All About Adventure

30 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

Someone recently said to me, “You are in Africa, don’t take that fact for granted.” It made me think about adventure and adventuring. I have 4 short weeks left before I head to that other continent (where adventure seems so easy), and I sometimes forget where I am. It’s so easy to forget that I’m actually somewhere different, somewhere that I should savor every moment. The excitement that accompanies international travel has sort of worn off, and I’ve become complacently comfortable in my surroundings. The boulevards lined with palm trees, the roundabouts filled with well-kept shrubbery and monumental fountains, the mild weather, the sunny skies and mid-70s- sometimes I think I’ve been hoodwinked, that they just sent me to L.A.

This week was difficult, dealing with the hardship of internship, the firm hand of Biblical law, and the arbitrary administration of justice- I caught myself falling into the trap of what I have previously referred to as “mzungu problems.” And then I realize that I am in Africa, and it gives me some perspective. I remember my first few weeks here, the wonderment I experienced about this culture, and how naïve I must have been. I remember the women’s group that I met. The phrases “make your bed” and “soap and salt” start to mean something again. And now that I’m floating around Kigali, completing an internship and committing youthful shenanigans with the socioeconomic elite of Rwanda*, the theme of adventure has gone unexpressed, at least consciously. The point is that I’ve become less naïve; at least I’d like to think so. And ignorance is supposed to be bliss.

So adventure means something else now. On Monday nights I go to trivia night at one of the “mzungu restaurants” in town. It’s within walking distance from our house and they sell beer for twice as much as truly local restaurants. It’s a beautiful atmosphere- ivy covered lattice and a spectacular view of the city at night, lights sparkling on the hillside. An Italian man owns the restaurant, and they serve excellent pizza that far exceeds my daily per diem. On Mondays, and most other nights, the restaurant is filled with expats, mostly NGOs workers and specialists from the West. Table after table is surrounded by a group of national homogeneity. I’m not attempting to degrade these groups. They’ve found comfort in one another and in the recreations of Western culture that Kigali offers in the form of a large shopping center and a variety of over-priced restaurants. In many ways, they are experiencing this culture, and know it better than I do. I respect them. But when I look at the people I sit with, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. On Mondays, Morgan and I make the walk to Sole Luna from our house, usually early to secure a good table. And we don’t sit with expats. Since I’ve been here, one way or another, I’ve connected more with a group of Rwandans than I have with most other expats, not to say that I don’t have expat friends. And I’m proud of that fact. I don’t mean to objectify those friends, or make them trophies of some kind that say I’m culturally sensitive, because, in most ways I’m not. That’s what makes our friendship so meaningful to me. I’ve found some great friends here. And when I look around the table on Monday nights, I look at people with whom I can laugh, and joke, and talk about politics and philosophy, and trivialities at the same time. I don’t look at people whose nationality makes them more conveniently similar to me. In that I find adventure. For most of my life I’ve been surrounded by cultural homogeneity. And now I’m completely out of my element. Somehow, though, I’ve found people I connect with on a level that far exceeds superficiality. Somehow, on the other side of the globe, in a society that has until now been completely foreign to my existence, I’ve begun a great adventure. And that adventure is more than safaris and the Nile. This adventure is deeper and more personal. I’m in Africa and I’m learning to remember that, to savor every moment, and not just every moment that sounds good when I tell it to other Americans when I return to the States. I savor the moments for myself, when I’m yelling at Sunny about Rwandese politics or eating a whole lot of pork, and still not eating as much as everyone else. All of these experiences, however insignificant, remind me where I am. And being in Africa really is an adventure.

This is Africa, a bit Like Marx

23 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I could do this in America- the lazy summer shenanigans. I’ve gotten lost in the lethargy of summer and the terminal mindset of having 5 weeks to go. And now I realize that 5 weeks is actually a really significant portion of the time that I’ve spent here; it’s enough time to do something new. I still have time to learn something, and I think I gave up on that for a little while.

As an expat, or at least someone who’s a part of that community, I think it’s easy to become discouraged- getting to know people only to see them leave at the end of their contract. There’s a sense of pomposity, or self-righteousness maybe, when you stay abroad for long enough. At least in my experience, it’s easy to begin thinking that I’ve seen everything, done everything, and that I have some idea what this country is like. In reality, I haven’t seen or done much, and I am only beginning to understand the broader outlines of the Rwandan experience. Sure, I’ve been to the genocide memorials, the Millennium Village (twice actually), some extremely rural areas, and the tourist hangouts on Lake Kivu among other places. And after all of that, I felt as if I’d accomplished something. Maybe I have. Recently though, I’ve caught myself falling into the numbness that often accompanies the warmer of the two solstices. The days are always the same length here, being so close to the equator, so I don’t even know if solstices are applicable. But you get what I’m trying to say.

My internship isn’t particularly challenging, as most internships aren’t. I spend my days reading the news, becoming completely consumed with the plethora of international crises, and intermittently completing the small amounts of work that I manage to get my hands on. Interning at the largest government institution in Rwanda, one might think there would be more work involved. But, as I’ve been reminded over and over again- “this is Africa.” And that’s supposed to serve as some sort of excuse.

My last entry was about “Embracing the Chaos.” For some people, that’s the culturally sensitive thing to do. Cultural sensitivity, however, just ends up being boring, and sometimes even this sort of arbitrary obedience to the way things are. When I really think about it, I’m a fairly insensitive person when it comes to the restrictions of cultural failings, at least in the States. So, really, why would I succumb to what I perceive as cultural limitations in another society? Of course, there’s always a level of decency that needs to be maintained in order to be successful and respectable. I’m not arguing against being polite or refraining from bringing up painful histories. I suppose I’m arguing against passively accepting inefficiency, or as some might say, “embracing the chaos.” Saying “T.I.A” (this is Africa) holds no significance for me anymore. Yes, this is Africa. Thank you for the reminder. Now, do something.

Now, linking this with my first paragraph, there’s this thing about social integration. Coming into a foreign society, I had this desire to assimilate, to become a part of that society, and, by doing that, to feel like I’ve done something meaningful. But maybe I’ve gone too far. Perhaps this is a stretch, an intellectualization of the simple fact that, for one reason or another, I’ve gotten lazy and homesick. Or maybe I’m just following the logic. Continuing with the latter assumption, my endeavors to assimilate, to “embrace the chaos,” and to accept that “this is Africa” have been successful. My naïveté with regard to interning at the RDB was that my work there could be meaningful. Thus, my assimilation into this culture has simply meant that I accept its failings. But now, reflecting on this, I realize that overcoming that apathy might be another step in experiential learning- accepting cultural shortcomings, and not being consumed by them. Making comparisons to other countries might be inaccurate, but I don’t support the conservative and often times bigoted culture of the Bible belt, and I don’t accept the culture under-aged sex trafficking in Thailand.

I’m not attempting to equate institutional inefficiency with bigotry or child sex slaves, but I think the analogy is valid. On the so-called “Dark Continent,” the acceptance of these cultural shackles in the face of development is unacceptable. Acknowledging those failings and attempting to embrace them is even more backwards. And it’s all the more challenging to know that I can’t fix it. That’s probably my American desire for perfection and instant gratification. It’s true though. As an outsider, I’m not in the position; I don’t really have the right to make such a critical analysis of Rwandan culture. Perhaps my argument is a bit like Marx and the proletariat. There will be no violent revolution of people that aren’t consistently late, that work efficiently and have effective time management skills- people that realize the importance of order in development. Perhaps only the tide of history will bring with it an upheaval of chaos, and the phrase “this is Africa” will be only an obsolete memory.

The truth is, I couldn’t do this in America. I’ve been knocked off of my horse called determination and landed in a puddle of apathy. Realizing that now, I need to get back on the horse.

Embracing the Chaos?

16 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

Today, a million women trapped me, but I’ll get to that later. I’m trying to give up my Western perspective, and it’s not working out very well. There has been an interesting succession of events over the past two days. Starting early Saturday morning, I could hear the throbbing beat of music emanating from the large stadium near our house. Walking to the bus stop, I realized that these sounds meant political support. Hundreds of people clad in RPF attire- shirts, hats, flags- flooded the streets, on foot, on moto taxis, and in dozens of buses. Red, white, and blue blanketed the bustling sidewalk, an eerie expression of support for the incumbent administration.

Once in town, everything seemed normal enough, overwhelming as usual. We went to the fabric warehouse, a mall of sorts-small rooms jutting off of a large corridor, each filled with six-foot high stacked bolts of fabric in every color and pattern. The warehouse has a much larger selection of fabric than Kimironko, the market, if anyone can believe that. But it’s remarkably less stressful. I was still greeted with “karibu,” (you are welcome) every time I entered a store, but after that I was left alone to shop, without the constant attention of the storeowners. Maybe I’m becoming more accustomed to the hustle and bustle of Kigali city life. Or maybe I look less like a mzungu. Or maybe I know where to go to avoid that sort of attention. I know how to say “I’m not called mzungu,” and that seems to help, especially when it comes to negotiating prices (“ntabwo ni twa mzungu”). I bought somewhere around 5 meters of fabric for less than $20. Haggling is almost enjoyable for me now, the drama of impossibility- getting a cab to town that supposed to cost around 3,000 Rwf, I’m told costs 5,000. Here’s the typical back and forth:

Driver- “Taxi?”

Rob- “(nods)”

Driver- “Enter!”

Rob- “Ni angahe (how much)?”

Driver- “5,000”

Rob- “Bof! Ntabwo ni twa mzungu. 2,500.”

Driver- “No, no. 5,000.”

Rob- “Ehhh, 3,000.”

Driver- “OK, 4,000”

Rob- “(starts to walk away)”

Driver- “OK, enter.”

Rob- “3,500?”

Driver- “OK, let’s go.”

VICTORY!

Living in a society where everything is for sale and everything is negotiable is difficult to get used to. I miss the days when I knew what things cost and items were clearly labeled. But I have to admit that shopping is more fun. There’s always the chance that I’m going to get jipped, and vendors almost always try to make me pay around 3-times as much as something genuinely costs because of the color of my skin. There’s a sense of adventure now, though, with every purchase that I make. The chaos is something I’ve begun to associate as being African. One of my co-workers frequently tells me to “embrace the chaos,” and I try to follow that advice everyday. It’s difficult though, to give up that part of my American-ness. The structure of the West is enviable, but there is a sense of losing something in that structure. Shopping here is a much more personal experience. You have to get much closer to vendors and other customers to attain success. The distance of scanners and bar codes is non-existent. As usual, I don’t know which system is “better” or “worse.”

Later that night, while I was at home eating dinner, there was the third grenade attack to hit Kigali. This time, as the U.S. Embassy mass email informed me, the attack occurred near the city center in Kiyovu, most likely very close to where I am currently writing this blog. The U.S. Embassy message didn’t give any other information, and it has been through other local sources that I have come to know that there was one casualty, and several injuries. The attack hasn’t appeared in any international news as of 3 p.m., and I have yet to see the New Times for today. Interestingly enough, the grenade attack that occurred on 4 March was not written about in the international press either. Popular belief of the motives behind these attacks has been Kagame’s impending reelection, to occur in August. Earlier this week, the main article on the front page of the New Times read “Kagame Confident of Ruling Party Victory.” Truthfully, I don’t know a single person who isn’t. But that article certainly doesn’t settle well with those who realize just how “confident” Kagame must be. The suspension of two local newspapers, the high profile arrest and bail of opposition leader Victoire Ingabire, the arrest and/or exile of four high ranking military officials, the deportation of a leading Human Rights Watch researcher, and the recent news coming out of the Times and BBC have left my human rights, democracy, American alert bells ringing. But what I have come to realize is that there is a different side to this story, and whether it’s a justification or not, I think it’s worth contemplating.

Starting with the suspension of these two newspapers, they actually did break certain laws regarding the press. Granted, these laws have been cited as being markedly vague and largely left up to the interpretation of an administration headed by a man who recently made Reporters Without Borders’ top five Predators of the Press list, but the suspensions were legal. And looking at the offenses in the context of Rwanda’s history, some comments made crossed some post-genocide lines. This has become a main theme in my thought processes regarding political issues in Rwanda, just how far does the government need to go in order to prevent the ethnic divisionism that, contrary to much Western opinion, still exists. And that brings me to the Ingabire question. Aside from making several comments that resemble the retaliatory genocide ideology of the early 90s, she doesn’t seem to have much of a political platform outside of simply opposing the Kagame administration. Objectively the situation seems to be easily understood- a Hutu opposition leader coming back to Rwanda after years of exile is almost immediately arrested under similarly vague laws. Seems like a question of political pluralism, and there’s a definite possibility that it is. There is also the possibility that it’s a question of national sovereignty and the prevention of recurring ethnic crises. The same questions will apply to the arrest and exile of several leading military officials. It could be part of a general shake up of the military, partly in response to the grenade attacks and suspected complicity. It could also be an extension of a systematic harassment and repression of any form of opposition to the Kagame administration. With the deportation of the Human Rights Watch’s leading researcher, more questions arise. Human Rights Watch has been in Rwanda since 1994, and since that time they have been critical of human rights in Rwanda. Many members of the Western press would like to assume that her deportation was a political move to prevent future criticisms, and to disregard the accusations against her faulty paperwork as falsified or the result of mismanaged bureaucracy. But looking at it from a different perspective we can see that it could just be a question of national sovereignty. If her papers were forged, something that seems unlikely for a top researcher working with one of the most well respected human rights groups in the world, then the government would have every right to deny her visa application, just as we would do in the United States. And from an objective perspective, if the government of Rwanda was truly attempting to prevent criticism from Human Rights Watch, it doesn’t seem as if refusing to grant a single visa to a single researcher would be a particularly effective means.

As for the remaining criticism coming out of the international press, it always seems as though there is some train of thought that justifies what immediately seems to be a blatant affront to human rights and political freedom. If anyone has read the Times article regarding the so-called Island Prison in Rwanda, I hope you have also read the Minister of Youth’s response that came out in the Opinion section. This exchange expresses my confusion (also see the BBC article regarding Kagame’s avoidance of lawsuits leveled against him by the widows of the former president’s of Rwanda and Burundi while visiting the U.S.).

Today, on my way into town for my traditional Sunday stay at Shokola, I found myself trapped along the mile long stretch of dirt road leading to my house. It was the march of a million women in support of gender equality. Either end of the dirt road was under heavy guard by the military and police forces, and people and cars bounced back and forth between both exits in utter confusion. I wasn’t allowed to get close enough to the road to even have a clear view of the march. In the distance I could only see masses of white shirts meander down the main roadway. I heard from a passerby that Kagame was a part of the demonstration.

I suppose I could be a cynic about all of this. Interestingly enough, I could probably be an optimist. I think it’s much more complex than that. Joining either side of this debate, that of the international press or that of the socioeconomic elite in Kigali, would be far too simple. Both of those perspectives are well justified, but somehow incomplete. Both are swayed by certain allegiances and preconceived notions about politics and freedom. I haven’t been able to reach any firm conclusions about this country. Perhaps Rwanda doesn’t need democracy right now. Perhaps it needs a strong hand like Kagame’s to bring it out of the utter destruction of 1994. I think the justifications of the issues above don’t really go far enough, and Western expectations probably go too far. What I do believe is that giving up on a strictly Western perspective is necessary when it comes to comprehending any truth that I might find in Rwanda. I look at it sort of like I look at haggling. Embracing the chaos, learning to love the chaos- I’ve learned to look outside of my “comfort zone.” Politics, metaphorically, can be similar- different, exciting, chaotic, un-American. And out of the chaos that consumes this society, I think there are better solutions than those offered by the West. Whether or not the current administration is evil or benevolent or necessary, I have to bring myself to a point where I don’t look at it as inherently flawed. I’m constantly overwhelmed, and it makes me a stronger person.

Impeach Bush and Cheney

9 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I got stuck at a gusaba yesterday, as if it wasn’t strange enough to begin with. A gusaba is a traditional marriage ceremony. It precedes the actual wedding, and represents the process of bringing two families together through the negotiation of bride price. Aidah, our cook, invited us to the ceremony. As usual, we were the only mzungus there. On entering we received one of two responses, a blank stare or a inviting “you are welcome.” The location was outside of Kigali in a small umudugudu, or neighborhood. Driving in we saw Aidah walking along the side of the road in a traditional, draping fabric dress, yelling in Kinyarwanda to our driver. She told us to hurry as everyone was waiting for us to arrive so that they could start. We were instructed to sit on the second row, almost immediately behind the parents of the bride. The tent was constructed in a U-shape, one side for the family of the bride, the other for the groom. At the top of the U was a sort of altar with four chairs and several traditional objects- a bowl of beans, 10 milk jars, a Rwandan peace basket. Most of these things represent fertility and prosperity for the joining families. Everything was covered in varying leopard print fabrics and Rwandan baskets of all sizes.

On either side of the U, facing each other, were couches and small tables. A negotiator, usually a family friend, represented each family. These two men traded off arguments through a microphone in Kinyarwanda for about 20 minutes before the groom even walked into the tent. Dressed in flowing leopard print fabric and wielding a walking stick covered in goat fur, the groom and his groomsmen entered slowly and were seated near the back. Along with the groomsmen came several women that represented other potential brides in the family. At one point, the bride’s negotiator offered one of these women instead of the bride. Obviously, this was a joke, and the crowd laughed uproariously especially since this woman was approximately 50 years old.

What I found so strange about this ceremony was the juxtaposition of tradition and modernity. The attempt to maintain certain traditions was often compromised by the necessities of the present. The use of a microphone throughout the process was only the beginning. The bride was born again Christian, and refused to have alcohol during the ceremony. This contradiction of tradition was probably the most blatant, as beer generally plays a large role in this process. Instead, they used soda, mostly orange Fanta and Coca-cola. For example, at one point, the father of the bride is supposed to present the father of the groom with banana beer inside of a large Rwandan peace basket. Instead, upon opening the peace basket, a 2-liter of Coca-cola was presented. Humorous, yes. Traditional, no. At another point in the ceremony, each family has a sort of Rwandan wedding singer, each representing a shepherd of the cattle that is the bride price. Each came in to sing and dance about how beautiful and healthy the cattle were. At strategic points in their performance, an electronic “moo” came on over the PA. Both singers gave a flower to the bride’s family, and a pastoral stick to the groom’s.

This whole process takes around two-and-a-half hours. About two hours in, the bride appears. She was introduced by a series of dancers. First, the young females doing dances that represent cattle and fertility, followed by the intores, or male warriors. One of the intores, clad in his traditional headdress and fabric, wrap skirt was sporting a black t-shirt that read “IMPEACH BUSH and CHENEY.” Being the only Americans there that understood what impeach meant, we were the only people to notice how ridiculous this was.

Being in both Rwanda and Uganda for the past 4 months has made me almost immune to such awkward expressions of culture, but the tension between tradition and modernity is still almost unbearable to experience. The nostalgia for the past in these two societies is equally matched by a desire for the future, for development and all that comes along with it- capitalism, technology, Americanization. The love of American culture is almost palpable, as is the faith in the systems of American “success.” I feel sad and maybe a little bit guilty about this situation, and it’s probably because I have sub-conscious white guilt. Seeing how globalization has destroyed these traditions is disheartening, the death of culture. The imitation of Western culture is often associated with the loss of native tradition. But what I have realized is that this assumption is not really true. There is definitely a loss of tradition on some level, but it’s definitely not becoming homogenized with Western traditions. Like the pull of hyper-globalization, the pull of tradition is strong too. The gusaba I attended was probably not the same as one I might have attended 20 years ago, but even less so did it resemble anything I would find in the Global North.

I’m overcoming my former sadness regarding the loss of tradition, and instead recognizing the beauty in the joining of two cultures. Like the gusaba, I am witnessing the combination of two separate entities, becoming one, and making something new. I see expressions of this awkward cultural combination everyday; they’re entertaining, funny, strange, uncomfortable, and usually embarrassing. In the end, though, they’re African and recognizing how they are African is more important than looking for signs that they are not.

The Paradox of Progress

3 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I finished my journal today. I mean that I ran out of pages and, luckily, I had a backup. There’s something about a new Moleskine- the smell, like the library smell has spoiled, the crisp pages, and the unscathed black cover. These qualities are all the more noticeable in comparison. My old one with its broken spine and yellowed pages smells the same with the hints of over usage- ink, mold from the rainy days, and dirt from the leaves flattened between the pages.

Finishing something like that can be profound. I’ve had this journal since high school. Part of that is because I hardly ever find time to journal in the States especially when I’m in school, and as a result more than half of it has been filled since I came to Rwanda in January. Going back and reading the things I wrote three years ago was a cathartic experience; it was funny too, to read the adolescent angst of those formative years. Seeing how I’ve changed and grown from my own perspective in my own tiny scribbles got me thinking about the road that has brought me to where I am- In a tiny room with too many clothes and a bed that’s too big in Kigali, Rwanda, I’m here for the summer. I stay up too late and wake up too early- weird bars and political discussions with the volume all the way up. Clothes and shoes and luggage cover the already inadequate floor space of my living quarters. My white brick walls remain bare. The red paint on the concrete floor is chipping. My door squeaks if I don’t close it all the way and I only have two books on my shelf.

Regardless of the mess, life is getting more normal now, whatever normal means in my life. I have routines and regular places. Trivia night is Monday. I went to my favorite café on Sunday and stayed there for four hours drinking macchiato and African and masala teas from tiny white pots. I took my shoes off and lounged back on the big couches and smoked cheap Rwandan cigarettes while I wrote in my journal like I was Hemingway or Camus or something. Friday night routines are becoming regular, alongside the consequent Saturday morning ones. And I've developed my reading list:

Indivisible Human Rights by Whelan

Outlines on the Philosophy of Right by Hegel (I just have to finally finish it)

and also books that I need to read more thoroughly than I did the first time:

Disgrace by Coetzee

The Politics of Land Reform in Africa by Manji

The River Between by Ngugi wa Thiong’o

It’s not long, but the books (mainly the first two) are going to be time and thought consuming for at least a month. Listen to me. Where does summer go in adulthood? Can’t I just find a sprinkler and make mojitos all day and run around and pull shenanigans? I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m supposed to do as a 20-something, revert to my childhood and drink and do everything I can to stay out of trouble. And read. My parents keep telling me that I need to get a regular summer job next time around, and maybe I will, just so I can do those things. And then I think about how bored I get without travel and accomplishment and mental challenges. I guess I could pick up a hobby and go on a road trip, but everything sort of pales in comparison to working at the largest government institution in Rwanda and backpacking Europe. Working in a Starbucks or Wal-Mart seems like a joke I might make about consumerism, not serious career prospects. I guess that’s the paradox of aging- nostalgia and ambition.

Reading through my journal, I saw a lot of both, probably more nostalgia than ambition. And as I walk home from work in setting sun, I look over the hills of Kigali, covered in multi-colored rooftops. In my slacks and tie, all I can think about is walking across a hot grass lawn and stepping into an ice-cold puddle of hose water, my shoulders on fire from the blazing Arkansas sun. Goosebumps run up my leg and cars drive slowly by in the street, almost as if the heat makes them lazy too. And as a moto-taxi whizzes past me, I’m jolted back to Rwanda soaking up the beauty of summer like an adult- in slacks and a tie. There’s something in that to be happy about too. I’ll never get back that form of my youth, and I’m nostalgic about that. But I have something better now- ambition.