Out of Office: Going to Ethiopia and Zanzibar

Saturday, September 3, I’m flying to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, to visit Michelle Strong, a fellow VSO volunteer. We’re going to spend the week at Michelle’s workplace, Rehabilitation and Development Organization (RaDO), which focuses on women with disabilities. Michelle is a marketing advisor like me and we're going to compare notes and share tips for our respective organizations. RaDO also has an education program about landmines, since landmines are a serious problem in Ethiopia.

On September 10, Michelle and I are flying to Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania, for a much-needed vacation!! We’re so looking forward to seven days of relaxation and swimming in the Indian Ocean. Zanzibar is much like the cities on Kenya’s coast, heavily Muslim with a cultural mix of African, Arab and Indian influences. I’ll be writing about the trip and posting it here, along with photos. If there’s nothing new here for awhile, just because we're traveling without access to internet (Michelle says internet is sketchy at best in Ethiopia). Expect to see the Ethiopia/Zanzibar trip here by September 18 or so. In the meantime, Take Care!!

Feels Like Art

Quilts Under Construction

My maternal grandmother was always sewing and quilting when we were young. She’d spread fabric across her dining table and lay the tissue paper patterns on top. Instead of straight pins, Grandma would lay butter knives around the edge of the pattern pieces, to hold them in place while she cut the cloth. I have two quilts Grandma made. Pieced of inexpensive cotton fabric, they’re fraying at a seam or two. But that’s easily fixed. Well, once I’m back in Atlanta and have retrieved the quilts from storage.

When my Uncle Richard was a boy, he’d hang out with his grandmother and other female relatives as they sat around a frame suspended from the ceiling. Expertly, the ladies would quilt detailed designs on the quilt stretched in the frame. When it was time to start cooking, the frame would be hoisted to the ceiling until the next quilting bee brought it down again. At last year’s family reunion, we visited the Foxfire Museum in North Georgia. In the grassy yard of the log cabin museum, under a tent, was a gorgeous quilt in a frame. A woman in 17th century costume encouraged us to sit and try our hand at stitching through the layers. I sat next to my uncle as he described being a young boy and learning to stitch from his grandmother. Richard showed me how to stitch, exactly as my great-grandmother had shown him. We stitched away in the July heat, intent on making perfect, uniform, tiny stitches.

I’ve been quilting here in Kisumu. It’s not easy, quilting in Africa, because they don’t know what a quilt is. They’re not familiar with the concept of piecing scraps of cloth for the blanket top, nor do they have batting. Ah, in the US and elsewhere, batting comes in lovely sheets of varying thicknesses. Simply unroll it, sprinkle the wrinkles with water, allow it to dry flat and then place it between the quilt top and backing. In place of batting, I’m substituting three layers of thin white cotton fabric. It doesn’t have the fluff, but adds a little bit of weight and structure. Stitching by hand means I’m not dependent on electricity, which has been unstable in Kisumu this week. The lights went out at 7pm the other evening, the time it gets dark here, and so I had to stitch by candlelight.

What they have lots and lots of here is material. Beautiful Royal Wax from West African countries (I bought the fabrics for the two quilts in the above photo at a shop on the Kenya-Uganda border), Kukoi from the coastal Muslim communities and tons and tons of Maasai fabrics, the bright red and royal blues in checks and stripes. Oh, and lots of gorgeous Indian fabrics (yesterday, while Trish and I were in town looking at fabrics in two Indian shops, I asked the tailor --who had made my suit-- if he could save fabric scraps for me. He said yes!!! But he doesn’t speak English, only Punjabi and Kiswahili, and the shop attendant, who’s Kenyan, asked him for me and I’m not sure how good her English is to translate into Kiswahili —so we’ll see if he totally understands what I was asking for. When I tried to explain to them why I wanted the pieces, they looked puzzled and laughed at me).

In place of a machine, I’m hand-stitching the pieces. My first project attempt is a total experiment. It’s not really a quilt, more like a lap quilt or wall hanging. I measure each piece, mark sewing lines, baste to ensure alignment and iron throughout the process. Unsure of how to quilt through all layers, I simply place a coordinating button smack dab in the center. Not bad, I think. The results are quite pleasing.

Turns out Trish, who’s also from Atlanta and also in Kisumu for two years, has intentions of learning to quilt (we're threatening to start a weekly Quilting Bee). A few days ago, Trish loaned me two of her books, “Zen and the Art of Quilting” and “Amish Quilting: Discover the Beautiful Art of Amish Quilts.” And they are beautiful, those Amish quilts with their solid, dark colors and intricate quilting designs. While reading, I discover the seam allowance on quilts is ¼ inch, not 5/8. I also learn everyone has trouble with the binding. But most importantly, I realize with my first attempt that placing a single button in the center of the quilt totally leaves out the true process of “quilting,” which is to sew through all layers of fabric and batting (or cotton layers in my case). Duh. The binding is already on, which will make quilting slightly difficult. But I will quilt it through all the layers. First, I’ll practice on the second quilt I’ve pieced, a bubble gum pink and white diamond quilt for my lovely, adorable daughter Jaime (since the photo was taken this morning, I've added the inner cotton layers and the backing).

I’m learning as I go and mostly learning not to regret mistakes. Just cover them up somehow. Cloth is sometimes forgiving and always comforting to hold and pierce as its being pieced. Exactness isn’t necessary. One exquisite by-product of making quilts is the meditative state achieved through concentration. I want these to be beautiful and art-like, because each stitch is made with love. When I think of the people who will receive the quilts, who’ll throw them across their couch or across their laps while watching TV, I feel close to people and close to home. Feels like I’m creating art and creating love, stitch by contemplative stitch.

New (Used) Phone, So Call Me!

I have a phone again!!! It’s the same number as before: 0723 686 455. If you’re dialing internationally, Kenya’s country code is 254 and you probably don’t need to dial the “0” at the beginning of the number. This is a used phone which Tonny, my co-worker, found for me. Seems the teenagers here, like elsewhere, want to buy the newest, sleekest styles every six months. So this phone, a Motorola, is relatively new and cost 3,000 shillings, or about $40 USD.

Nearly everyone in Kenya has a cell phone (or mobiles, as they’re called here). Landlines are expensive and unreliable. But cellular systems in Kenya are top-notch, allowing folks to text message inexpensively (a text message can cost anywhere from 2.5 to 10 shillings, depending on its length—that’s about 4 to 12 cents per message). Plus, landline phones here typically cannot dial cell numbers. So folks need cell phones to communicate with other cell phones. Even at TICH, there are less than 10 phones jacks through our PABX system. This means each department has one phone shared by the entire group. The phones cannot dial internationally. In the US, we’re used to having our own phone on our desk. Here, that’s just not going to happen. So people use cell phones for personal and business purposes.

Another difference between the Kenyan phone system and those in the US is that everything is pre-paid. There are little, one-person shelters painted bright, spring green all over town. One sits just outside our gate at TICH. They dot the slums and downtown. From these little shelters, people buy credit for their Safaricom or Celtel phone lines. These are either scratch cards, where scratching off the coating reveals a PIN Code, or they’re simply cash register receipts with the PIN code printed on it. Credit comes in denominations of 100, 200, 500 or 1000 shillings. Plus, most major stores in town and every little “general store” along the roadside sells scratch cards and credit. You dial “141” on your phone and a female voice politely asks you to enter the PIN code. After a second, the credit is confirmed and you hang up. Then you’ll receive a text message from some satellite somewhere giving you the new balance on your phone. No monthly bills to pay.

I’m cheap. My philosophy is to text message at all times!!! I can go a week or more on 100 shillings. But the minute a call is placed, yikes! It’s about 24 shillings per minute for a local call, so the credit is eaten up very quickly. Oh, and it doesn’t cost anything to receive a call, only to place the call. So I’m a rather passive phone person, waiting for folks to call me and only using the phone to text messaging (I am a volunteer, after all!). Okay, enough about phones in Kenya. Call me!

Love Actually

Trish (friend who's also from Atlanta living in Kisumu!) brought her copy of the movie Love Actually to me. I love the movie, actually, and saw it three times in an Atlanta theatre when it came out! Not having a TV, I sometimes watch movies on my laptop’s DVD player. But I haven’t watched a movie in a while because it always reminds me of being home, while sitting in the middle of undeveloped Africa, which can play with my head sometimes. But I watch Love Actually on a Friday night while quilting and crying all the way through. Then I watch it again the next night, without crying so much, but getting used to being in London, where the movie takes place. I was getting used to being in London and not in Kenya.

I watch the movie again Sunday night, not wanting to leave London. Not wanting to leave the characters. There are several scenes cut from the movie on the DVD. I watch these to prolong the visit. The director explains each scene before it plays. The final two scenes that were cut, he says, were filmed in Kenya!! What?! But we’re in London, I’m thinking, I don’t want to go back to Kenya, which is just outside my window.

In the scenes with Laura Linney’s character at her desk, there are two huge posters hanging behind her. One poster shows two old mamas carrying bundles of sticks on their back, tied to their forehead (which is how women here carry things if the object isn’t sitting directly on top of their head). The women are in a field and the text on the poster says something about helping them to help themselves. The second poster is a man standing next to his field of dead corn. In the scenes cut from the film, the camera closes in on these posters and the characters come to life. The director says they wanted to showcase a foreign country, like Kenya, because most people might think life in these countries would be so hard, people wouldn’t have time to think about love. Hmmmmm?

The two mamas come to life and they’re chuckling as they walk side by side across the field, talking about one woman’s daughter who has fallen in love with an inappropriate young man. They’re speaking Kiswahili with subtitles and I’m able to catch a word here and there. The friend remarks that everyone thought her husband was inappropriate for her, too, years ago. They laugh and move out of the frame. The young man next to his corn field comes to life and he’s lamenting the drought and crop failure. His wife walks up and tells him to come inside. He comments on not being a worthy provider, fearing she won’t love him anymore. She tells him as long as she can see the goofy grin on his face; she’ll be by his side. She also says they should think about moving and remarks, “I hear Paris is lovely this time of year.”

Well, there are so many things wrong with these scenarios, though I’d like to believe in these Kenyan characters created by the director of the movie I love so much. First, love can be the catalyst for most marriages in Kenya, but other factors are considered as well, like paying a dowry to the woman’s family by her future husband. He’s buying the woman as property. In Kiswahili, the word for “husband” means he’s marrying a woman. The word for “wife” means she’s being married. The woman can never marry, but she is married.

Having multiple wives is common in Kenya among many tribes, even among my co-workers. Many of them have fathers who are polygamists. I’ve met several men who have two wives. The men here giggle that polygamy is necessary because the have such strong sex drives, one partner isn’t enough. Whatever. In Kenya, and especially within the rural Luo communities surrounding Lake Victoria, women do not decide if they'll use birth control. The man does. He tells her what type she can use. He tells her when they’ll have sex. He’ll tell her when she’s had enough children or should have more.

Progressive couples, those who are educated, are often more equal. But education and awareness of other cultures does not lead to modern couples being fully equal. Men can take a second wife if they please, even without their wife's consent. My enlightened, educated male co-workers know alternative ways of relationships, but they believe in the plural wife system without question. Love may exist in new marriages, but more often it's a match made to ensure security and procreation.

As for the man looking at his dead corn, well, it’s the women who farm the land. The men go off their land to look for work, or they hang out under a tree with other men, chewing miraa or drinking the local brew. It’s the woman who tills the earth with a hoe. It’s the woman who plants the seeds and waters the rows and pulls the weeds, usually with a baby strapped to her back and another little one playing at her feet. She also keeps the chickens and goats and cooks the food, which she has grown or which she has walked to the nearest market to buy. Men may help with harvesting, but not always. What I saw in the cut scenes from Love Actually was a Western philosophy of love superimposed on Africans. It was very strange to watch. Plus, most rural Kenyans do not know Paris, do not know it’s in France, do not know France is in Europe. Many people here think Canada is somewhere in Europe. When I say I’m from the US, they automatically think I’m from the UK. I’ve learned to say America instead, but they still ask me about my home in London. Kenyans are too busy hoeing the soil, irrigating, looking for work, wondering where their next meal is coming from or standing in line at hospitals with sick children to think about countries and cities far, far away.

I love, love, love the movie “Love Actually.” Love it for its western slant, love it for the characters’ troubles, which aren’t really troubles compared to what a rural Kenyan lives with, love it because it recognizes love, in all its forms, as existing everywhere. Love Actually is everywhere, even in Kenya. But it doesn’t look like western love. It’s much more life-and-death and much more quiet and certainly even desperate at times.

Moving on Up

Before I leave for the Congo, Dan, TICH's director, asks if I’d be interested in managing the IT team. “Well,” I say, “could we call it more a coordinator role than a management role?”

“Why?” he asks.

“Don’t you think they may feel like I’m an outsider coming in to tell them what to do?”

“But you’re not an outsider,” Dan says, “You’re an insider.”

“Well, I like to think I’m an insider and I feel like an insider, but I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”

At the next meeting of the IT/Research/Marketing team, Dan announces I head up IT. Immediately following the meeting, Tonny and Elias, our IT specialists, tell me how thrilled they are. It seems current management has been slow to push projects through. Well, not slow exactly. He simply fails to push anything through. So we’re all rather heady with ideas and dreams of making the e-center, our school’s computer lab, optimal for students and staff.

We’re also anxiously excited about purchasing a new file server and getting either a satellite connection or new wireless system for our internet access. That’s lots and lots of US dollars and we want to make the right choice, getting the right company who’ll provide technical support, etc.

I also want to clean up the computer lab. Imagine two rows of hodge podge CPU’s hooked up to monitors of all sizes, some with working CD roms and disc drives, others without working anything. Also imagine, at the back of the room, more than 200 monitors, CPUs, printer bodies, keyboards and broken pieces of this or that all stacked and piled and making an eyesore. Add in reams of “research” papers and it’s a real messy mess. Now it’s my messy mess.

My vision: two rows of computers with all components working optimally, all computers linked to both the internet and our internal network so folks can print and research on the net. Imagine all the computers sitting neatly on the tables, their wiring embedded in the console and hidden from view. Imagine consoles free of soda bottle caps and scraps of paper, a computer lab cleaned and mopped every day, not twice a week.

Three women here maintain vast amounts of vital and sensitive data on their computers. But their memory is so low, it takes 10 minutes for their computers to power up and five minutes for docs to open. They need new memory and new hard drives. And we’re going to get it for them!! We’ve also ordered a CD writer so Elias can go to every computer in this school and back up all content on CDs. Right now, we’re flirting with disaster in case the drives fail on any of our units. All our rural community research, stacks and stacks of data entered to SPSS, would be lost!! All our mailing lists and university policies and confidential docs, lost. Holy Cow!!

My dream for TICH is to have a computer on every staff member’s desk and have that computer connected to the internet all day long. Right now, we’re on dial-up. The more people logged on, the slower the system runs. So staff is discouraged from getting on the net. We are severely limited in accessing our partners and sister universities around the world. But all that will change.

I have dreams. The IT team sees these dreams. They’ve had these dreams for two years. Next week, we’re sorting the junk at the back of the computer lab. Some pieces will be discarded, some pieces will be donated to community-based organizations and some pieces will be stored for later use.

You’d be amazed at the junk that gets sent to Africa. Donors seem to use Africa as their dumping ground. For instance, a German organization donated 17 computers to TICH, but no monitors. And the computers were outdated. Frank, a fellow VSO volunteer in Ndhiwa, about 200 kms from Kisumu, said he found a secret room at the hospital where he works. The room was sealed and when maintenance opened it, the room was stacked with unusable stuff sent by donors. Stuff like a B3 Hammond organ, for instance. And two microfiche reading machines. We’re not even sure microfiche exists in Kenya.

It’s a new IT day at TICH. I’m still marketing and communication advisor, but now I get to learn about the world of Information Technology. This opportunity would have never existed for me in America. There are many opportunities that would not be available in the US. Of course, in the US, I’d have the opportunity to fill my belly with peanut M&Ms while drinking caramel macchiatos from Starbucks, things I'm missing like crazy. But in Africa, I get to fill my head instead.

Twisted Sister

My sister Jan is crazy in a very good way. She’s petite and feisty and has a heart the size of Georgia, Alabama and both North and South Carolina combined (including the outer banks of North Carolina and Georgia’s string of barrier islands). Jan adores animals and has rescued and loved approximately 1,615,927 cats, dogs, ferrets, birds and one mouse named Algernon. And she loves, loves, loves our Mom’s coleslaw (of all things. What about the Divinity candy, the 3-layer Italian Cream Cake and the Strawberry Pies?! Jan isn’t a lover of sweets—but vegetables she puts on her wish list.)

When Jan read my blog about Dervla Murphy, she searched the net and found Dervla’s autobiography, “Wheels Within Wheels.” The original copy printed by Penguin Press!!! It arrived today taped and wrapped and taped and wrapped some more, encased in a USPS international mail envelope, which arrived surprisingly fast and for not much money. Less than $8 US to send the envelope. I love this book and the thought behind this book being wrapped and taped and wrapped some more by my “big sister” (she’s only 14-months older than me and won’t let me forget it).

I miss hearing Jan’s jokes and the way she laughs at her own jokes with total abandon, her face mirthful from forehead to dimpled chin, eyes alight. Perhaps if I make her some coleslaw she’ll share every joke in her repertoire (even the twisted ones, even the raunchy ones) when home for Christmas. That’s the first item on my wish list.

Clean-Up Showdown

This past Saturday I had to retreat from the world of Kenya and relax at home. After working the last two weekends (preparing for the agrishow and traveling to the Congo), I was ready to withdraw and recharge. Walter planned a clean-up day for Nyalenda, which I didn’t attend. He was assisted in the planning by the most energetic woman I’ve ever met, Anna. She’s from Portugal and is in Kenya for six weeks. When her original volunteer project fell through, a friend brought Anna to my office and asked if I knew of an organization she could work with during her six weeks in Kenya. Do I know of an organization? I immediately told her about Pambazuko and Walter Odede. They hooked up and made plans. First, Anna would teach the widows of Nyalenda how to make jewelry (mostly earrings) using copper wire and beads. With very little outlay of funds for the supplies, the widows can make and sell the jewelry.

Second, Anna helped organize the clean-up. I was busy with the show and then busy preparing to leave for the Congo, so Anna and Walter traipsed around Kisumu mobilizing pambazuko members, speaking to the mayor of Kisumu, visiting the offices of both newspapers, the Standard and the Nation. The city of Kisumu even loaned them a truck for Clean-Up Day to help haul away debris.

On the big day, nearly 200 people from the community showed up. Anna had arranged for music. Tools were borrowed, like shovels and rakes and wheelbarrows. The stream, Nyalenda’s main water source, was raked clean of all the nasty plastic bags and consumer goods packaging. The press showed up and talked to Walter and took photos and hopes are high they’ll report on the clean-up.

That was Saturday. On Sunday, several people defecated into plastic bags and tossed the bags into the newly-cleaned stream. Of course, being densely populated, people can’t toss feces-filled bags into clean streams without someone seeing them. So, knowing who the offenders were, Walter went to the village chief. Village chiefs have great influence over what goes on in their communities. Nothing can really happen in a community unless the chief is informed before hand. Otherwise, any programs or efforts put into the people will fall flat, it is stopped before it starts if the chief feels slighted or left out of the process. So Walter has kept the chief of Nyalenda (and the chief's very progressive wife) informed of all pambazuko events. This time, when he tells the chief about the nasty folks sabotaging efforts to clean the community, the chief does something unconventional. He contacts the police. Usually, chiefs like to handle things within their power and not go “outside” to police.

Littering is against the law. Of course, it happens every second of every day in Nyalenda and no one ever enforced the law before. But now, littering with malice catches everyone’s attention and the police are given the names of the offenders and we’re expecting arrests to be made. Imagine. These subversive attitudes, that harm people rather than make their lives better, are why development is taking so long in African countries. Not only is there corruption at the top drawing monies away from the people who need it, but there’s attitudinal distrust from the people on the ground. Jealousies over who’s making things happen and who doesn’t like to see change of any kind, even very good change.

I heard on the radio yesterday that Kibaki, president of Kenya, is in Japan this week accepting donated monies from the Japanese government totaling nearly $2 million US. And again, another news report said the US is providing about that much money for water projects in Western Kenya, where I live. I want to shout out to all the governments around the world and say, “Don’t send your freakin’ money to the Kenyan government!!!! It’ll be spent by individuals at high levels on houses and cars and travel to Europe and fine dining (well, the finest dining Kenya has to offer) and will never reach the poor Mama in the rural community who is suffering from arthritis (from years of back-breaking work) and cataracts, who’s raising four orphaned grandchildren and who owns only one goat and a semi-permanent house, whose only water source is rain water collected from the roof or a nearby river, if she’s lucky. Poor Mamas. They bear the responsibility for maintaining the day to day existence for themselves and many others, yet the government overlooks them and donations never trickle down.

Even when the monies go to major projects stipulated by governments donating the funds, corruption causes the projects to stop mid-course. You’d be amazed at the number of incomplete, empty buildings around Kisumu. Why are they incomplete? Because the builder stole the monies along and along and when the money was gone, construction stopped—before windows could be inserted, before electrical wiring and plumbing could be installed. Shells, skeletons of shelters with windows like gaping black eyes. Grotesque monuments to corruption. There’s one right around the corner from TICH. I walk past it every day to and from work.

So what’s the answer to aiding development, to increasing the economic prosperity among nations of the third world (or the South as it’s referred to in the development field)? Give the money to the mamas. Many organizations have discovered this powerful truth. When you give money to the mama, she uses the money for the household’s good. She buys chickens and vaccinates them and sells the eggs and her family is able to eat. Give money to the mama and she buys a plough and she farms her plot and raises food for her family and for selling. And she shares her plough with neighboring farmers. Give the money to the mama and she starts a small business, perhaps raising honey bees to market the honey, or growing soya beans to process soya milk. Give the money to the man and he uses it for personal things like local brew or women. I’m not making this up. These are things discussed amongst Kenyans and volunteers in Kenya. The men spend the money on personal pleasures with nothing to show for it.

And the monies do not have to be “given” to the mamas. Many, many micro financiers have had tremendous luck loaning money to the mamas and the mamas repay with extraordinarily high rates. Something like 97% of all mirco loan payments are made on time. Quite remarkable in a place where money is scarce. We’re talking about original loans of $30 or $50 to each mama. Hey, US, give your money to the mamas! Japan, Germany, UK, Holland, give your money to the mamas. They’ll use it wisely for everyone’s sake. And they’d never defecate in a plastic bag and toss it into a newly-cleaned area where families collect their drinking water.

Development will come. Eventually, slowly. Maybe not in my lifetime. But when the world catches on about the powerful truth of assisting the mama to assist the family to assist the community to assist the district, province, region, then we’ll see development take off economically and politically. We’ll see health for all, not just the few who can afford it. And we’ll see clean water sources, free education and all buildings complete with glass in their windows and electricity in their wiring.

Like the governor of Goma’s province in the Congo said in his speech at last week’s graduation, until developing countries value their women, empower their women, elect their women to parliament and other offices, development will never arrive.

This Week's Screensaver

This gorgeous red flower is blooming just outside my front door. I shot a photo series of these blooms for an adorable Super Friend who appreciates such beauty, but saved this one photo for the screensaver. When the screen loads each day, I’m astounded anew by the brilliance of these red beauties.

Ugandan Rice Fields

Bad Ugandan Roads

Typical Rural Ugandan House

Home Again: Back from the Congo!

Oh, what good spirits we are in, knowing we are headed home. When we reach Kenya’s border and have been stamped to return home, Ogutu stands amongst the crowd and exults his return to his native country. He puffs up and says, with conviction and volume , “I’m home. I’m a big man here. No one can displace me or shove me. I rule this land and I rule my life and Kenya is MY country.” He is certainly feeling patriotic.

“Let’s go shopping,” I say to Sister Margaret and Maureen. We all turn back to Uganda and walk across the border (people on foot can move easily between countries, even without a passport) on a fabric-buying mission. I told Sister Margaret that if I see something I want to buy, I’ll signal her so she can buy it at the local rate, not the mzungu rate. She says she must ask Maureen to do the same for her because when people see a Sister, they automatically think she has lots and lots of the church’s money.

Bavon is looking for a computer bag and Lily spots some shoes and a denim skirt she likes, very fashionable. I buy some gorgeous Royal Wax material, authentic African fabric of the highest quality. Sister tells me the fabric I bought at 450 shillings (about $5 USD for 5 yards) would cost at least 1300 shillings in Kisumu. We’re all feeling quite luxurious with our time today since we’re only a two hour drive from Kisumu.

After shopping, we pass into Kenya and Julius directs us to his favorite restaurant. We’re in Busia, a city which straddles the Kenya-Uganda border. We eat fish or stewed chicken and chug Kubwa (large) Cokes in glass bottles. We’re nearly home, our bellies are full and we’ve all bought some goodies we’ll treasure and give as gifts. Buying fabric and a pair of Sandals at the border (total $24) is the only money I’ve spent on this six-day tour.

Later, when we come over a rise and see Kisumu spread out along the lake's shore, everyone says, "Ahhhhh."

We arrive at TICH at 5pm and are pulled into the director’s office, where everyone gathers and welcomes us back with hugs and kisses and a prayer. Dr. Ariga says, “Did you hear about the show, Cindi?”

"No," I say.

Dr. Ariga says, “TICH won First Place for our exhibit.”

“What?!! You’ve got to be kidding!” and all of a sudden my exhaustion flees and I’m holding Dr. Ariga’s hands and bouncing up and down and grinning like an idiot. He takes me to see the trophy and then I photograph the director with the trophy, still not believing our exhibit won when I doubted we’d even place. We beat out several other institutes, including Maseno University, a well-respected school that’s been around for nearly 100 years, the place where most of Western Kenya’s contemporary leaders were educated. It’s just too much to take in, returning home safely, knowing how much everyone (in Kisumu and the US!) prayed for us and thought about us and finding out a month of hard work has won us the show prize we coveted.

Plus, at the end of our trip, the night we stayed in Kampala, we all agreed we had each done things along the way we should probably apologize for. I thought about my screaming fit at the gas station. Because we each had things we could apologize for, very human things we’d said and done, we decided none us would apologize. Instead, we’d simply forgive each other and move on with our friendships and our missions. We’d move on unimpeded.

So after a long and fruitful journey, we simply forgive each. And we move on. Unimpeded.

Director Dan Keseje with Agri Show Trophy

Curving Stretch of Road in Rwanda

Steer on Rwanda-Uganda Border

Rwanda: Land of a Thousand Hills

Richard and Lily Relaxing During Refueling

Left, Right, Wrong?

We leave at 5:30, in the dark, and the brakes feel more solid. We’re waved through by the police and climb our way away from Kigali, toward Kampala, Uganda. The sun rises over Rwanda in a way that makes us glad to be alive. We twist and turn until we find ourselves back at the rutted part of the valley, where I must drive at 2 mph to navigate deep pot holes and steep road edges. This is where the boys yell, “Rwenzori,” and where we all search for empty bottles. This time, however, we're moving so slowly we are able to hand the bottles to the boys. Someone hands out bread. Three young men, aged between seven and 11, it seems, run beside us in their bare feet and shabby gray clothes, their eyes shining as they reach for the bottles. They thank us in their native tongue, Kinyarwanda. I remember a bottle in my bag with a little water left and I dig it out with my left hand while steering clear of holes and boys with my right and I hand the bottle to the smallest boy, who’s out in front. He’s joyful now, as are the others, as are all of us in the van so that when the road clears and I can pick up speed, we all wish we had more bottles and more food to hand over.

The boys are yelling thank you and still running and jumping up and down, holding their bottles close to their chests, until we’re out of sight. Until they’re out of sight.

We get to Uganda in a couple of hours. Bavon leaves the vehicle to call his wife and I’m left to drive the car through the border. “Here’s the paperwork,” Bavon says, shoving a file folder at me and slamming the door. So I pull up and wait and wait and a guy looks at my papers and asks for Form 87AC2, an A4 size. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He makes me pull to the side, out of the way, and points to a tiny building with a tiny, grilled window. I wait for Bavon but he doesn’t come, so I walk over the window. Then Lucas shows up and Bavon shows up and they talk to the guy behind the grill and figure out we have to fill out another form and pay more money before the car can go through.

The gatekeeper has now poured himself a large cup of coffee and is sitting, relaxing. It’s still early morning and a mist hugs the ground and the nearby hills. This border valley is lush with grasses and crops and those steer with the remarkably huge, slightly curved horns. They’re horns are sometimes two or more feet long. Magnificent. A few cows loll on the other side of the fence, where the gatekeeper is facing. I approach and he asks if I’d like a cup of coffee. Very generous of him to offer and I should have said yes. Instead, I ask if I can take photographs of the fields and cows. I promise not to photograph any immigration buildings. They’re all very touchy about that. He says sure, and if anyone questions me, send them to him. I photograph the mist and the fence posts made out of tree branches that have taken root and sprouted tiny, leafy appendages.

Once the paperwork is in place, Bavon shoves the file toward me once again, tells me to drive through the next border, Uganda, that he’ll be right back. So I pass the friendly, coffee-drinking gatekeeper and roll toward the next gate. I’m waved through, but then the guy runs over and demands a pass of some sort which doesn’t sound familiar. He tells me to park and go see a policeman sitting up the hill. I’ve given my passport to Sister to have it stamped. My friends are all in line with a hundred other people to get their passports stamped and I’m alone with our vehicle, outside the border, facing a mile-long line of double parked transfer trucks, mostly petrol carriers. What if they all decide to move through the gate and squash our car? Who’ll watch our bags if I go speak to the policeman up the hill? I’m a bit undone as to where to park and how to visit the officer. So I pass into Uganda and move past the trucks, hoping to find a hole to park in, but no luck. I drive a mile, turnaround and drive a mile back, to the front of the truck line, almost. I get out and lock the doors and a man passing by, an aged man with a scowl, tells me to park elsewhere and I curtly tell him, “they told me to park here.”

Luckily, Gertrude, Richard and Sister are headed to the car and I’m free to visit the cop, who interrogates me about where we’ve been and where we’re going and he smiles flirtatiously while asking me about the U.S. Ugh. I sign the book and get a pass the size of a postage stamp and then we’re all free to move into Uganda.

“Who’s going to drive in Uganda?” I ask Lucas.

“We’ll keep the same driver,” he says with a grin. I think about it. Left side of the road. I’ve been in Kenya riding on the left for six months. “Okay,” I say and we’re off.

‘Keep left. Keep left,’ I say to myself. And it’s fun being on the left. No longer do the guys in the back flip out when someone passes us. In Rwanda, when cars first passed on the left, they all jumped, thinking we would crash. This is how unused they were to being on the right. I drive on the left for about 50 miles into Uganda, until we reach Mbale, where Jack the driver is waiting. We pass through town, turning here and there, moving through roundabouts and intersections with no confusion. Gee, this left side thing isn’t so hard after all. Then we see Jack sitting on the patio of his “hotel.” He’s so happy to see us. We’re happy to be here by 10, early enough for breakfast.

I tell Jack about the brakes, so he can decide if they should be looked at or not. He sensibly decides to have them checked. We all order breakfast. Now that Lily, Bavon’s daughter is traveling to Kisumu with us, and now that Jack has rejoined us, we number 12. We all order breakfast—eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, tea—and keep the staff hopping. When the bill comes, it’s about 13,000 Uganda shillings, or about 150 Kenya shillings. 12 of us eat breakfast for less than $2 USD.

Jack picks us up. The black stuff was just grease, so the mechanic lubed the wheels and we are good to travel. Uganda is huge. Just look at it on a map and marvel at the distance from Kenya’s border and Rwanda’s border. Jack soon takes the 80 khp cap off the engine, which also disables the speedometer and odometer, and we’re cruising through the countryside. I’m sitting up front between Jack and Bavon and am surprised to see Bavon instructing Jack exactly the way he’d instructed me. Made me feel better, knowing the navigation wasn’t gender-inspired. But poor Jack. By the time we reach Kampala in the evening, he is truly worn out and stressed.

We spend the night in Kampala at the Sports View Hotel overlooking the Mandela Stadium. This is the most expensive place we’ve stayed during our trip, paying nearly $20 USD a room (of course, we doubled). We look at a guest house across the street which is very comfortable, but the toilets are communal and everyone in our group is convinced staying at the Sports View will be better. It isn’t. Even though we run the hot water for 20 minutes in the shower, as the receptionist instructed, it never warms up. Another night of sponge bathing. The bathroom tiles are loose, the sink is hanging away from the wall and the toilet has no seat. Our rooms face the highway and across the highway is a nightclub with pumping music and many, many very loud young partiers. And below our window is the hotel’s own sports bar with loud, pumping music. The window to the balcony has no glass, so when a transfer truck flies past, grinding gears, it sounds like we’re on the side of the road. I swear I can feel each truck’s breeze.

The nightclub stays opened until 4am, the music consistently blaring, but we all agree we were so exhausted we slept well and were only awakened occasionally. But we lose an hour, moving into Uganda's new time zone, and morning comes quickly.

Coffin Shop Common Sight in Africa

University Choir Performs at Graduation

Sister Margaret and Kalindi During Graduation

TICH Graduates

TICH Students Receiving their Certificates (Julius, Ogutu, Sister Margaret, Gertrude, Kelvin, Richard and Maureen)

Pomp and Circumstance

7am and Janine’s calling my name from the courtyard. It’s time for our walk to the Karibu Hotel, one of the nicest hotels in the city. We’re a five minute walk from Lake Kivu, which looks like an ocean. Most people are sleeping as we walk to exit the university’s gate, where we greet Rose slipping in. “Where did you sleep last night?” Janine asks. Rose ignores the question and says good morning to me. “They’re young,” Janine says when Rose has gone. The quiet morning is cool and gorgeous, the lake is like a mirror and occasionally a lone man in a boat casts a line. As we walk the hotel complex, UN vehicles adorn each building. Karibu Hotel is one of the most expensive places to stay in Goma.

Today is graduation day, so we all go to the university, where the ceremony will take place in the school’s courtyard. We breakfast. The ceremony starts at 10, but as of 9 the podium floor has not been completed and the sound system gear is lying in a heap on the gravel. The students are taken away with their gowns to a room to wait. I’m guided to the tent where the dignitaries sit and I’m seated next to Vincent, the man who owns the Karibu Hotel. He’s slick and good-looking in a Middle-Eastern kind of way. Then the Rector rushes over and signals me and says in really bad English, “We together must,” so I stand and follow him to where the heads of each college have collected. They ask me to wear a gown, so I get one from the van and return. We go to the Rector’s office and wait to be called out, to enter the procession. The crowd is huge. All chairs are filled. Two white women sit under the dignitary tent.

The older woman, who looks to be 80 or so, is quite dignified with her white hair caught up in a bun atop her head and her 4-strand pearl necklace matching her earrings. She’s the benefactress for the university’s new Science and Technology wing. She looks every bit the part. Next to her is a woman, perhaps her daughter, in her 50s with wavy, free hair. Including me, there are three white people present.

They’ve placed TICH's group on the front row, center. The Minister of Higher Education is on hand to confer degrees and give a speech. The provincial governor is also present. His speech is all about gender equality and he speaks in very plain language (once Bavon has translated it from French, of course) about the dangers of valuing men over women, especially when the country/continent is working to develop. I loved his speech and grew to love the man, who had a powerful build and a thoughtful, but serious, face. So many people gave speeches. Even Lucas gave a speech written by Dan, TICH’s director, which Bavon had to translate into French. Two and a half hours into the ceremony and our butts are dead asleep and they finally start conferring degrees. Janine sits next to me and on her other side is Professor Karafuli, head of the theology college. Both are women. Of the 121 students who started the law program, only four made it through to their degree. All four are women. As they advance to the podium, Janine lets out the African yippee call. It’s hard to describe how women in Africa shout their approval. Something like a high-pitched “Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi” that goes on and on. She does this for every woman. Janine does this throughout the governor’s speech on the value of women. Every time she calls out, videographers spin around and zoom in on her. She is probably the most photographed and filmed woman of the day.

Students go on the stage, receive their diploma, accept the Minister placing their mortarboards on their head, and then they return to the area in front of the prodium. As a group, the Rector confers their degrees. While this is going on, security men stand across the aisles holding hands, keeping relatives from rushing toward the graduates before their degrees are conferred. Mostly women, the relatives push and shout and shov and try to bite the security guards. The women ignore the security guards and enter the center and make fools of themselves, embarrassing the graduates. Photographers also run wild, standing in the center of everything, blocking views, crowding the podium. Though they try, the university can not maintain decorum.

I am irritated with the photographers, who block picture-taking from the front row. The perfect spot from which to photograph and these guys are in the way. So Janine, shoos them with her hands while saying, “Si vu plais, Monsieur.” (or however "if you please" is spelled n French). Finally, the guards move the photographers from in front of us, but then the women rush through the barricades and are shouting and pushing and falling onto to us in the front row. One large woman steps on my toe and I immediately push her big ass off my foot and she doesn’t look around. The crowd is so large and rowdy, I begin to fear for our safety. Some people spray cans of a snow-like material all over the graduates and guards. Trying not to look disapproving, I sit, watch the crowd and very much disapprove of their behavior.

Our students are the next group to graduate. It goes smoothly, I took lots of photos and then Lucas says, once he returns from the podium, “Let’s go.” So before the ceremony is complete, at 3pm, our group walks out. The black robe baked by the sun has made us all very uncomfortable. When we reach our van, we rip off our robes and climb in. Folks in the back of the crowd watch, and they especially watch me since I'm getting into the driver’s seat. The university packed lunches for us, so we grab them and pull out right (but first we stop near the gate to take on 200 kilos of beans in sacks that crowd the van’s floor).

We stop for fuel and to check the water and oil levels. When we pull into the station, I ask which pump is diesel. Bavon is telling me to just pull up this way and then back that way, etc., but I have no idea where he’s sending me. I ask, again, which pump has diesel. Then everyone in the car and two ladies under the shelter all begin to tell me how to turn the wheel this way and back up that way. It’s too much. I’ve reached my limit with them telling me how to get somewhere without telling me my final destination. So in a manner I do not like and am not proud of, a manner taken by many white people who become frustrated due to language barriers and cultural misunderstandings, I throw out my arms and tell everyone to shut. I repeat the command to the two women under the shelter.

I yell to them all, so everyone hears clearly that “I know now to drive! If you just tell me which pump has diesel, I’ll figure out how to get this van next to it!! I cannot drive according to your instructions when I do not understand where my final destination is!!!!” And they all said, “Yes, you can drive.” “Yes, Cindi, you’re a very good driver.” And this type of consoling has a way of making me laugh at my anger and feel ashamed for losing my temper. I never lost my temper in the U.S. (well, only very rarely). Bavon ever-so-gently asks the ladies which pump has diesel and they point without words and I’m able to get the gas tank next to the pump so that everyone is happy.

We munch our packed lunches while the fuel pumps. Chips (French fries), chunks of mystery meat dropped amongst the chips and, in a separate pouch of tinfoil, shredded cabbage (salad), which I eat hungrily with my fingers as men ride and walk past, staring. Some days I think I'm used to constantly being stared at and other days I wish for an invisible cloak.

We want to reach Kigali by night, about a four hour drive away. Skirting the police stops, we hit the border, where we are delayed with a baggage check and a wedding party made up of 30 vehicles honking and shouting across the border. I’m anxious to hit the open road, to be in control again.

We reach Kigali as night calls and when we pull up to the guest house, the brakes smoke so badly Maureen yells out, “Something is wrong with our tires.” I assure them it’s just the brakes overheating, but I worry about the black streaks radiating from the hub. Grease or brake fluid? No matter how much I tried to use low gears coming off the Rwandan mountains, the brakes were still necessary. Toward the end, the brakes felt fluid, which scared me. But the guest house is too expensive for us and Bavon and Lucas want to check out another one. I tell them I do not want to drive the van any more. That I don’t trust the brakes. They call a former TICH student who lives in Kigali, a man of about 55 years, and he leads us to another, more affordable, guest house. He climbs in between me and Bavon and to my chagrin he directs my driving just as Bavon does. Now there are two of them. He asks Bavon in French if I’m a good driver. I know he doubts my ability and know what he is asking because I hear him say “madam” and “chauffeur.” Bavon replies without hesitation, “Oui, Tre bien.” (or however "Yes, very good" is spelled).

They direct my driving so closely that as we’re riding down the road and it curves to the left they tell me to go left. Each of them has their hand up, pointing left and smashing into the windshield as they hit it again and again, making sure I understand we must go left. “Are you sure I can’t go straight?” I say just to be a smartass because clearly there’s no road straight ahead, just grass and rocks. “No, no,” they answer seriously. Sarcasm is not something commonly found or understood in African countries. “Go left, go left.” I take a deep breath and remind myself we’re almost there and soon they’ll both be out of my cockpit.

The guest house sits on a cliff overlooking Kigali. It looks as though all the stars have fallen into the city, into the crevices and round parts of the hills, smashing into millions of pieces and twinkling brilliantly where they lay. The van is parked on a slope with a 20 foot drop-off 20 feet behind. I make sure the emergency brake is set and push aside thoughts of the van rolling back. I’m tired. We’re tired. It’s now after 9 pm and it’s been a long, ceremony-filled day. I just want to crash on a bed. But the guest house doesn’t have food. They want to drive somewhere to get food and in my irritability I tell them I won’t drive, someone else can, because I don’t trust that 20-foot drop at night, don’t trust the brakes and don’t trust my judgment under such fatigue.

Julius is concerned about me and he’s insisting they get me a Coke and they get me a place to sit. “If our driver isn’t rested and cared for, then we simply won’t get home.” Someone steps outside the guest house compound and returns with a loaf of bread and drinks and we all stand under the moonlight and chew and drink as our energy slowly returns. They find us rooms and we drop our luggage. Maureen and I are placed in a room with five bunk beds and cold water. Once revived, I tell Lucas I will drive to get food, but they’ve already called Bavon’s daughter, Lily, who was waiting for us in Kigali. She’s been staying here with her cousin and his wife. These three beautiful souls bring us food. They arrive in an hour’s time with three plates, three pieces of fish (not three fish, three pieces of fish), rice and ugali. There are 11 of us. But we divide the plates and form in groups and pick at the fish and dip ugali chunks in the tomatoe (masala) fish sauce. Kelvin turns a pot lid upside down and fills it with rice and masala sauce. Amazingly, like the bible episode, these few pieces of fish satisfy our appetites.

We all drag to our rooms and wash in cold water by candlelight, for the electricity has gone out. It’s midnight and we’re meeting at 5am.

Gertrude, right, Celebrates her Master's (Lucas is behind the podium and Bavon is in green, translating into French)

Me Driving the Matatu in the Congo

Volcano in Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo

Lava Field in Goma City: New Buildings Going Up

Short Arm of the Law

Lucas and I drive from Ishango Hotel to the university, to meet our group for breakfast. We pass along the shore of Lake Kivu. There is no water in town this morning so the lake’s beach is packed with people carrying yellow jerry cans, waiting patiently to get their water so they can return home to cook and wash. The roads are lined with children and adults, all carrying jerry cans, some filled, some empty, on their heads.

We meet our group at the university. The restaurant is made of plywood, painted white, with open holes for windows covered in lace panels. The ceiling is low and women out back cook over jikos (coal stoves) in the open air. We breakfast in a back room, set apart from everyone by a thick fabric “door.” Breakfast is large slices of bread, butter and tea. Afterward, we take a tour of the campus and meet a law professor, Janine, who’s originally from Cameroon. She takes an interest in me for some reason and it’s soon apparent she’s something of a feminist. I like her immediately.

We then visit the university Rector (equivalent to a U.S. university president. The rector is a happy, charming man who cannot speak English though he understands us very well. He’s so kind, his manner suggests he’s someone’s secretary rather than the head of the university), the chairman of the board (who is 4 foot tall, looks like a black German officer and speaks only French) and the head of academics who likes to practice his English with us. Kalindi joins us in this last meeting, which means we’ve now met with the top four men of this university. They treat our students like royal guests, taking time to chat with us when they have a graduation to prepare! The rector is printing a copy of the ceremony’s agenda when the electricity goes out. The generator will kick in within ten minutes, but we can’t wait. The agenda is in French anyway. Everything at the university is in French, all class lectures and all their marketing materials. Luckily, we have Bavon as our interpreter.

There’s a little time before lunch at 1pm. Most people want to drive to town, to look around, maybe shop. Ogutu is marrying soon and wants to buy his “wife” a diamond ring. (In Kenya, people call their partners “wife” and “husband” even before they’re ever married. Ogutu has been with his “wife” for 12 years and they have an 11-year-old daughter.) I’d like to take photos of the lava flow, the way it divides downtown, so that we must drive up the edge of the lava, about eight feet, to reach the higher elevation.

Bavon navigates by telling me exactly what to do. “Stop!” “Pull up!” “Go here, go here!” as he points into the windshield, over and over again. Even after I’ve signaled, even after I’ve said, “Okay,” and “I’m stopping,” he’s still directing me. Sometimes it gets on my nerves and I must remind him that I know how to drive. So we’re headed to town with Bavon giving me very detailed instructions, especially when we approach the traffic police. In Kigali, Rwanda, the police men on the side of the road would pull us over, walk to my window saying, “Bonjour,” then they’d wave us on. Sometimes they even called out, "Safe journey!" as we pulled away. Bavon marveled at how they simply looked in the window and waved us on. He attributed this to my white skin and it made him laugh with delight. Today, as we approach the congolese policemen and women in their bright yellow shirts, Bavon reminds me to slow down in case they flag us to the side of the road. Which they do.

I pull over and wait while they speak French. The officer is short and has the cruel face of a criminal. He’s intense. They talk and talk. Finally, Bavon tells me to show my license. The guy says our insurance sticker on the front window is not valid in the Congo, it’s only valid in countries belong to the African Association of Something or Other. As Bavon and the short man talk sternly to each other, I hear the guys in the back discussing what they’d like to eat for lunch.

30 minutes later, Bavon and the guy are still talking sternly. The officer frequently shoos away peddlers and small children who walk zombie-like toward the van to stare at me. “Bonjour, Mzungu,” they all shout. Seems the officer is saying my driver’s license is not international. He wants to see “internationale” written on it somewhere. Finally, the guy walks to Bavon’s side and climbs in. “Go,” Bavon says and I go, having no clue where we’re going. It’s a lot of work for Bavon to have a conversation with the cruel officer and to interpret for the rest of us. So we sit quietly. A matatu passes us so closely the officer leaps forward and throws up his arms, as though we’re going to crash. But he doesn’t get on to me. We drive for 10 minutes then stop. Bavon and the officer and Lucas go inside. We wait for 30 more minutes. Everyone is hot. We’re tired. We just want to see the shops downtown and to eat lunch.

The road is crowded with walkers and vehicles. A small truck passes with a butchered cow in the back. The bed is full of hind quarters and ribs with the skin intact. The cow’s hide was a gorgeous, solid black. On top of everything, held in place by a man riding in back, is the cow’s head. Soldiers ride by. UN soliders and Congo soldiers. Guys pass us on two-wheeled, handmade wooden bikes. They carry strapped-on vegetables, gas cylinders, bags of potatoes, sugar cane, other riders, long metal poles and fire wood. Women carry these same items on their heads, with babies tied to their backs. The women dress in colorful, bold graphics, the fabrics flowing to their ankles and wrapped and knotted into elaborate headdresses.

Finally, our guys emerge from the building holding a scrap of paper on which the police chief has written a pass, officially stamped with his name and title. This pass tells any officer who stops us to let us go, that it’s okay for us to be in town through Saturday. Bavon says he paid a “fine” of $20 USD. But don’t we have to go buy the insurance they were talking about? Not really. Now that we have this piece of paper, we can pass through all police checkpoints. But what about the insurance, in case we have an accident? Not necessary now that we have this piece of paper. It’s not clicking with me, but I leave the logistics to Bavon, who is from the Congo. These police folk in bright yellow shirts earn a salary equivalent to $5 USD per month. Not much at all, which is why they supplement their income by looking for the tiniest offense for which to extract a bribe. And the government is the orchestrator of this flawed system.

As I pull onto the busy road, everyone wants to go back to the school, to park the van. Since our matatu is different from the Congo matatus, we’re a sure mark for the Congolese police. We pick up speed and travel for half a mile when the police flag us over. They want to see my license. Bavon shows them our piece of paper. The guy waves us on. Another ½ mile, another policeofficer waving us over. We show the piece of paper and are released. We get to the border office where Bavon picks up some necessary paperwork for the vehicle then we head back to the university. A police woman pulls us over. She looks at my license, at our “pass.” She confers with a fellow officer. She confers with a fellow officer for ten minutes. Then we go. We’re all laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Imagine how much money they’d be making in tourist dollars if they allowed us to freakin’ shop in their town,” I say. “Instead, they’re intent on stopping us and finding some small thing to detain us with so they can press for a bribe!”

Another half mile, another stop. These guys are friendly and wave us on immediately. We approach a roundabout where we had been stopped on the other side. The fierce police woman stops us and wants Bavon to step out of the vehicle. She looks at our pass and questions its validity. She wants a little something for herself. We paid the big boss $20, what about the little guys, she’s asking Bavon. I take a photo of the volcano in the distance, the volcano that erupted in 2002, with a lava field in the foreground. The volcano barely shows through the mist and haze of the low-lying clouds. I photograph new houses and buildings being erected on the lava flow. I photograph Bavon and the officers in the side mirror. Fortunately, the police chief who wrote our pass pulls up and the female officer asks if he wrote the pass and he confirms, allowing us to go.

We’re thrilled to be back at the university after being stopped six times in two hours!! We’re also ready to get the hell out of the Congo. Allen Bechky, in “Adventuring in East Africa” wrote about the Congo, which was called Zaire back then. Bechky says, “Zaire is the kind of place where things can and will go wrong, or at least not proceed in the fast and logical way you may expect. If you can’t bring patience and a sense of humor, Zaire is not the country for you.” No truer words have ever been written.

I’m rooming with Gertrude in the student hostel. Others are at a nearby guest house. We have no way to communicate as a group, so Gertrude and I decide to stay put in case they come for us. There is no water, and then there is water, but only cold, not hot. So I sponge bathe and dress. Then there is no water. I take my book of plays written by Oscar Wilde into the living room to read. Night is near. The electricity goes out. Gertrude calls out from her bedroom, but remains in the dark behind her locked door. I open the drapes wide, to allow in dying light. But it’s futile. Way too dark to read. So I sit on the sofa facing the windows, wondering how long we’ll sit in the dark.

Footsteps crunch the courtyard gravel. Then a female voice commands a man, who appears boy-like in the shadows of our verandah. “Hello, Cindi,” calls Janine. She lives just next door! I let them in and they bring along heavy bags. She pulls out a kerosene lamp and candles and matches. They pour fuel into the lamp, soak the wick, then light it. The helpful man, who has a slight limp from a mal-formed foot, places candles and matches in the bath and the bedrooms. They’ve even brought soap and toilet paper!!! So thoughtful of Janine. He leaves to take these essentials to Lucas and Julius’ room while Janine and I sit in the lamplight and talk. She’s here for three years, teaching law, but finds Goma a small town with few amusements. We have children the same ages. She wears jeans and sandals, looks very Western. Janine’s English is quite good but with a thick French accent.

Janine wants me to meet her students, so we step over to her house and she calls across the way, where female French accents call back. Two lovely young women, Rose and Leona, come over. Their English is very good, too, though they also deny it. They busy themselves making tea. We sit in the dim light and tell our stories. They are like Janine’s daughters. Today they finished their exams and feel free. They want to cook. While they pull out the food and heat the oil, I get my camera and a bag of sweets from my room. The electricity returns. The water returns. I wash dishes, to clear the sink for cooking.

A driver arrives, to take me and Gertrude to dinner. But I decline, saying I’m tired and will stay home. They leave without me.

Rose peels green bananas for frying, Leona thaws the fish. More students stop by to say hello then leave. Janine brings her TV from the bedroom and puts it on channel five, the French station. She interprets the news for me while the girls cook and chat in the kitchen. Cecilia joins us for dinner, straight from her job at the African Central Bank, wearing her bank uniform with their log repeated throughout the fabric’s pattern. She takes a call while dipping her fried banana into mayonnaise. She leaves the table with the phone to her ear. “Boyfriend?” I ask and they all howl. Janine and Leona insist I eat more and more. It’s very delicious. And once the meal is over, as I reach to collect dirty plates, they push me back in the chair and say Mamas just sit while the daughters clean.

Gertrude returns from dinner so I leave Janine and the girls as they’re about to watch a movie made in Uganda. They give me the customary three kisses and I give them a genuine American hug. They’re precious, these girls. Pure Congolese gold.

Congolese Market

Bavon with Congolese Police

Rwandan Mountain and Church

Rwandan Banana Grove

Nindi Enjoys Chicken on a Stick

Rwanda Bound

Canaan Hotel serves us breakfast in the lobby. They bring out pots of tea and distribute cups and sugar and stacks of bread slices, to be slathered with Blue Band soft butter. When we’re completing the bread, they bring around watermelon slices. We pack ourselves onto the hard, straight matatu seats and head for the border. We stand in line for an hour on the Uganda side, waiting to be stamped with an exit visa. Our line eventually reaches the porch of the building and we wait another 20 minutes. Finally, we’re just inside the door, one person ahead of us. The agent behind the glass turns and plugs in his mobile phone for recharging. Then he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants, stuffs his shirttail in and re-dresses himself. We’re standing, waiting, watching him zip his pants. Then he walks out of the booth, closes the door and walks between me and Sister Margaret. No word as to where he’s going. Perhaps to the restroom? He leaves one other agent who is stamping entrance visas.

There are about 100 people behind us and we’ve been here one and a half hours. Ten minutes later, no agent. Twenty minutes later, no agent. I ask the guy managing the crowd at the door if he can go get the agent. He looks shocked and shakes his head no. Bavon steps up to the other agent and asks where the man is. Isn’t it possible another agent can replace him? Our agent returns, goes behind the glass wall, retrieves a piece of paper and comes back to pass by us. Bavon asks him when he’ll return. The guy says he’s helping a “special visitor.” Bavon reminds him we have a right to served promptly, that their signs reminding us to be patient only apply to computer problems, not to lack of agents. His voice gets louder. The agent gets even louder. Bavon says, “We have a right to be served promptly,” and the agent retorts, “And it’s good to be delayed, too!” and he storms out and slams the door. We all laugh. What the hell does that mean, “it’s good to be delayed, too?” The “entrance” agent steps over and begins stamping our passports. Not happily. But at least we’re moving on. Now to Rwanda’s immigration stand.

The agents in Rwanda will not let Jack, the driver, pass through. His temporary passport is for East Africa only (Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania). Jack can’t go in. Though I had planned to drive from here, it was comforting to know Jack would be with us, to help out with breakdowns and to explain the van’s idiosyncrasies. I ask if there are any little tricks or hang-ups about the car and Jack says no. He hands me the keys, says goodbye and he’s on his way back to the next town, to wait for our return on Sunday. This is it. It’s up to me and this 5-speed van to get everyone safely to Goma and back. At least we’re now driving on the right side of the road.

It’s takes about 30 minutes to get used to the gears, to the brakes, to dodging holes in the road. Rwanda is by far the most beautiful African country I’ve visited. They call it “The Land of a Thousand Hills,” but these hills are more like mountains and they number much more than 1000. Around every hill lies 10 more hills, with steep, winding roads. It’s impossible to see around the bends, so I maintain a speed that will allow us to brake quickly without harm if a hole awaits us, or if the road is washed out.

Sometimes the pavement gives out completely and we must pass over rocky, red dirt roads. Sometimes the holes in the road stretch all the way across, requiring me to leave the road completely. I soon learn how wide apart the tires are, the length of the wheel base and how to hit third gear’s sweet spot (otherwise it turns sour very quickly when misjudged). In one valley, where I slow to a crawl so we can navigate some holes and dip into others, barefoot boys run beside yelling, “Rwenzori.” Because they speak French in Rwanda, the boys have a French accent when calling out what sounds like “Wren-zor-reeeee.” They’re asking for empty water bottles of the brand “Rwenzori.” Bavon tells us to simply toss them on the side of the road where the boys will collect them and later use them to hold cooking oil, water and many other things. I toss a bottle and hear them shouting their thanks.

Ogutu sings, “Rwenzori,” and everyone laughs and sings the word while we frantically look for more bottles to give the boys. The road smoothes out and I pick up speed, a little, climbing onto the next twisting mountain. A big truck flies down off the mountain and the driver tosses a Rwenzori bottle into the center of the road, where it immediately lands under our left front tire. Crunch. “Oh no!” is chorused throughout the van. We all feel so horrible when the bottle is destroyed with the boys watching from the roadside.

We come upon a Land Cruiser and I want to pass but must wait. I notice a white man is driving. “What are the chances,” I ask Bavon, “that a white woman and a white man would be meeting on a remote mountain road in Rwanda?” Then a police stop comes into view. They flag the white man to pull over and wave us on. Whew. We round a few more curves, with me leaning forward to view every inch of the road (for possible holes), when we come up on a matatu. A real matatu hauling passengers. It’s difficult to pass so I stay behind at a respectable distance (Mama emailed and reminded me NOT to tailgate in Africa). As we pass a bridge, a shot rings out and someone screams, but it’s only the matatu with a blown back tire. I don’t mean only, because a blowout anytime is dangerous and especially so on narrow curving roads with a valley dropping off nearly a mile just a feet away from the road.

We see Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. It sweeps across several hills, flowing with the waves of mountains, built up to the top, top and to the valley bottoms. It looks like San Francisco. We need to get fuel, but we need to exchange money into Rwandese Francs first, so we go to the bank where sidewalk hawkers surround our car and a young girl with a baby tied on stands in the middle of our group without saying a word.

We pass through Kigali, through the traffic lights that don’t work, and pull into a gas station. It’s hot and we need refreshment, so we all get a soda and stand around waiting for the fuel tank to be filled. A cargo truck is behind us and men crawl all over, unloading various sized and shaped packages and wooden boxes. I watch the men wrestling with the goods. One guy has taken off his shirt and wrapped it around his neck. He and another man lower a wooden crate to the ground. A third man says something that upsets the shirtless guy. Then the agitator grabs the other man’s shirt from his neck and throws it in his face.

The shirtless guy goes after his antagonizer. This shirtless man is lean, with a muscular chest and a 6-pack. But he’s also enraged and punches the guy. They both part and begin bouncing and punching the air with their fists. There’s so much adrenaline, people naturally back away from its force field. Bare fists slightly connect with jaws and bounce off collar bones. Their violent dance stretches across the parking lot until Dr. Ngoda takes my arms and moves me out of the way. The shirtless guy gets an excellent punch into the other guy, who flies off the ground and twists, unable to catch himself before hitting the pavement. Another guy then attacks the shirtless guy, grabbing him from behind and holding him so the other man, who gets up from the ground, can beat him in the stomach. Finally, good sense prevails and a reasonable on-looker enters the dance, to hold off the agitators while another guy holds back the shirtless man. They’re all spitting words and blood, pure energy. Some people laugh nervously. Violence saddens me.

I think about the 35,000 suspects released in Rwanda this week. These 35,000 people are suspected of killing Hutus in the 1994 massacre where Tutsis killed approximately one million Hutus with machetes. This is the third wave of suspects being released because Rwanda’s prison system can no longer support them. The suspects are not off the hook. Even though they’re no longer in jail, they’ll still have to stand trial when their time comes. Last week, the BBC World News interviewed a few male suspects who were being released. They openly admitted to killing people, women and children. Some showed remorse, but not all. Such an act of hatred and violence is inconceivable. Looking at the beautiful mountains, which appear exceedingly peaceful, it’s hard to imagine a massacre in this place.

Rwanda is over-populated. In a country only 10,169 square miles, there are approximately nine million people who live packed in communities, but fan out to tend their plots of land on the mountain slopes. Every inch of the mountains are cultivated. But how do they manage to farm on such steepness and how do they irrigate? Everything is done by hand and by back-breaking hard work.

We leave Kigali and the still-pumped fighters behind, immediately rising up steep inclines. We soon see Kigali from above. We climb and climb until the road becomes a ribbon stretching across the tip of a mountaintop, so that looking right or left provides a view of a vast, deep valley leading to the next mountain string, and then the next. Trees have been stripped to form terraced fields. Crops grow on every hill, in every valley. It’s lovely.

In places, usually small communities, the people use the road as their walking path. No matter how much I hoot/honk the horn, they still swarm toward the center of the road from both sides. Very unnerving, especially because Bavon is pushing me to “push it.” The border closes at 6pm and if we don’t get through today, we’ll have to spend the night in Rwanda.

The lawful speed limit is 80 kph (about 60 mph) and our matatu has a cap that will not allow it to go faster than 80 kph. Bavon is saying, “Just go, just go!” as we sail past people in the roads. I’m trying to use the lower gears to keep our descending speed reasonable, so the brakes don’t melt. “I don’t like speeding through these mountains,” I tell Bavon. “This is an unsafe speed. I won’t speed when we come back through.”

“Just go,” Bavon says.

We’re coming out of the mountains and the road is straightening out so I can see a fair distance. But the people are a risk. Somehow, I’m able to keep it at 80 while honking people out of the way. Bavon is the only person who knows exactly how far we are from the border. I don’t know if we’ll make it. We start moving through a residential area with huge holes in the semi-paved road and when I try to slow down, to keep our passengers from bumping their heads to the ceiling, Bavon says, “Just go. Just go!” So we fly over bumps and around corners until, up ahead, we see the border gate of the Congo. It’s three minutes to 6pm. Everyone cheers.

I park the matatu and smell hot brakes, see smoke rising from the front wheels. We have no trouble getting our exit visas from Rwanda, but when we walk into the Congo immigration office, the agent gets short and snappy with Dr. Ngode, who’s a very sweet and kind gentleman. Bavon is from Goma, the Congo, so we pull him in to talk French with the agent. They begin to argue, their voices getting louder and louder. Some of us step outside to give them room. We made it to the border but now the agent doesn’t want to stamp us, because we arrived when the border was closing. Soon, however, the agent cools and he and Bavon become joking pals. That’s the way Congolese are, Bavon tells us.

At every border, I notice white people. Not many. Most look like tourists. They stare to see me driving a matatu.

Goma, the city, is just inside the Congo border. And we’re in Goma, driving toward the university, to check in and let them know we’ve arrived. Bavon went to this school before moving to Kisumu, so he’s an expert guide. We pass through downtown, a wide street lined with two-story building. But half of downtown was covered in lava from a volcano eruption in 2002. The lava flowed into town and filled in the first story of all the buildings. So we see the second stories as we pass through. The city hasn’t paved the streets since the eruption. Hardened lava makes for very nasty and bumpy roads, much worse than natural dirt roads. Lava rocks, black and porous, fill empty lots throughout town. Houses stand half covered. New houses and buildings are being constructed on top of the lava. The sun is lowering and it’s eerie to see the devastation from the eruption, and to know it’s been three years and very little clean-up or repair has been done.

Of course, the Congo was experiencing war from 1997 to 2003, different factions supported by other African nations, who were supported with funds and guns from other nations, like the U.S. On top of the war, the citizens had to recover from the eruption. Bavon’s house was destroyed by the volcano and he and his family lived in a refugee camp in Rwanda for one month. He pointed out the camp as we drove through Rwanda. It was a complex of large, green tents, now used for other purposes.

UN peacekeeping troops are numerous in Goma and we pass truck after truck full of soldiers with guns, heading to their nightly posts. Every other white jeep has a huge “UN” painted on the side. We drive to the house of the university’s Head of Academics. People are calling other people about our arrival. As we sit and visit in their living room, more and more people arrive. The PR guy, who wasn’t expecting us until tomorrow (so he’s having to arrange our accommodations) shows up. Professor Karafuli, head of the Community Health and Development college, and his wife, Head of the Theology college, come in. Kalindi, third in command at the university, arrives with energy and a huge smile, shaking hands all around. We fill the room as our crowd grows.

Our group is very tired after riding all day. They take us to a hotel for dinner, the Ishango, and I’m very pleased to learn they’ve booked Dr. Ngode and me into two rooms. Everyone else will go to a nearby guest house. But I must drive them to the guest house, I tell Kalindi. He says they’ll take our group in their vehicle and leave our van at Ishango. A doorman reaches for my bag and I follow him, in a dreamlike state, to the gorgeous room with a huge tub and king size bed. What an unexpected and greatly appreciated gesture!

Dinner is a buffet and we all sit at a round table talking about development. They’re giddily excited to be in a different country, confused to hear conversations in French. To me, it’s normal to hear foreign languages and to see scenery different, yet somehow similar, to Kenya or Tanzania. The food is the same. The people look the same and dress the same. They just say Bon soir and Bonjour (though many Congolese also speak Kiswahili). But to my friends, this is an exciting international experience.

Dr. Ngode and I see our colleagues and friends off to their guest house and then we retire to our rooms. I fill the tub with hot, hot water and wash my hair in the most relaxing way. What luxury. A Gideon’s bible in French, German and English sits on the table.

Bon soir, Guten nacht, Good night!

Entering Uganda from Kenya

Bavon and Lucas are in the background, exiting the litte shack with vehicle papers. Our new Friends, two young sisters, in the foreground, bidding us goodbye.

Pink Boda Bodas in Uganda (notice zebra crossing sign on left)

Men Drawing Water from Ugandan Well

Kenya Immigration at Uganda Border

Road Trip

“In the very center of Africa, where the widening crack of the Rift Valley splits the continent, rise two great and mysterious mountain ranges: the snow-crown, mist-shrouded Ruwenzori and the emerald-green Virunga Volcanoes. Together they form the continental divide of Africa’s watershed. The abundant rains falling on their slopes eventually flow either northward to the Nile or west to the mighty Zaire (Congo) River. The mountains form almost an exact ecological divide as well. Toward the rising sun lie the open plains of the East African savannas. To the west, the primeval rainforest stretches to the distant Atlantic.

“Among the last reaches of the continent to be explored, this remote region long remained the darkest heart of Africa. Tales of snow-topped Mountains of the Moon, of a race of dwarfs, and of savage ape-men persisted through the centuries. The stories were spawned by dim contacts gleaned by ancient emissaries of Egyptian pharaohs, then later kept alive by the reports of Arab slave caravans returning to their Indian Ocean strongholds. After centuries of ridicule and disbelief, the ancient tales were proved true when European explorers discovered a region as fascinating as its myths.” (Adventuring in East Africa, Allen Bechky, 1990.)

We pile into the matatu (van), 11 of us. Seven graduates, three staff members and our driver, Jack. Our students are all getting their master’s in Community Health and Development from the University of the Great Lakes in Goma, Congo. Because TICH has not been awarded university status by Kenya’s Comission for Higher Education, they’ve partnered with the university in Goma to offer our master’s program. (I’ve written it before and will write it once more; the reason TICH has not been awarded university status is because someone in the ministry of higher education is wanting a little something, something to grease their palm and TICH is against bribery of any kind. So the stupid government holds back an institute that is set primarily to train people in helping to develop the country, so their fellow countrymen and women can lead healthy, safe lives. Isn’t that the government’s job to begin with, to ensure access to a healthy and safe life for their citizenry? But they’re stopping TICH, an institute funded by private sources and dedicated Kenyans, from training nurses and doctors in development. Mindboggling).

Our graduates are in their 30s and 40s. Three students are also on the staff at TICH; Sister Margaret, Ogutu Owii and Maureen. Our students are all professionals working in development. Kelvin Mindi works for the Ministry of Health in Malawi.

We live TICH at 8:30am. Kenya rolls by as we approach Uganda. At the border, our passports are stamped exiting Kenya. We then cross over “no man’s land,” a hundred yards between country gates, to get stamped into Uganda. Julius says, “You know, you can kill someone here in no man’s land and there’s no law to prosecute you.”

Uganda has a new computer system and asks us to be patient because of delays. Clearing our vehicle takes longer than stamping all 11 of our passports. We sit in the open matatu, waiting. Two small girls come up, begging. We give the girls potatoes chips and strawberry hard candies. The older one, probably 7 years old, has the sweetest smile and a most gentle way of asking. Both girls have swollen bellies, which my fellow travels suspect is caused by worms. As we leave, the girls run beside the van smiling and waving, saying goodbye in English. I wish we could sneak them into our bags.

Through Uganda’s gate, we’re met by hundreds of boda bodas, each driver wearing a bright pink shirt. For several miles, the pink shirts dot the roads. Luckily, there’s a paved bike lane protecting boda bodas and their passengers from traffic. It seems the shops along the border sell goods for very low prices, compared to what we pay in Kisumu. We must hurry through today but determine we’ll stop and browse on returning. As we head West through Uganda, with Lake Victoria on our left, the scenery becomes more and more beautiful. Men stand by the side of the road with gorgeous lines of fish, holding them out for passersby to see. Throughout Uganda, they grow bananas, rice and sugar cane. Scarecrows dot the rice paddies. Neat little mud huts are surrounded by bare, cleanly swept dirt yards. The huts have markings along the bottom and top and around doors and windows. Bright flowering plants dress up the yards and lace panels of striking colors billow in most front doors. These homes may be mud with thatch roofs, but they’re very neat and well-tended.

The roads through this initial part of Uganda are bad. Washed out lanes, pot holes, eroded edges require us to spend most of the time with two wheels off the pavement. It’s especially tricky dodging transport trucks hauling sugar cane, petrol and tons of bananas.

A huge, green fruit displayed on most stands catches our attention. At first, we think they’re watermelons because they’re about the same size and shape. But closer inspection shows an irregular tubular shape and a dark green, fuzzy covering. Gertrude tells us they’re called Fenesi and she points to several trees which bear the fruit. What an awesome sight to see such huge fruits hanging from tree branches. We’re all getting a little hungry and Gertrude says there’s a place coming up that sells roasted chicken.

I read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Am absorbed in the story as Gertrude tells the driver to keep going, the chicken place is around this corner, etc. So Lady Chatterley is unhappy. Her husband, injured in the war, is paralyzed. He’s also a superficial aristocratic twit/twat, as are his friends, and Lady Chatterley’s only joy these days comes from the chicks being kept by the gamekeeper on their property. As Uganda’s countryside flies by, I read. Lady Chatterley is visiting the chicks and wants to hold one, but the mother hen pecks her hand each time. Finally, the gamekeeper walks up, withdraws a fuzzy little chick and places it in her hands. She’s overcome with emotions-- sadness, joy, deep loneliness-- and begins to weep. The gamekeeper, because he’s a sensitive kind of manly guy, takes her into the little wooden hut so she can pull herself together. He pulls her together. Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper are having a really intimate encounter when Gertrude calls out, “Here! Here is it. They have chicken.” We pull over and I continue reading because now the gamekeeper has spread a blanket on the floor of the cabin so his Lady can relax into her emotional breakdown.

Suddenly, we’re surrounded by men. My window opens and four chicken leg quarters skewered on sticks are in my face. Here comes a basket of roasted bananas. And more sticks containing unidentified meat chunks. No other windows open, though men have their chicken sticks and faces pressed all around the van. They’re four deep, these men, each trying to force out his competitors. Our group decides to climb out and buy the chicken from the cooking pits beneath the pavilion (who wants to eat chicken pressed against dirty matatu windows and god knows what else?). I’m anxious to get back to that little cabin on the back of the Baron’s estate, where the gamekeeper has now lit a fire. But the chicken is still in my face so I can’t see the book. I push the guy’s hand out of the window and then push the basket of bananas while shutting the window. But the basket gets caught in the window and I must shove again. They try to open the window and I glare at them. Don’t they know they’re ruining a very intimate moment?

Even though the group has gone to the pavilion, and even though I’ve told them to bring me back anything, the men stay in the windows, watching me read. Finally, everyone returns, their hands full of meaty sticks and plastic bags of roasted green bananas. We ride on and I return to D. H. Lawrence’s very risqué novel, enjoying the wordlessness between the gamekeeper and his Lady while nibbling on chicken and bananas.

We enter Jinja, where the Nile River exits Lake Victoria heading north. An impressive hydroelectric plant sits next to the river, fenced in. Police are posted before and after the river. Jack flies through, though he had said he’s stop for photos. Oh well, on the way back. (On the way back, we are warned not to take photos, they’re forbidden. I snap one pic and get mostly trees, not much water, and guard rail. Maureen is paranoid and shouts for me to put the camera away. The police pull us over and I hide the camera between my legs under my skirt. They let us go and Bavon giggles when I retrieve the camera. (What exactly do they think people will do with photos of the Nile?)

We pass through Kampala, the capital of Uganda, a very modern city with wide, clean sidewalks and buildings one might find in New York. There are Italian restaurants with neon signs. It’s so Western I’m thrown somewhat. And clean. And big. Jack stops several times for directions through town, leading to the Rwanda border. We leave Kampala behind and drive through more rural countryside where women line up in their fields, hoeing in a row. Mountains become larger and more frequent, their creases crowded with banana groves and tiny huts built on cliffs. We make it Mbarara, close to the Rwandan border, at 10pm. We check into Canaan Hotel and order a late dinner in the tiny dining room. It looks like a broken-down diner from the 50s. The front door leads onto a patio which sits next to a crumbling road. A Coca-Cola cooler stands nearby, chained and padlocked as usual. As we wait for the food, the World Wrestling Federation is blasting on a TV encased in an iron cage. Everyone is steady watching the big, muscular men act silly. I’m embarrassed to be an American.

It’s nearly midnight before we go to our rooms. We’re to meet for breakfast at 6:30.