon was quite enjoyable.

We had a drinking lunch. I wasn’t quite hungry enough to order a full course after my large breakfast. So I ordered from the “Hot Snacks” portion of the menu. I found something called “Bahjia.” I didn’t know what this meant, so being adventurous, I ordered it. The waiter told me that it was “comme frites” because we had been speaking French, which turns out to be more understandable than Rwandan English. Bahjia was more like beer-battered scalloped potatoes, and quite bland, but nonetheless an experience. It is served with a sort of spicy mustard called “pillipilli.” I’m not sure if that is how it’s spelled, or even if that is what it is called. This is due, in part, to the fact that Rwandans are most likely the quietest people that I have come in contact with. Even last night, as we sat at the bar around 11 o’clock I couldn’t hear any of the 10 or so people talking at the bar. It is constantly a challenge to understand our waiters, not really because of the language barrier, but just as a result of the low level at which Rwandans speak. I find it interesting, and I’m not sure what it means culturally, but I look forward to a thorough investigation.

I had three beers with lunch, so of course I subsequently took a long, and quite fulfilling nap. I’m not sure if it was the beer or the jet-lag, probably both. We’ve been drinking a beer called Primus. It’s an African beer, and it’s only 1,500 Rwandan francs, the equivalent of about $1.50. I have found the label quite interesting. The Primus that we’ve been drinking is apparently the 50^th anniversary edition, and this is written in English and Kinyarwanda. The ingredients are written in French. There is something about Rwanda (and for that matter, many other African countries) and its lingual indecision that must have something to do with their culture, and with the field of development. Again, I look forward to a thorough investigation.

I woke up around 6 p.m. We went to dinner at a restaurant called Cactus for pizza. Our driver, Martin, picked us up in his Land Rover, what I realized was actually a Land Cruiser. I knew it had something to do with land. The restaurant was delicately placed atop a hill over looking the lights of Kigali. The whole restaurant was simply a patio covered by an awning that allowed the mountain breezes of the night to softly intermingle with the scent of the wood-fired stove and the ingredients of Rwandan cuisine. Out of the awning was a well-kempt lawn with wicker furnishings where we smoked.

The gin is different. I think Amanda said that it was from Botswana or Tanzania, I can’t remember, but it was… tangy, I suppose that’s how I can describe it. The meal was a total of 36,200 RFW, which is the equivalent of about $60, which is sort of impressive for four people eating and drinking cocktails. It was another experience that did not quite seem real to me. I am excited about the rest of my journey here; I know that my experiences will soon be markedly different. Still, I find this country immediately unforgettable and unavoidably beautiful in so many ways.

The First Day

3 January 2010

Rwanda entry: 1

It was a long flight. And by long, I don’t mean to say that I slept the whole time and was just a little jet-lagged. I mean it was excruciatingly long. The first leg, from Chicago to Brussels, we flew American. When people make jokes about airline food, they’re right. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat much of whatever it was that the airline was attempting to simulate. Coconut cake I think it was. I also failed to understand why children movies are chosen for those flights. Who wants to watch a movie about a magical rock and sloppy depictions of childhood fantasy? I couldn’t sleep either. The unforgiving surfaces and inadequate pillows were a thorough disappointment for my ass.

But we finally got to Brussels. Stella Artois, real Stella Artois, was the best thing about the trip. Nevermind that it was technically 9 o’clock in the morning. It was 1 o’clock my time. Stella has been my beer in the States for a while now, and drinking Belgian beer in Belgium was amazing, and it was even better than I had imagined. Moreover it was my saving grace in my quest for sleep on the second leg from Brussels to Kigali. Brussels airlines had better food- excellent curried chicken with a raw salmon pasta salad. I sat next to a Belgian woman who worked for Lawyers without Borders. We talked over lunch about my research and her work in Rwanda. I was quite envious her life, traveling the world, advocating human rights and the rule of law. Not to mention that she had access to Stella Artois on a daily basis, which she referred to as “Not even the best one.”

When we arrived in Kigali, I was thoroughly exhausted. Exiting the plane, the smell of Africa consumed us. The balmy air was a relief from the freezing temperatures of Chicago and Brussels. The terminal was filled and chaotic, and it was an interesting first experience in Rwanda. I got my passport stamped and went to baggage claim, where the conveyor belt was densely surrounded by a variety of nationalities and cultures. Women in African dresses, and Brits in horn-rimmed glasses were pushing and shuving one another in an attempt to retrieve their belongings. Daniel had told us in Brussels that, while traveling, were had becoming de-territorialized. It was an attempt to explain why I couldn’t go outside and smoke, but it was true on other levels as well. Stepping out of the baggage claim through the crowds of family members and drivers with signs calling to their loved ones and employers, we became re-territorialized. Smoking reminded me of the first time. Dizzy from jet-lag and nicotine, we crammed our luggage into the small trunk of a grotesque Land Rover that was to take us to the Stipp Hotel, driven by Martin.

The roads in Kigali are an experience as well. Without signs or lines, the roadways are similarly crowded and chaotic. There were mopeds whirring, and cars with right-hand driver sides like in Britain, reminders of colonialism. Traffic moves slowly, and Martin had a sticker on the back of his Land Rover the said “Hakuna Matata.” There are no seat belts in the backseat, so frantically passing mopeds and slower drivers was unnerving. But the views outside of the car calmed me. People were everywhere. Small shops and abandoned building lined the road from the airport. Off to the right, the road drops off, and I could see the hills of Kigali spotted with the lights of a capital city, and it was beautiful. Through the winding and unlabeled streets, we arrived at the hotel, walls plastered with yellow stucco, and filled with pictures of President Kagame, decorated with fur rugs and hand-woven baskets. The darkness and delusion of travel prevented me from accurately interpreting the landscape. As a left the lobby from check-in, the bellhop led us to our room. The hotel is comprised of several villa-looking building, each having 3 or 4 rooms connected by an awning to protect guests from the rainy season. At first I thought I was walking into a Rainforest Café, filled with the sound of water falling and synthesized plant life. In a moment a realized that I was actually outdoors, and that this was real. A cool breeze drifted into the Oxford shirt I had been wearing under my sweater, and I could smell the dense scent of grass and wildflowers.

Our room was much more than I had expected, with a full shower and bath tub, a new television, and a switch board next to the bed that looked more like something out of Star Trek than something out of Africa. After literally throwing our bags into the room, we made our way to the restaurant and bar. I didn’t expect the meal to be a formal event, but when our waiter, Benjamin, poured my beer into a tulip glass placed on a white napkin, I realized that this was a classy affair. The funny part is that I was drinking a beer that was about 2 dollars. Granted, it was much better than the PBR that 2 dollars would typically get you. The meal was even more impressive. Our dishes came out covered with silver, and placed on a thoroughly well thought out placement of flatware. After dinner, we went back to our rooms. I sat down on the firmest bed that I have felt in my experience with beds, turned on the X-files, and fell deep asleep. It was a comfort to know that I had finally made it to Rwanda, that I was finally in country, and that my ambitions were being made real.

We woke up around 9 to go to breakfast. Everything was different in the light of day. Out my window I had a view of the city through the lush forestation that surrounds the hotel. The air outside was thick, but the cool breeze felt amazing. We ate in the dining room that overlooks the open air bar and pool. I ate some type of spicy sausage, some tough pork, delicious potatoes, a mango, some pain au chocolat, passion fruit juice, and café au lait. It was a great start to the beautiful day that I have had.

I am now sitting at the edge of the pool, under a brightly colored umbrella. My team and I are planning the rest of our stay as I write this. Today is our day to relax I suppose. It’s a Sunday, so there’s not much we could do anyway. Sending follow-up emails and getting our appointments organized was never so relaxing. I feel more like I’m on vacation than I feel that I’m on a research trip. The sky is partly cloudy, and it’s about 75 degrees. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m surrounded by tall plant life swaying in the wind. It’s odd to imagine the painful history of Rwanda in such a setting. It’s interesting to think about the issues that confront this nation as I sit in such comfort. The next 2 weeks, as well as the following 6 months will make these things more apparent to me. But now, I choose to enjoy, I choose to relax. I never imagined that Rwanda would be this way, I don’t think many people do. Let me just say, it’s way better than Florida.