tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32291122737217180952024-02-19T17:09:44.832+02:00Stories from the sub-SaharanUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-920912746017317922007-06-02T06:58:00.000+02:002007-06-02T07:02:35.427+02:00Websites of interestThe following two links show videos using a program called gapminder. Both deal with issues of public health - the second specifically about slum life in east Africa.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUwS1uAdUcI" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)"> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v<wbr>=RUwS1uAdUcI</a><br /><a href="http://www.gapminder.org/downloads/presentations/a-slum-insight-2006.html"><br />http://www.gapminder.org/downloads/presentations/a-slum-insight-2006.html</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-59011107406702753752007-05-27T03:42:00.001+02:002007-05-28T19:39:33.679+02:00Misc, The End<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 26 May, 2007 – 16:46 – Coralville, Iowa</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00BOeESTYRE65agQODuo8PBapx_xqzKHUAsy_SSJk1M5Kmvp4iDJ7J6SE-8JGWHrtDXP5UAGTzi5z36TNFMLEjvxB00Jr8mWfreFZTg3HDUsWKlJu-mduQ205WBInmt00YkO9Ar_x63U/s1600-h/DSC03263.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00BOeESTYRE65agQODuo8PBapx_xqzKHUAsy_SSJk1M5Kmvp4iDJ7J6SE-8JGWHrtDXP5UAGTzi5z36TNFMLEjvxB00Jr8mWfreFZTg3HDUsWKlJu-mduQ205WBInmt00YkO9Ar_x63U/s200/DSC03263.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069394902959551570" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I’m home, as the heading probably tipped you off. In fact, I returned to the US two weeks ago to prepare for summer school should I not be accepted (last check put me 6th on the alternate list for medical school at Iowa) (fyi, canceled the internship in the bush as well). Being home early also let me surprise my Pops for his 80th birthday, thanks to a couple of friends who generously escorted me across the US during a week-long road trip. A bit strange to go from public transportation in Dar es Salaam, where one can be inside a van, look down and see the road between their feet, to cruising south down smooth roads through the US in a 2007 red Mustang convertible. And strange also to walk through stores and see all the products, down medicine aisles and see all the creams for any medical ailment imaginable, but each day gets progressively less shocking.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The birthday surprise actually was not all that great partly because I forgot how much my dad hated surprises – and additionally because my family panicked with last minute rearrangements. And then I had an accent that through folks for a loop. They were a bit cautious at first – gauging who I was, why I spoke as I did, and trying to guess a statement this speech was supposed to make, but have since become more open to simply welcoming and accepting me. It is wearing off though, the accent, and hopefully within a few weeks will no longer be a source of confusion for me or them, or random employees in check out lines at grocery stores.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">In the mean time, I’m still plugging away trying to make sense of all I have experienced. In particular of late, I think a lot about the bus trip from Dar to Arusha and back. Each way was 9 hours, and at each town through which the bus passed, slews of people of all ages crowded along the sides hoping to sell food stuffs and small items for next to nothing prices. Women arduously carried big buckets of tomatoes, and from an elevated position within the bus, anyone could look below and have their pick. Taller men simply locked their elbows and held heavy barrels above their heads. Kids bore wooden sticks with nails protruding from the top on which they pierced cobs of cooked maize. They steadily held their sticks at window level while competing for proximity on the ground with the older, stronger sellers. One little boy raised three pieces of burnt corn, and that was his living – that dusty old town, lifting what Americans use as cow feed to passerby’s day in, day out. I bought a piece of corn from him for 8 cents, the asking price, and picked the kernels off one by one. I ate it in silence, looking out the window, taking what I saw and holding it against where I’d soon be. My fingers were sore when the corn ran out. I looked down and found blisters where I had been plucking kernels. That was the one of the most subtle but obvious signs of my wealth and therefore privilege and fortune – the food that kid eats every day gave me blisters.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">There are other people I think about too, like the boys outside my house who played soccer in the street. Most played barefoot, but some shared a pair of shoes so that one had a left shoe on his left foot and another had the right on his right. How could it be I have accumulated so many shoes back home that I have my own storage box in the basement for the ones I don’t use that often?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As is usually the case when traveling, I brought my fair share of junk that I never used; before returning home I gave a lot of my stuff away. When I tossed chap stick to my friend, she studied it carefully then asked what it was. “Oh,” I said, “it’s, uh, chap stick. You know, we put it on our lips to make them soft when they feel dry. Want it?”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">She wrinkled her brow and furled up her nose. Slightly puzzled and still unsure of what this thing was, "sure," came her reply. Her voice, however, belied the honest answer, which was, “no, not really, but because it’s a gift, thanks”. I felt silly with this special wax tube, and never realized how luxurious chap stick was until I tried to explain its use to a Tanzanian.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">This journey continually forces me to confront difficult questions about life, humanity, purpose, myself, what is right and wrong, and where the criteria for this dichotomy is derived. It challenges me to grapple not just the difference between good and evil, but also the differences between good and right, good and helpful, and good and productive. What is the value of sincere generosity if it is naïve, not having assessed or fully understood the context in which it is being received? Can a doctor who devotes his life to underserved, underprivileged, people groups, rightfully eliciting respect and admiration for his or her noble character, contribute good to the world through his or her intentions and yet leave having not actually helped the people he or she served? Can you alleviate pain in a manner that allows you to feel good about your contribution and yet in a way that fails to bring your patients and their subsequent generations any closer to a sustainable escape from the trap of poverty? These are all open questions, but ones whose answers bear heavily on the future I pursue.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Post-note insert: Here's a clip from a recent email that balances the last paragraph, which I appreciated, and which is a good reminder to anyone regardless of where their passions lay -</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">If your return to Africa is dependent upon convincing yourself that it will be worth it, you may never go back. Millions, and I mean millions, of people have tried to fix Africa in one way or another. In some respect, you are fighting a forest fire with a garden hose. But that doesn't mean that you can't try, or that you shouldn't try.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">It's the trying that has to be worth it. It's the journey, not the destination. Because if it was the destination then we would all be terribly depressed at the fact that we will end up 6 ft under (baring the afterlife, of course). But we don't just hole up and wait to die, because the journey is worth it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Your contribution to this world is done. It's a forgone conclusion. It doesn't depend on what you do from here on out, but rather who you are from here on out (which doesn't seem to significantly change). This trip, as I see it, is a symptom of your condition. Your wonderful human condition that will spark progress regardless to what you devote your life. The difference between going to Africa and making an impact and going to Topeka, Kansas and making a difference is a mere formality. You will make unfathomable impacts that cannot be weighed or compared lest you spoil God's curriculum.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">When your brain, your heart, and your passion all point in the same direction, you've hit the trifecta. Be sure to run with it."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">On a lighter note, I will miss 10-cent avocados, 8-cent tortillas, and 4-cent savory bread rolls.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As for the final take on missions work - gosh, I believe there is freedom in the church, but I've seen it so twisted that I don't know whether or not I could be a bonafide career missionary. At the moment I'd like to return and work as a doctor, hold my own Christian faith (not sent by a mission agency) and let the interactions I have with others and the respect/love I give them be the catalyst for personal change. Maybe in treating people with dignity, those interactions 2000 years down the road will manifest themselves into positive change and a different world. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Before leaving, I picked up The Shackled Continent by Robert Guest, a journalist for the magazine The Economist. In his book he tries to answer why Africa is so screwed up, addressing its past, present and future. It’s brilliant writing and I highly recommend it to anyone wanting to understand African politics. But I bring it up because he closes with these paragraphs that resonated with me:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">“I will always be an outsider in Africa. I have never been poor or oppressed, and I grew up in a country where African-style poverty has been unknown for generations. When I wander around Africa, I do so wrapped in the armour that money provides. Where there is violence, I can afford to stay in a hotel with security guards. Where there is sickness, I can buy medicine. Where there is hunger, I can always find something to eat.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">“Africa constantly reminds me how lucky I am to have grown up in a rich, peaceful country. If I’d been born in Africa, there’s a good chance that I’d be dead by now, and almost no chance that I’d be racking up so many frequent-flyer miles. I’m a foreigner, so this is an outsider’s perspective, for what it is worth.” – Robert Guest, The Shackled Continent</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b8AlMe1PqG_4YKdLXpMwrW8KOcFM25mezlZ1mzSQlOWc8brPxAuyym0FK5lmX7Qf0-XqyYvAQLL-tOOl8dGyxbozFYFlOPua9xOlxWp0DxlpDsLs7PLVhalwNGWlJ9n4PstU6QO_Blk/s1600-h/DSC03222.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b8AlMe1PqG_4YKdLXpMwrW8KOcFM25mezlZ1mzSQlOWc8brPxAuyym0FK5lmX7Qf0-XqyYvAQLL-tOOl8dGyxbozFYFlOPua9xOlxWp0DxlpDsLs7PLVhalwNGWlJ9n4PstU6QO_Blk/s200/DSC03222.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069394808470271042" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">And so that’s it, the end of the blog. Thanks for reading. And thank you to the ones who have supported me financially and emotionally, and for those of you who prayed throughout these months. I have learned a lot and hope that through this weblog you have also picked up more about these parts of the world and the thoughts, challenges and lessons they hold.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Thank you and sincerely,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Benjamin Huntley, Sojourner, Friend</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-23635391343036512462007-05-27T03:40:00.000+02:002007-05-27T22:42:59.084+02:00Closing In On The End<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 5 May, 2007 – 08:03 – Dar es Salaam, Tanzania</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The laptop beneath my fingers seems to have slowly taken on a strange feel, having not written much since coming to Tanzania. There are many stories, but at the end they all come down to the same fundamental links: the depth of poverty, the vast and widening expanse between haves and have-nots and the signs of grotesque inhumanity. From the standpoint of shock value, these are awfully fascinating to discover at first. Then they become fascinatingly awful as understanding sets in. Newness wears out and intrigue decays until one looks at reality and sees it as just plain awful. When you get to that point, you don’t feel like writing.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I caught a lift into town a few weeks ago from a lovely older woman who turned out to be Tanzania’s only female oncologist. In a short period of time we covered a lot of ground and suddenly the day’s shakedown switched around so as to first accommodate a walk through the hospital before continuing on with my already made plans.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Her office is a crumbling cubicle, and on the wall hangs what looks like an engine block – a light box to read X-rays. Coming from fancy American clinics, however, one would never believe its functionality until seeing the ancient beast in action. Dispersed throughout the long hallway outside her office lay approximately 70 patients, all hers, all to be seen that day. This is the African waiting room. No chairs, no Dixie cups or water jugs, no secretary to complain to. There are no queues, meaning no apparent order, and yet there is no disorder. Patients just wait. Some stand, leaning against pillars. Others spread their grass-woven mats out along the floor, wrap themselves up in an assortment of colorful blankets, and sleep for hours. And still others sit in the middle of the walkway, all with straight backs and right angles at their waists, sort of as if they were leaning against a wall – except that they are not, and not at all as if they were leaning against a wall as you might imagine. When Westerners lean against walls, our backs still curve; we don’t actually put our butts snug to the corner but rather sit a few inches away and lean back to rest on our shoulders. Africans are all about the right angle, and because they’re comfortable without a wall to lean against, the distribution of bodies in the “waiting room” is pretty homogenous. So when you picture this hallway, don’t just put bodies on the sides, imagining there is a straight, narrow width that runs down the middle of the hallway where you could walk – because it’s not there. But also when you imagine what this place must be like, don’t add noise – don’t add complaining and don’t even add crying babies, because although they are dying, these people wait patiently. Time is elastic in Africa and few keep it, because few have reason to keep it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">That was the outpatient wing. The inpatient section was much like the other hospital I described a few months ago in Rwanda – more patients than beds, some sleeping on the floor. My friend introduced me to a woman from the Comoros Islands. How she got to the mainland nobody knows because she is too poor to cross the ocean by herself. The doctor found her dying in the streets, already a bilateral mastectomy patient – although maybe patient is not the right word, because that implies some sort of continuity of care. When she undraped her bed sheet I nearly gasped. Of course I could not be emotional in front of her, because that would be unprofessional, and she needed every ounce of hope that could possibly be fused in her mutilated body. Her breasts were previously removed, Lord knows where, but it looked like this was done in more of a butcher shop and less of a clinic. Most sadly, not all the cancer had been removed. When she returned to the street the disease spread – everywhere, and that’s when the doctor who gave me a lift found her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Moving on. It started to rain heavily, and the lesser-sick patients ran outdoors with large 30-gallon plastic jugs to collect drinking water from the roofs. If you have not already done so, pause for a moment and picture what that looks like.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As we left, the oncologist softly spoke some understanding words, “I think you have seen a lot today. You will have a lot to write about”. I nodded, still trying to process it all. Yeah it is a lot to write about, but it is poison that I’ve already choked down. And there are lots of these poisons everyday – kids without shoes, piles of burning trash in ditches, flood waters from the African rains that wreak havoc everywhere. So the next question is what can I do about these bludgeoning realities? I don’t have any answers yet, other than to say I’m hungrier now than ever before to get back to the classroom and continue my education. Einstein claimed he was not inherently different from anyone else and that he had no intellectual super powers that were not also available to the rest of the world. What set him apart, he said, was that he never quit. He never stopped thinking about how to get answers – and could even sit in a chair for two or three days, staring at a problem until he made headway. Perhaps the next few years of education, through the lens of these experiences, will be that chair for me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">One of the most shocking truths I’ve discovered in my return trip to Africa is the universality of ignorance. Recall that last year I spent some months in rural Kenya where the warriors my age wore feathers in their hair, and a noticeable percentage of the patients were nomads who had walked upwards of 80km through the desert for health care. It was the fantasy - everything we romanticize about Africa. But it left me with an unbalanced understanding of the region. In the bush, by necessity of survival, people knew each other and wealth was fairly evenly shared. Maybe the chief owned four times as many cows as the average man, which seems like a big deal when you live within the parameters of that life – but step back to look at it from the standpoint of urban wealth and that is merely splitting hairs.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">In urban regions there is a disgusting discrepancy between rich and poor. People neither understand each other nor care to understand each other. Previously I believed that only the West cared so little about the present state of pain and suffering of other humans in the world – but it is every bit as present in Africa as well. Many here have no idea what life is like for the majority, nor do they care to ever let their children step foot down the muddy places people in the Swahili parts calls streets. They live in fancy houses behind big fences and pay much less than they can afford to a handful who tend their gardens and guard their houses. And these are Africans I’m talking about, not just expatriates. How could there be Africans who didn’t know Africa? Growing up, I remember whenever food was left on a plate inevitably someone would say, “There are people starving in Africa and you aren’t going to finish your food!?”. The snotty response every vegetable-wary child rattled back was an order to box their leftovers up and ship them over. This extravagant life is indeed hard to swallow, but what pains me about humanity even more is that people are not starving because of any shortage of food – they are starving because all the food is at their neighbor’s, who unfortunately don’t give a damn.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But just because I’ve made this analysis does not mean I am immune from the same ignorance. Over my weeks in Tanzania I have become good friends with a white Zimbabwean who wants to know how I can be so curious about Africans and know so little about Native Americans. I don’t have any good answers to give him and must settle for realizing my own ignorance.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">There are loads of beautiful things here: shimmering sunsets, sparkling children, and wonderful landscapes – and I could write pages of analogies, using brilliant adjectives to paint fantastic pictures for your minds to visit, but I don’t see the point in getting all romantic about them. Here are some things I have enjoyed, however.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">To greet someone who is of an older age set, one says shikamoo, meaning “accept my blessing”. The response is marhaba: “blessing accepted”. When children use Shikamoo, adults stoop down so the young ones, who have already eagerly raised their hands, can touch their elder’s forehead, a physical gesture of blessings being passed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The word for bird, ndege, is the same word for airplane. Imagine how that came to be.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">And speaking of language, rangi means color. Example: rangi nyekundu is red, or literally the ‘color red’. Now hang with me for a little bit. The suffix adjective –zee means old, and putting an m in front implies it belongs to a person, so mzee is an elder. Alright, one more step before putting it all together – damu is the word for blood. I already told you how to say ‘red’, but now comes ‘maroon’ – rangi ya damu ya mzee – or literally, the color of an old man’s blood. That’s pretty sweet.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As bumpy and painfully uncomfortable as un-graded dirt roads outside the city are, there is something nice about imperfection – something that causes you to appreciate other things in life that might otherwise be taken for granted, and something which I will miss when I am home.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Each night I fall asleep to the sound of waves from the Indian Ocean that lap against the shore – nothing quite like that in Iowa.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Although they can be incredibly uncompassionate toward each other, people here cannot be faulted for any lack of hospitality. Having a guest is more than an honor, and there is no concept of over-staying one’s welcome. It is, however, possible to under-stay your time, which becomes obvious if you try to leave after only staying in someone’s house for a week.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">See you in a few weeks-</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">BJFH</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Ps. Something of potential interest. Whereas pregnant women in the West tend to crave chocolate, pregnant women in Tanzania crave Udungo – which is dirt, caked together and rolled into a rod-like shape. It is fine, not too course, and tastes like a dusty road.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-55562923940177216302007-05-27T03:39:00.002+02:002007-05-28T01:40:13.902+02:00Moshi/Arusha<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Wednesday 25 April, 2007 - 16:22 – Kilimanjaro</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Last Saturday in Dar es Salaam a thief rendered me deflated, stealing my phone and a good chunk of money. T</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbjj8q_JhfMevLAZ6_O5JytV41bP8nRz7Ai6oHL_PWDbODeo7GAyos7Yv2Q-x4duY-GXuGXkoGIhBE2BkyrGkhO4o_us_9WoNAbcfeiR3Nru1b9dH6NETyz_H0Yr_9_ut3WsgpP1DQJM/s1600-h/DSC03154.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbjj8q_JhfMevLAZ6_O5JytV41bP8nRz7Ai6oHL_PWDbODeo7GAyos7Yv2Q-x4duY-GXuGXkoGIhBE2BkyrGkhO4o_us_9WoNAbcfeiR3Nru1b9dH6NETyz_H0Yr_9_ut3WsgpP1DQJM/s200/DSC03154.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069385939362804754" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">he lady I live with urged me to continue on with my travel plans or, as she so a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">damantly believed, the thief would win – walking away with more than just what was in my pocket. For me it’s not about winning or losing, but taking an adventure with the momentum of eagerness, curiosity and ambition riding behind me. Although these were snuffed out prematurely when I lost my naïve trust in humanity, after some pouting I took my fear to the bus station and set off to Moshi, 7.5 hours north, with neither plans nor even so much as a place to stay.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">About halfway up I squirmed a little when I realized what I was doing was crazy, then sent a barrage of text messages to the only four numbers in the directory of my replacement phone. To my great fortune, a woman who gave me a lift a few days earlier had family in the area, and wrote back saying her father would pick me from the station, adopt me as a temporary son and take me home.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As Africa goes, we arrived late. The lot was full of hustlers and hawkers, packed with pushing p</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmE183mVPwfr_pyNT8oVr1UVJlgI43MPw0yZ6tQ3mfmNuXZ3pX0Whyisvx80MlY7bkxDuPE4nFCB8yiBfRdCO_Y6MvrWLTupc6xHaKUcuX5R8tfUZQ9fz9oj0CUeE8JxSG7TKbYBmVpEk/s1600-h/DSC03060.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmE183mVPwfr_pyNT8oVr1UVJlgI43MPw0yZ6tQ3mfmNuXZ3pX0Whyisvx80MlY7bkxDuPE4nFCB8yiBfRdCO_Y6MvrWLTupc6xHaKUcuX5R8tfUZQ9fz9oj0CUeE8JxSG7TKbYBmVpEk/s200/DSC03060.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069384573563204498" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">eople a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">nd helplessly over</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">whelmed police - all causing</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> a great bout of anxiety to well up within me. I called the father-figure as the bus parked, who eased my worries with a few syllables: Ninakuona – I see you! There were a trillion people on the other side of the window, but with a click glance I spotted him as well - the same way we pick out the main character as a movie opens; </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">something quirky about the way he or she is dressed tips us off. Although to me the man I’d soon call Baba was a stranger, he could not have been anyone else in the crowd - a stout, pot-bellied old fellow, cloaked in a sky-blue blazer who carried an umbrella that functioned as a cane. Mustered beneath his hand-me-down feathered hat were some scraggly white hairs of a rather mellow beard. We became instant friends, quickly whisking a</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhRNT3MHTB1R42XlKko3in4NAWudb_d-ynI5QsE5QPy-oxIFRDWjpzgcvaKSq5M4jxOYZY8Zo9CsodqcL5HvMEa3Dnao5UnuBR3GS2hopbg0JLgv0dFDC-BxvdM4F-jmUDTgMjt4eh8w/s1600-h/DSC03105.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhRNT3MHTB1R42XlKko3in4NAWudb_d-ynI5QsE5QPy-oxIFRDWjpzgcvaKSq5M4jxOYZY8Zo9CsodqcL5HvMEa3Dnao5UnuBR3GS2hopbg0JLgv0dFDC-BxvdM4F-jmUDTgMjt4eh8w/s200/DSC03105.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069385273642873842" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">way to his home.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">about wet my pants when a tiny window in the smothering clouds opened to reveal a corner of Kilimanjaro. Baba was clearly honored to have hosted my first glimpse but embarrassed that, in his eyes, I received a measly introduction to his mountain. He insisted we somewhere to get a better view – from his father’s house. Never would I ever have imagined we’d actually live on the mountain for the next few days.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYTR8X26uLeP9IOwk0OlN0dbAHZj2lJqHCaKAAhWmczcHfNeLrvwifkcldgpeZcDGfOGbcmLeDR_b-NeWfZFUsPwvNJf9p5uNLel1FPB8pKYWgG-LHvToDtbEfYZcHI30GdHAvqd9zUo/s1600-h/DSC03076.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAYTR8X26uLeP9IOwk0OlN0dbAHZj2lJqHCaKAAhWmczcHfNeLrvwifkcldgpeZcDGfOGbcmLeDR_b-NeWfZFUsPwvNJf9p5uNLel1FPB8pKYWgG-LHvToDtbEfYZcHI30GdHAvqd9zUo/s200/DSC03076.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069384788311569330" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It was a quick ride in a daladala (or matatu, as it’s called elsewhere – again, these are the overcrowded public transport vans of Tanzania) to the base of the mountain. The next leg was equally crammed, but taken standing up in the back of a pick up truck, encircled with metal bars to keep everyone in – and it went up the mountain, bouncing b</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ack and forth between rivets until the path ended. The rest we crossed on foot, hiking alongside and over crisscrossing open irrigation streams that cut through the rainforest, eventually making their way to maize fields below. I never wondered where water came from before. At home it comes out the faucet – piped from somewhere, but I never think of the pipes. But there it was, flowing through thin, age-old trenches that have been passed down from generation to generation for longer than anyone can remember. When streams need to cross paths, one is dug down a bit while the other passes via a hollowed-out tree-trunk-bridge. This way no farmer steals from another’s rightful supply.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhha9n2ho8dXsxLpY_EuiuFVlFW8YkRolJ8TPpNoQmUHy5BcHvMA6MegFdKbamvz-zbjnjlNIt8_6E3r7KwnrGT8x0LvdXtbvd7pcyEmtpwJ8l7PzPeEpA3V93pgg7B4hlU8VS0MwHqGw0/s1600-h/DSC03070.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhha9n2ho8dXsxLpY_EuiuFVlFW8YkRolJ8TPpNoQmUHy5BcHvMA6MegFdKbamvz-zbjnjlNIt8_6E3r7KwnrGT8x0LvdXtbvd7pcyEmtpwJ8l7PzPeEpA3V93pgg7B4hlU8VS0MwHqGw0/s200/DSC03070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069384685232354210" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">We took some locally brewed banana beer, caught our breath, then continued on our way. One more stop to give condolences to a family grieving the death of a grandma before finally reaching home. Babu (his father, my grandfather) is an equally pleasant man, although has been set back with a mysteriously and incredibly swollen leg. He is happy to be in the village, though – because everything he needs is there.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Life in the rainforest was a splendid discovery.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW25OKgzh993vvPLTk-f06niKMSZXT_ALewPz6Uh5IUNxy_warSH5UEpg-NmKU1pSf4zykydOHiU6-6xxgWD18sqs7DJbGYl2TlaQrwCFMH8Py6TtjwWQtuplL6AnLsMKAScPs7rXSJgA/s1600-h/DSC03090.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW25OKgzh993vvPLTk-f06niKMSZXT_ALewPz6Uh5IUNxy_warSH5UEpg-NmKU1pSf4zykydOHiU6-6xxgWD18sqs7DJbGYl2TlaQrwCFMH8Py6TtjwWQtuplL6AnLsMKAScPs7rXSJgA/s200/DSC03090.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069385174858626018" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> The mountain was exactly how I have always pictured the gar</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">den of Eden to look – food is just, well, there. And in abundance. Who ever knew that bananas grew like packets of food on trees? Certainly not I, who always thought they came from the grocery store. There are many varieties too – bananas for eating and those for beer – and within the eating subgroup are sweet bananas, like we eat, and starchy bananas, like potatoes. The forest is also donned in a plethora of trees, bushes and shrubs that produce avocados, cherries, mangoes, raspberries, tea leaves and coffee beans. To top off their food choices, locals also raise chickens, cows and pigs.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But back to the fruit: please allow me to be your mental tour-guide through perhaps my most inte</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPR0Ilb6-IZfBQp0HN5sCo9dZOE4AlosaUyKrP_i4njKUc8lGurTAEeEPhNHHtdmDM5RhZtRFpQSKD-MQ4mwtmIQX9lE3gb_iA3FUyoUfCqNMTS7BVczl5oFzZ7jU1Yjd_XsVnPwf20A/s1600-h/DSC03144.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPR0Ilb6-IZfBQp0HN5sCo9dZOE4AlosaUyKrP_i4njKUc8lGurTAEeEPhNHHtdmDM5RhZtRFpQSKD-MQ4mwtmIQX9lE3gb_iA3FUyoUfCqNMTS7BVczl5oFzZ7jU1Yjd_XsVnPwf20A/s200/DSC03144.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069385716024505346" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">resting food discovery. It is called Finesi in Swahili, but more popularly referred to as the most bizarre fruit known to man. Picture yourself, arm out, holding a pear in your hand. Pick a color somewhere between green and yellow and feel the pear’s weight as it rests in your palm. Here comes the fun part. Hold the pear’s shape, but now imagine it to be the size of one’s abdomen. Replace its smooth skin with something more prickly, like the dodecagon you constructed out of a zillion pieces of paper folded into triangles half way through Junior High math. It’s green, heavy, pokey enough to leave indents in your skin but not so much that it hurts. Now cut it in half lengthwise. Peel the halves apart to find what looks like a pineapple-esque interior. But what look like the grains of a piece of pineapple are actually pods of fleshy fruit packed together, each impregnated with its own seed. Remove one of these meaty casings, the fruit, </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-mVoFuu0pHSGReSMK9qsgdxPhAM6Ow0nNuEU1_nwdcQXARIyaMZk8ydiDPAar85pJwwe8tdk6hl6y5RTn7sOZ3DMzrSUuU15xUJabIv_al5jCWhoXDHMl0dVA2xippL02OPogr4TKnc/s1600-h/DSC03177.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-mVoFuu0pHSGReSMK9qsgdxPhAM6Ow0nNuEU1_nwdcQXARIyaMZk8ydiDPAar85pJwwe8tdk6hl6y5RTn7sOZ3DMzrSUuU15xUJabIv_al5jCWhoXDHMl0dVA2xippL02OPogr4TKnc/s200/DSC03177.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069386119751431202" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">and notice that now held up it looks like Rigatoni pasta, except that inside is a sort of amnioti</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">c sack that nourishes the growing nut. You can even spin the nut round and round by gently squeezing your fingertips on the outside. The nut is edible, and anything</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> that might be left over is fed to the animals so as waste nothing. The limp, macaroni fruit smells awful, but is darn sweet and great finger food. Grossed out? Intrigued? It is called Jackfruit in English – feel free to pause for a moment to run a google search if you need to see it to believe it; I won’t go anywhere.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVo5O4PB5SLycOmTVZ-KSu3qWz7Av3jV07-ERGwGkwnmHUbFdkXcD009VEyMpTb2wwGCztycXS2S60V7ML5N0_ka2aJg7Et4DmB0zD9Y_9veN5b2rDI9P-4y6V07Rrlv39xULhlSl4NjM/s1600-h/DSC03080.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVo5O4PB5SLycOmTVZ-KSu3qWz7Av3jV07-ERGwGkwnmHUbFdkXcD009VEyMpTb2wwGCztycXS2S60V7ML5N0_ka2aJg7Et4DmB0zD9Y_9veN5b2rDI9P-4y6V07Rrlv39xULhlSl4NjM/s200/DSC03080.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069385020239803346" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Th</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e fo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">llowing morning</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> a local fellow and I went for a 45-minute hike through a valley and back up the m</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ountain on the other side. We crisscr</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ossed the same stream half a dozen times but at different altitudes, cut through hand-me-down plots and their respective grass huts, and finally ended up at the butcher’s shop where he bought a couple kilos of beef, hacked off from a dangling carcass. We did stop twice for his asthmatic relief – which turned out to be a small glass of locally brewed whisky at each break. I took a sip, not knowing it wasn’t water… about died. He drank whole glass. Ironically enough in spite of the alcohol, I tripped and stumbled, up and do</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">wn the mountain, a whole lot more frequently than he did… but then again, he was born on the mou</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ntain, and I come from a place</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9GDxc_pNS778x9wpgocGcOtZK4uqToC9jauC0D1qElbsfqLDJFO4Dqty15uoSxEwl5KxFHy1PW_1RJVhbo7fmBOXMzCg5FMwxZ0DzAo9Wnx3mT3sLzNwLm3gDrdRZs-UtJvYWrlC0Gc/s1600-h/DSC03079.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9GDxc_pNS778x9wpgocGcOtZK4uqToC9jauC0D1qElbsfqLDJFO4Dqty15uoSxEwl5KxFHy1PW_1RJVhbo7fmBOXMzCg5FMwxZ0DzAo9Wnx3mT3sLzNwLm3gDrdRZs-UtJvYWrlC0Gc/s200/DSC03079.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069384904275686338" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> where people now get to and fro on Segways so they don’t have to walk.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">After a few days left the village, walked down the mountain and into town. There I caught a bus from Moshi to Arusha, and stayed the week with Baba’s son. He and his wife were a lovely couple, in their late 20’s or early 30’s, and shared a small living space, made significantly sma</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ller when it acco</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">mmodated a third person. But it was a real home – a place with character, somewhere one walks in and feels warm – and they love having guests. In fact, for them it is an honor. Although for all intents and purposes, I came a stranger, from the first day they loved me as nothing less than family – and when I left they nearly cried. They begged m</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqhOICm3KAiIJY-Pc9qbHo1nv7JBnawePhFnMad1uyitGI4wq8SRC81rFD8gHJ3djh61CpuIiD6-guKGeP7Er3AbZ5duVwSoVUu6BH1lm8p78c_KBtdFYo4qzCiv0k6lfdvtJ82KTRxs/s1600-h/DSC03188.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqhOICm3KAiIJY-Pc9qbHo1nv7JBnawePhFnMad1uyitGI4wq8SRC81rFD8gHJ3djh61CpuIiD6-guKGeP7Er3AbZ5duVwSoVUu6BH1lm8p78c_KBtdFYo4qzCiv0k6lfdvtJ82KTRxs/s200/DSC03188.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069388920070108210" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e to stay, and put on the guilt trip for returning early (it had only been five d</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ays). We w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ere friends, cooking together, sharing everything, laughing with one another and even traveling to see some animals a close to their home. Late into the evening of the night before I departed, well after the lights were out, she came into my room, checked that I was still awake, and presented me fabric – a gi</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ft they wished to send my sister when I return home. And this I found to be characteristic of most everywhere I went within the country. Tanzanians, at least those with whom I interacted, are in incredibly hospitable and welcoming </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">people.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-26011218821671046112007-05-27T03:39:00.001+02:002007-05-27T22:43:52.351+02:00Dar es Salaam 2<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 21 April, 2007 - 22:31 - Dar es Salaam</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Today was an all around pretty rotten day, mostly because bad things happened to me and I failed to choose a positive reaction. It started off well – a phone call from home and an hour-long conversation with my mom. We did not talk about anything serious, but it was nice to hear her voice and be cared about from so far away. She convinced me to carve out time to see animals and check out Kilimanjaro before returning home. I do not normally choose to spend money on myself for luxuries, but it seemed like a nice idea - a treat to myself after all these months - so I went into town to withdraw money from the ATM.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">There is a machine just opposite of the main bus stage that I have always sworn I’d never use. The glass doors and the ATM’s proximity to such a busy area practically invite pick-pocketing. But today was hot, I was tired, and it was only going to be once. Like lions picking out a meal, they must have been sitting back, watching people, looking for targets – otherwise they would never have picked me with my dirt-stained shirt and holed shoes, carrying a grass-woven basket and some wooden spoons from the market; I did not look like the wazungu with money who take taxis and wear ties. But they watched everything I did – analyzed my moves, calculated their chances, and determined I was it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The money was in my front pocket, zipped closed, along with my other valuables – phone, camera, et cetera. Just like every other day, a zillion people were trying to get in and out of the matatu simultaneously. I was somewhere near the back of the bulge trying to squeeze in when the commotion kicked off. I’m not sure how I knew I was being robbed – perhaps it was the slight shift in weight, or maybe a sixth sense? Somehow I knew. The rest happened really fast. I turned around and immediately picked him out of the crowd, then lunged and had him in my arms, screaming so as to draw everyone’s attention. But good thieves work in teams, and already the first handoff, half my money, had been made. He threw his half on the ground and all eyes followed, creating a distraction for his partner to slip away. When I bent down to pick it up, my phone was there too. Quickly, though, the guy next to me (probably the one who was about to take the next hand off) told me it was his, so, confused, I handed it to him – then he was gone. By this time onlookers had gotten involved – younger Tanzanians were holding the thief while outraged elders slapped him across the face. They were all ashamed of their countryman.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">People wanted to report him to the police, so half the mob went together. We got there in a hurry, but I realized my phone was gone, as was the other cut of money. Neither were recoverable, and seeking just punishment was not going to change the situation – nor would it have changed his behavior. So, deciding to save time and energy on the follow-up work, I cut my losses, declined the report and let him go. We spontaneously shook hands – twice, actually, one after another - which was kind of odd. The first was to convey that what was done was done, in the past, and that we should move on. The second had a more intentional feel, more knowing, less settling – something closer to forgiveness. I was not fully there yet, but could not stay in an angry state much longer without suffocating in my own evil – hatred, pride, and self-centeredness. You know how it goes – before attempting forgiveness all one can do is dwell in victimization and wallow in self-pity – and what useful purposes do those serve?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But I’m no saint. Like a float toy at the base of a dam, my mind cycled through tension, confusion and anger the rest of the day. Things happen for a reason, yes – but trying to figure out what that is, is a waste of time because I’ll never know. At best I might stumble across a reason that is good enough to appease my angst, but who knows if that will be right? So I relinquished control of the reason thing as well and just tried to move on. What I do know is that at least I walked away from being robbed without any bullets or knives – and I still have four working appendages, ease with breathing and an intact mind, and that’s more than enough to be grateful for.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-35443106083452765152007-05-27T03:36:00.000+02:002007-05-27T22:44:10.184+02:00Dar es Salaam<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Friday 13 April, 2007 – 06:01 – Dar es Salaam, Tanzania</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTmxw7Xy4C-myAtmccEuUv-O3CFeAi6jHhSzjN3ir0dwBtgWn90ZKOn7_Awys6Cz1hff5ohW6Gw7UZU6lNXDoxFqgv1jLuPhu0MLOZZ8xrFwVuuRfMbp4V8f3ANP-BM9ONO4wgerJSo8/s1600-h/DSC02572.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTmxw7Xy4C-myAtmccEuUv-O3CFeAi6jHhSzjN3ir0dwBtgWn90ZKOn7_Awys6Cz1hff5ohW6Gw7UZU6lNXDoxFqgv1jLuPhu0MLOZZ8xrFwVuuRfMbp4V8f3ANP-BM9ONO4wgerJSo8/s200/DSC02572.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055982795256498" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Although one month’s time has long since passed without any new entries from Bongo (east African slang for Dar es Salaam), there is certainly no shortage of stories to relay. It is a shame, though, that so many tales have amassed – because it seems now they are being reported out of a sense of duty rather than told out of a sense of joy. But I’ll do my best to recreate the colors these experiences first came to me in.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Let us start at the airport. Whereas in the </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQWaJPIpZX7VkbWXMVKe8v0wUGuFxywj1855IcUQpHKAg4m6wqkNfWsviZupHatfU2oobseMS_Fv0LKc-nvKUT8wj-alRgSfl2cMTP0bvgJQD90CWO-mTCU2mtozOgPO6IZ-f4nTa9iY/s1600-h/DSC02612.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQWaJPIpZX7VkbWXMVKe8v0wUGuFxywj1855IcUQpHKAg4m6wqkNfWsviZupHatfU2oobseMS_Fv0LKc-nvKUT8wj-alRgSfl2cMTP0bvgJQD90CWO-mTCU2mtozOgPO6IZ-f4nTa9iY/s200/DSC02612.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056051514733250" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">West passengers file through a gauntlet of security check points before being funneled through an enormous metal sock leading directly from the gate to the door of the aircraft, in Africa they walk out to the airplane, greeting it on the runway, and they deplane in the same manner. It was late into the evening when my flight landed, but when stepping into darkness I was immediately aware of the ocean’s proximity. The air was humid, smelling like salt and slowing all movement, but I waded through its weight, picked up my bags and carried on to find my ride.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But in Africa, little ever goes as planned. So at 10:30PM I was alone in a new country, stranded at an airport, without communication, I did not know my host and there was nobody to </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRqf58LNbs5hTz82qzWXWBNdLbLqjKMWt2rsZvs1rDwS7_gYWrhNK5Vug0ePvawvZht7LOPHs3UpZacO6GI_eTJ7Jy2C3sMFzM3LTKnN9Mmz3KJSIYM_qBMo5DgVimQN_wot8n5hoGq0/s1600-h/DSC02366.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRqf58LNbs5hTz82qzWXWBNdLbLqjKMWt2rsZvs1rDwS7_gYWrhNK5Vug0ePvawvZht7LOPHs3UpZacO6GI_eTJ7Jy2C3sMFzM3LTKnN9Mmz3KJSIYM_qBMo5DgVimQN_wot8n5hoGq0/s200/DSC02366.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055218291077682" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">meet me. As kindly ladies always seem to show in these situations, an African sister took both notice and pity, letting me place a call from her cell phone. However, my host was so ill and hoarse te into the evening when my flight landed, but when stepping into darkness I was immediately aware of the ocean’s proximity. The air was humid, smelling like salt and slowing all movement, but I waded through its weight, picked up my bags and carried on to finshe could not speak – and after a long-winded introduction of who I was, how she knew me and a question about how to get to her house, all I heard in response were a few groans of unrecognizable instructions before she hung up. Without warning I was back in Africa, alone, with no clue as to what was going on. Pretty typical, though, and not cause for panic by any means. Through a series of SMS messages and calls from friends of hers, I reached my new home by taxi safe and sound enough.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_mBwXQIGJV14ZpRyPSEIovBFAxG7WUzqBYvE3qR67QH3C-BB9HZL9RemOmtUOFh3jRMDQsKm2gbj2wnpe-DWm_d6R7zuocvnqBZxy27ylFmSfrXciY-8rtEeADH_EBjpK2VWzjvshdA/s1600-h/DSC02481.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_mBwXQIGJV14ZpRyPSEIovBFAxG7WUzqBYvE3qR67QH3C-BB9HZL9RemOmtUOFh3jRMDQsKm2gbj2wnpe-DWm_d6R7zuocvnqBZxy27ylFmSfrXciY-8rtEeADH_EBjpK2VWzjvshdA/s200/DSC02481.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069060290647454562" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">She lives in a beautiful house – both by the Rwandese standards I had come to adopt and by American standards I once thought were, well, standard. We are two in a large home, with the exception of the garden boy and his wife who live in a smaller structure in the corner of the property. And on that note, the whole property is a garden – palm trees, cactuses, and an array of colored flowers of all shapes and sizes carefully hedged, clipped, trimmed and sculpted to perfection. The interior is also lovely.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfz6Nhdp74nKdLMp95UuYLD4tcfAm-pIsPvfRfjTbrHMBaCTztwoICLMMktxLZEDPJ6op2kPcAzYCA5XU8zseKQE21xsXy5Gp-wSuwqTlL4YYAOw19UH1dYzhiUlAu9387BKHRRE0wx0/s1600-h/DSC02375.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfz6Nhdp74nKdLMp95UuYLD4tcfAm-pIsPvfRfjTbrHMBaCTztwoICLMMktxLZEDPJ6op2kPcAzYCA5XU8zseKQE21xsXy5Gp-wSuwqTlL4YYAOw19UH1dYzhiUlAu9387BKHRRE0wx0/s200/DSC02375.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055287010554434" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Those who know say the best Swahili in the world is spoken in Tanzania. So to TZ I went, with the sole objective to learn – because in the future I want to return as a doctor who is not isolated from his patients by a language barrier. Within two days classes began – and three weeks later yours truly graduated from beginner level and started life in the big world of intermediate Kiswahili.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Each morning I walk, run or bike to </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtfElGV6RPUOqiJupaYlzFsLcyycHdCLMPlAcv6efW6hOpa6XaaYtSMjRcA_XH2XWSA88-bjy_jZG43735LDyNHGNF2i1NQSFy-cyDNNetcvwIvTd2ZkHHAQw5N_OhUBKwDNTHp9ml7s/s1600-h/DSC02438.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtfElGV6RPUOqiJupaYlzFsLcyycHdCLMPlAcv6efW6hOpa6XaaYtSMjRcA_XH2XWSA88-bjy_jZG43735LDyNHGNF2i1NQSFy-cyDNNetcvwIvTd2ZkHHAQw5N_OhUBKwDNTHp9ml7s/s200/DSC02438.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055484579050082" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">class 5km on the beach along the Indian Ocean. The other day the tide was out and two fishermen had carried a defunct boat to the flat of the sand where the water previously sat. They propped it on stilts and set it ablaze – the boat fully engulfed in flames. Because the sun was rising behind them, everything was silhouetted except for the intensely red and orange fire. The heat billowing from the boat cause the colors form the flame to mix with the silhouette of the fishermen as if they were painted with oil pastels. And of course th</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipL1pWx0KD61taQFILVMpGrhxMY_9adUVLNhiWACrPsnEokUbPK4fUt6rxmLOxIqygF2bKgAShBSfBrzf5LtYRhrSLQxFZs0Z0XKRjf4KTk1XcgewDixDhe9OtzINYvFtyef6RbBnt1rE/s1600-h/DSC02444.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipL1pWx0KD61taQFILVMpGrhxMY_9adUVLNhiWACrPsnEokUbPK4fUt6rxmLOxIqygF2bKgAShBSfBrzf5LtYRhrSLQxFZs0Z0XKRjf4KTk1XcgewDixDhe9OtzINYvFtyef6RbBnt1rE/s200/DSC02444.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055583363297906" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e pockets of water sprinkled across the flat sand where the tide had receded shimmered with the morning sun. As always, it was a beautiful morning in Africa.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I love the beach for its unpredictability. Some days I see boats burning, other days I find incredible sea shells, stop to help fishermen pull their nets in, or pass youth and elders alike practicing kung fu – totally crazy, but oddly totally normal. And on the best days I get to do all of these and more. When I’m home before the sun sets, sometimes I catch</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOSAPVS91twEFPcqbrplEgo37p1cAcQTb39CEcnyVBtne6X_9wX-HnmtMzMi2O-tB5c0Ojo7xiQTCm0tpDo3PvyP9AYm3J2fggiyNNAY_5Ws3T0DPgUnGcSPIf1vQwY17fs60bfinCBo/s1600-h/DSC02780.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoOSAPVS91twEFPcqbrplEgo37p1cAcQTb39CEcnyVBtne6X_9wX-HnmtMzMi2O-tB5c0Ojo7xiQTCm0tpDo3PvyP9AYm3J2fggiyNNAY_5Ws3T0DPgUnGcSPIf1vQwY17fs60bfinCBo/s200/DSC02780.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056652810154786" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> pick up soccer games with the Maasai. We all run around together – me with shorts and a watch around my wrist, them with robes and billyclubs and sometimes machetes around their waist.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">At the end of three weeks of beginner classes I composed the following letter. If you find languages interesting, have fun reading the Swahili (a mix of Bantu, Arabic and English), but if not then jump down a bit and I’ll translate it to English.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Habari Zenu Rafiki Na Familia Yangu-</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Hamjambo</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWU0xXH7QSqO7aouV1E6jEMOZ5j4odOjAnoS_F3H9RmIYFT50f5zsk3Q0ol85U9-jNp9-gxqFInWcAa8b0svpdEn5QTjj6roJnsjbTtyiHAQ2TsmefD_64mc1JMaNa53gGldt3dqGxQc/s1600-h/DSC02907.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKWU0xXH7QSqO7aouV1E6jEMOZ5j4odOjAnoS_F3H9RmIYFT50f5zsk3Q0ol85U9-jNp9-gxqFInWcAa8b0svpdEn5QTjj6roJnsjbTtyiHAQ2TsmefD_64mc1JMaNa53gGldt3dqGxQc/s200/DSC02907.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055123801797154" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">? Maisha hapa ni mazuri sana. Sasa niko Tanzania, lakini kabla ya kuja Dar es Salaam nilikaa Rwanda. Huko, kama mnajua, nilikuwa mwalimu chuo kikuu na nilifanya kazi hospitalini na rafiki zangu wanyarwanda.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Lakini, kama nilivyosema mwanzao wa hii barua, nimekuja karibu na bahari kusoma Kiswahili. Kila siku huenda shuleni. Ndani ya darasa mwalimu wangu na mimi tunajaribu kufundishana. Nataka kujifunza harakaharaka lakini siwezi – kujifunza lugha mtu anahitaji muda – hivyo (kwa sababu sijifunzi haraka) sina furaha kila siku. Lakini hakuna matata, nitajua – kila wiki ninajifunza polepole. Oneni – sasa hivi ninawaandikia hii barua! Nimejifunza!</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4bvOI6x0jU9r5yFjCR-NB8Pzex1uFX58pb0Eeyk5aDsu6VW3GZ6xY-9LsGH3yToAJJKP4tFkcker6xdtYjLUHqqRZEsSr39y1fcbwAg47rDMeH8knLhgEcXxfugTw9uFSZ6iLPbHF1U/s1600-h/DSC02710.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4bvOI6x0jU9r5yFjCR-NB8Pzex1uFX58pb0Eeyk5aDsu6VW3GZ6xY-9LsGH3yToAJJKP4tFkcker6xdtYjLUHqqRZEsSr39y1fcbwAg47rDMeH8knLhgEcXxfugTw9uFSZ6iLPbHF1U/s200/DSC02710.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056352162444018" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Nimekaa Mbezi Bich, karibu sana na bahari ya hindi, ndani ya nyumba ya rafiki wa mama mdogo doto yangu. Jina lake ni Sue, na yeye ni mwema kabisa. Ninampenda sana, na mimi napenda kulala ndani ya nyumba kubwa na nzuri (tunakaa peke yetu kwenye nyumba moja) lakini tunaongea kiingereza pamoja. Nilipolala huko sikujifunza kiswahili haraka. Hivyo mara kwa mara nimeamua kulala na rafiki yangu John uswahlini kwa watu maskini. Hapa ninajifunza mishemishe – kula chapati kwenye takataka </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg94e0_vY61ShmXrEEt3e-uAJMoiyhiKMIchi_P0whyQUHmEwkBNBTNEC_DVHzzdRmipNIu1iBmERZYkycVyRFlswKowXa65liEKp3yoYaYIih6VBsRldHt35q99M7eBwcZi5pBSAZIkpg/s1600-h/DSC03003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg94e0_vY61ShmXrEEt3e-uAJMoiyhiKMIchi_P0whyQUHmEwkBNBTNEC_DVHzzdRmipNIu1iBmERZYkycVyRFlswKowXa65liEKp3yoYaYIih6VBsRldHt35q99M7eBwcZi5pBSAZIkpg/s200/DSC03003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069054213268730306" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">na matope sana, kwenda choo kichafu, kulala bila umeme – sisi ni watu watatu kwenye kitanda kimoja – kuamka kwenye kelele za watoto wafrika – kuwa na furaha bila hela. Nitakaporudi Marekani, nitataka kurudi hapa Afrika kukaa, kuishi, na kupenda. Lakini ninaelewa lazima niendelee kusomo shule ya dawa hivyo nitakuwa daktari, hivyo nitaweza kuwasaidia watu na matatizo yao, hivyo nitaitambuusha dawa kwa romtakatifu, na kuaombea wagonjwa na sisi wote tutakuwa karibu na yesu kristo. Hiki ndicho ninachotaka – basi.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Hii imekuwa safari nzuri, lakini sasa nikotayari kuwa pamoja na familia yangu. Nimejifunza vitu vingi vingine pia, lakini tunaweza kuongea nitakaporudi nyumbani Marekani. Asanteni kwa kusoma mpaka hapa na tutaonana mwezi kesho kutwa.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoJuF0ozGzRqN8sxZBrinKoLM9dJcKvUafqXV0ck89ejCfL8dWN4SzH81izpqYatYuvGusr2b_J1pL76K7Bx3RD2giby195pRpXKKCxmdDzK_SXW6U65Ps_Rk99eNtiLbGLzqtC6xSl0/s1600-h/DSC02992.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoJuF0ozGzRqN8sxZBrinKoLM9dJcKvUafqXV0ck89ejCfL8dWN4SzH81izpqYatYuvGusr2b_J1pL76K7Bx3RD2giby195pRpXKKCxmdDzK_SXW6U65Ps_Rk99eNtiLbGLzqtC6xSl0/s200/DSC02992.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069054350707683794" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Awapendaye,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Ni mimi rafiki, kaka na kijana wenu,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Benjamin Huntley</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">How are you all, my friends and family –</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Are you doing well? Life here is very good. Currently I am in Tanzania, but before arriving in Dar es Salaam I was staying in Rwanda. There, as you all know, I was a university teacher and worked in a hospital with my Rwandan friends.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPiq9iBmf_v_Hsw8rX08YSum1hvRLRP6nukmg2q6JeVzd-VrWxNb-5W0BIAnOBDmIJPco6K2NLXL4cLRkw2IqB06aaVdyDWzgEE549FnuLj-GtP-gwwAMEdtVEY1ekVHUS9bPB36VyHc/s1600-h/DSC02462.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPiq9iBmf_v_Hsw8rX08YSum1hvRLRP6nukmg2q6JeVzd-VrWxNb-5W0BIAnOBDmIJPco6K2NLXL4cLRkw2IqB06aaVdyDWzgEE549FnuLj-GtP-gwwAMEdtVEY1ekVHUS9bPB36VyHc/s200/DSC02462.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055660672709250" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But, as I said to begin this letter, I came close to the ocean to study Swahili. Every day I go to school. In class my teacher and I are trying to learn together. I want to learn quickly but cannot – to learn a language one needs time – so (because I am not learning quickly) I am not happy every day. But no worries, I will learn – every week I am learning slowly. Look – I am now writing you this letter! I am learning!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I stay in Mbezi Beach, very close to the Indian Ocean, in the home of a friend of my aunt’s. Her name is Sue and she is very nice. I like her a great deal and love sleeping in a nice, big home (we are the only ones for the single house) but we speak to each other in English. When I sleep there I</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJmm88P_l1SxQEo6j0fAYSOpNDi9TW32yjAkrjENOvQLl7mkeVkuG5q_pqaicg4EXWwyzbLzHMOgNTk-yddd2FTRirc5YuD6upIlKh4MV8MD-D1P6tAEWA_U4HPHUh1Vf4s_Q4knB7IY0/s1600-h/DSC02544.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJmm88P_l1SxQEo6j0fAYSOpNDi9TW32yjAkrjENOvQLl7mkeVkuG5q_pqaicg4EXWwyzbLzHMOgNTk-yddd2FTRirc5YuD6upIlKh4MV8MD-D1P6tAEWA_U4HPHUh1Vf4s_Q4knB7IY0/s200/DSC02544.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055884011008674" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> do not learn Swahili quickly. So from time to time I have decided to spend the night with my friend John in the slum with the poor people. Here I am learning the ways of the people – to eat local food in the midst of garbage and tons of mud, to use dirty bathrooms, to sleep without electricity – we are three people in one bed – to wake up to the noise of African children – to be happy without money. When I return to the US I am going to want to return here to Africa to stay, to live and to love. But I understand I must continue my medical studies so I can become a doctor, so I ca</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIAkOrIbn-5fscAxUKyJd1FueQXiOdLBHv41RUucA1zP5hf8bUTeBVYT95TNpPiydw8vYgRtf2bUK6aReIONwKPEXkxp8Ik0C7HOJxtgvS_O0mMruJsDSL2v2G0VeY9j5nQq6JKZx-Yk/s1600-h/DSC02744.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIAkOrIbn-5fscAxUKyJd1FueQXiOdLBHv41RUucA1zP5hf8bUTeBVYT95TNpPiydw8vYgRtf2bUK6aReIONwKPEXkxp8Ik0C7HOJxtgvS_O0mMruJsDSL2v2G0VeY9j5nQq6JKZx-Yk/s200/DSC02744.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056558320874258" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n help people with their problems, so I can introduce medicine with the Holy Spirit, pray for the sick and all draw closer to Christ together. That is all I want.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">This has been a good trip, but now I am ready to be with my family. I have learned many other things as well, but we can discuss these when I return home. Thank you all for reading to this point and we’ll see each other the month after next.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">With </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLgMnMkzGEYccHWc8KZqSIfLxV_tSvQPp_H9Z28E0KcXb8J7MXihqelOj9JuUFwpYEc8fsCCqbwDmc5HVnRCiMI7jTo-qoB89qD8MjgeD_PRVCwbhXU93lNr8Qni6W7hmQaokTEicGrc/s1600-h/DSC02726.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLgMnMkzGEYccHWc8KZqSIfLxV_tSvQPp_H9Z28E0KcXb8J7MXihqelOj9JuUFwpYEc8fsCCqbwDmc5HVnRCiMI7jTo-qoB89qD8MjgeD_PRVCwbhXU93lNr8Qni6W7hmQaokTEicGrc/s200/DSC02726.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056455241659138" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">love,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It’s me, your friend, brother and son-</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Benjamin Huntley</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The slum is a wild and electrifying place, packed with people, movement, and business – buying and selling, eating and drinking, loud music, rhythmic life, mamas, babas, and aunties, baba’s babies and baba’s babies from baba’s babies’ other mama, laughing </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWbOh0AswN5DqmycOq3l_CBk1NfjD76rqmeZLadqANk1XJHldcmr5DBqodUnzyRrAzk6rbKLOuad8Vk8PZVKXCvUOcy1oe_qfnjR2sKL9sybcM8rvOFIx2Tp4IBy-uM-s9EJ0XxHgggI/s1600-h/DSC02638.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWbOh0AswN5DqmycOq3l_CBk1NfjD76rqmeZLadqANk1XJHldcmr5DBqodUnzyRrAzk6rbKLOuad8Vk8PZVKXCvUOcy1oe_qfnjR2sKL9sybcM8rvOFIx2Tp4IBy-uM-s9EJ0XxHgggI/s200/DSC02638.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056206133555938" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">children, crying children, kids with clothes and those without, vegetable stands - ripe and rotten… I am tempted to describe it as unity in chaos, but this is only accurate according to the lens of the life I know, not according to their norms. My perceptions are not their perceptions, nor can I say they are better or worse – just different. It is dirty, though. The streets are narrow passages of mud, crowded with markets and shacks on either side. But it’s not mud like you and I might picture mud – it is blackened from oil, garbage, gasoline, trash, vomit, fish guts – waste of all sorts that turns walking through the slum into a game of hopscotch, only you don’t dare reach down to pick anything up – that is, unless you’re a kid, in which case everything becomes a potential chew toy.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpM5Hm2qude8ZNTf6z0D8AftzF0vXobMBIBXV7GsgBpXwN2zK5cu12w9hdPlmAOYZaIt_N1DXvMqJJFG76i31K6mpPgL1q_sr2JC89D_IOtHf48eXKER70matgmf8-ipvP4oRMhQmsn-c/s1600-h/DSC02618.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpM5Hm2qude8ZNTf6z0D8AftzF0vXobMBIBXV7GsgBpXwN2zK5cu12w9hdPlmAOYZaIt_N1DXvMqJJFG76i31K6mpPgL1q_sr2JC89D_IOtHf48eXKER70matgmf8-ipvP4oRMhQmsn-c/s200/DSC02618.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056128824144594" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">This is an abused land, dating back a couple of hundred years to the beginning of the slave trade in the 16th century. Half hour up the road by car is a town called Bagamoyo, the former mainland slave-trading hub of eastern Africa. Here were brought peoples from what are the present day countries Congo, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Kenya, Mozambique and Tanzania. Let me break down the town’s telling name. In Swahili, moyo means heart – and bagamoyo, coming from the Bantu verb kubwaga – to lay</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0XjAo0-m9VY/Rljl2zEUcbI/AAAAAAAAANw/pTWGelPhhJE/s1600-h/DSC03018.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0XjAo0-m9VY/Rljl2zEUcbI/AAAAAAAAANw/pTWGelPhhJE/s200/DSC03018.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069054110189515186" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> down - means to lay one’s heart down. This was the last Africa slaves touched, aside from a layover in Zanzibar, before being shackled and hauled to India, Oman, and other northern slave-importing countries. In spite of David Livingstone’s contribution and the Christian church’s fight to abolish slavery in east Africa, the Arab-Islamic influence remains much stronger than that of the Christian church (I specify Arab because there are many Arab Tanzanians, and much of the culture, even the artwork, has been filtered through an Arab lens). On the island of Zanzibar, for example, the population is estimated to be 80% Islamic – and both black and Arab Africans worship in mosques harmoniously.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7SgtinF-z9NGOxPYaASmDDAFmnmDeQOIsWLIRNPoLNPex17TZrTIeuJArtO7pqMC_02wPGeYnj5nhv4dpNdCIqiE63v2d4G_OjVYpsycFAa28cv6LZk0gv-ZU29mWJGyM_ZW7ASHa7w/s1600-h/DSC02853.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7SgtinF-z9NGOxPYaASmDDAFmnmDeQOIsWLIRNPoLNPex17TZrTIeuJArtO7pqMC_02wPGeYnj5nhv4dpNdCIqiE63v2d4G_OjVYpsycFAa28cv6LZk0gv-ZU29mWJGyM_ZW7ASHa7w/s200/DSC02853.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056871853486914" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> was to Zanzibar last week for a mini-vacation (By the way, interesting fact – the mainland was formerly called Tanganyika but when it merged with Zanzibar as one country the two names put together became Tanzania. Strangely enough, although Tanzania is one country it has two presidents – one for Zanzibar and the internationally recognized one for the mainland Tanzania). The island is a photographer’s near-paradise. Although by ferry it is only 2 hours (or about 15 miles) off the coast, it certainly has its own feel. Stone Town, the largest city, strongly reminded me of Damascene alleyways – fruit stands, mosques, children sitting three wide in an open doorway, old buildings, Koran recitations and friendly people – half of whom are Arab. The island is best known for its doors, though. Zanzibari doors are carefully, delicately and beautiful</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-csnAGMnITJyQJtyfO8I5NWzHBhxUqdMojTalor0DU4pL-6Md1G-hYIxD2HsfWC_ODweZaKvvVQERPQUX4ZVMhgAdzngBSKe96AHv4VhsrvmrjAsc9XgRiwHSbYHEpdl_pgtvmRz3ntg/s1600-h/DSC02970.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-csnAGMnITJyQJtyfO8I5NWzHBhxUqdMojTalor0DU4pL-6Md1G-hYIxD2HsfWC_ODweZaKvvVQERPQUX4ZVMhgAdzngBSKe96AHv4VhsrvmrjAsc9XgRiwHSbYHEpdl_pgtvmRz3ntg/s200/DSC02970.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069054518211408354" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ly carved masterpieces that in older days told a family’s genealogy. In Stone Town is a large church, the pulpit of which stands intentionally and directly on the former slave stage. As I said, Africans were taken from the inland to Zanzibar. At that point, they were then chained and starved for two days in a tiny underground pit. A trench ran through the middle of the pit (see picture) that filled with sea water at high tide, washing the feces away. After two days detainment, the men were taken to the whipping post – those who screamed, a sign of weakness, earned less money. Under pressure from the British Navy, the former Sultan of Zanzibar abolished slave-trading in the late 1800’s, but it continued as an underground practice (literally, the slaves were kept in caves and shuttled out 50 at a time to touch and go slave ships) until 1907.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEm9vYejZy7S8UI_gBP9UnigxF6aUEkiDKDdE1bVTGPLshFk-L3-B9PxDxQAjOFrX3ClE12TRnLfOrrCFUAb31IudptQEOjLGdJHA0vP9vch82KWY658f5ksLjbN_KNVDkMzF4Kcc_50/s1600-h/DSC02849.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEm9vYejZy7S8UI_gBP9UnigxF6aUEkiDKDdE1bVTGPLshFk-L3-B9PxDxQAjOFrX3ClE12TRnLfOrrCFUAb31IudptQEOjLGdJHA0vP9vch82KWY658f5ksLjbN_KNVDkMzF4Kcc_50/s200/DSC02849.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069060436676342642" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But like the rest of Africa, there is more to this place than gut-wrenching stories of weakness, abuse and horror. Traveling around the island, I discovered plenty to do. One afternoon my host ordered grilled shrimp and a bottle of wine to go, and we set off by boat with local fishermen to swim with dolphins. What beautiful creatures they are, the dolphins – massive yet incredibly caring. They seemed to effortlessly swim against the current</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf97pWiLW34Tzj-rg0sYv5M3kcd42xvh3HYioZO6e15Jis1Aft6aaejHiu_pobYBi8fWogTFeTkZLUSu5-Vc32eb7SbPKL2ICO0LOKU8kews6F13xGaaTtRoIWO3xt8O8tp0AhjL4131o/s1600-h/DSC02866.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf97pWiLW34Tzj-rg0sYv5M3kcd42xvh3HYioZO6e15Jis1Aft6aaejHiu_pobYBi8fWogTFeTkZLUSu5-Vc32eb7SbPKL2ICO0LOKU8kews6F13xGaaTtRoIWO3xt8O8tp0AhjL4131o/s200/DSC02866.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069053770887098786" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> while I kicked as hard as I could to keep up. Imagine me neck and neck with a school of dolphins. From the boat you might see my head, a constant above the water, and then fins of dolphins curve in and out of view. They swam beneath me, behind me and to either side. But unfortunately just when it seemed I was having a beautiful moment with nature, the one in front shat in my face mask. So if you ever tell me you swam with dolphins, don’t be surprised when I bitterly ask if you were close enough to see them poop.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But all joking aside, there are lovely moments on the island. There is the beauty in watching a fisherman catch squid, casting a throw of line that is tide around his waist off the side of a cliff and pulling it back in hand over</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUsX38pN4ILsjA0xhTUjv-C7iYlKX2cIotTFJUb5vftgBLYLkHbrxcxUjoQ-NILSRsYM8HMniv4bDdvgm-Lz4kSBDjsPMA603g5Kpo2UVfAPJTca1J5rxy2LCzI-Y1RF0iL315mIh5vo/s1600-h/DSC02406.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUsX38pN4ILsjA0xhTUjv-C7iYlKX2cIotTFJUb5vftgBLYLkHbrxcxUjoQ-NILSRsYM8HMniv4bDdvgm-Lz4kSBDjsPMA603g5Kpo2UVfAPJTca1J5rxy2LCzI-Y1RF0iL315mIh5vo/s200/DSC02406.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055402974671442" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> hand in a fluid motion for the evening’s meal. The white man needs his gear – the nice shoes, a fancy belt to hold his new rod, tension-tested nylon string – and he is either disappointed when the hook comes back empty or overly elated when it comes back full. The African man is free – poor with ragged clothes, but rich in spirit – free from contrived emotions. I have wondered a lot this week if, given the opportunity, I would choose his life or mine. Perhaps the ignorance of the island is not ignorance at all, but knowledge and the ability to be spiritual. And perhaps – if materialism comes at the cost of spirituality – my cultural upbringing put me more further back than it did further forward. At one point I decided I would have still selected my life, because I at least have choice in how and where to live – but then I realized that although I can choose</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms5DFiSIQxRhMtYBx2iyEIczq8G2uO5f-VBhP2bVi4UFc1tnSZI5c51yUCsdDFU8aTJNs1IM9gId9W1oFOHTfCfxF1Ahp9P3rcELLPpBVsbhu2_aDgSCvm6mDe8ti09L7pKODwXw2aHI/s1600-h/DSC02837.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms5DFiSIQxRhMtYBx2iyEIczq8G2uO5f-VBhP2bVi4UFc1tnSZI5c51yUCsdDFU8aTJNs1IM9gId9W1oFOHTfCfxF1Ahp9P3rcELLPpBVsbhu2_aDgSCvm6mDe8ti09L7pKODwXw2aHI/s200/DSC02837.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069056755889369906" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> to visit him (whereas he cannot choose to visit me), knowing where I come from, I could never mentally live as he lives. Even with money and privilege, I cannot access his world just as without money and privilege he cannot access mine. I am still trying to figure out who has the upper hand.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I carried a sketchpad with me to jot down my thoughts. Originally I hoped to expand them into full stories, but this is getting to be quite lengthy as is, so here they are in short (take me out f</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPRn6K3Z0JCwotHL1OffsfdIizqMCqd9bbgThRWI7Dg1sqy-C5qXro8Zy9WPnPizDRP2HoftK-WeLagQngy8M42DM1c0r0Sr1tdqReZg5e0Fnti-bVrB6uhhzDDIb6aIZOgJ9qvmWLG8s/s1600-h/DSC02964.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPRn6K3Z0JCwotHL1OffsfdIizqMCqd9bbgThRWI7Dg1sqy-C5qXro8Zy9WPnPizDRP2HoftK-WeLagQngy8M42DM1c0r0Sr1tdqReZg5e0Fnti-bVrB6uhhzDDIb6aIZOgJ9qvmWLG8s/s200/DSC02964.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055016427614738" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">or coffee or something when I return and I’ll tell you all about them):</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">One day we were in the middle of the Indian Ocean, off coast of Zanzibar, and kicked off a smaller island.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Another day I went snorkeling with an mzee (old man) and found a giant clam on the ocean floor. We wanted to take it ashore, but it was stuck and had to be pried loose. We alternated turns - banging on, wiggling, twisting, and pulling, trying to get it out. As a young, fit early-twenties kid, I could only hold my breath for thirty seconds by the time I swam down there before racing back up for air. He was old and frail, but had spent his life chasing octopus underwater, and each time gently glided down to the clam, staying for a minute or two, before coming back up. Lovely to watch.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">On Easter Sunday I sat around a communal bowl with seven local fishermen and shared dinner by the ocean as the sun set. We had a large mound of rice, and one of the men was in charge of placing a new fish (eyes, tail and all) on top when the old one ran out. We ate with our right hands, as is customary, scooping a fistful of rice, squeezing it a few times between fingers and palm, then reaching forward and pinching some meat off the fish skeleton with our handy opposable thumbs. It was not anything I would order, and yet you could never pay for the company.</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsBHK4npa9qaOEUZ6d82c2ZUTggUaeW1CLJyrsZqgwEp2cp2MeXBzlDh61V931Ht5MmS9Vgw0UvWQ3r8LiQzHVy7AePOBRe_SHkwpIou16ZuarSOSmBooxv5l8NVuslAUJjnFJ_AAASE/s1600-h/DSC02976.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPsBHK4npa9qaOEUZ6d82c2ZUTggUaeW1CLJyrsZqgwEp2cp2MeXBzlDh61V931Ht5MmS9Vgw0UvWQ3r8LiQzHVy7AePOBRe_SHkwpIou16ZuarSOSmBooxv5l8NVuslAUJjnFJ_AAASE/s200/DSC02976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069060651424707458" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">When I was in Zanzibar I got up early one more to go for a walk along the ocean. As the sun was rising a guy in a boat passed close-by. With his permission, I waded out to the boat, hopped in and off we went to the middle of the bay to go octopus hunting. He jumped in the water with snorkel and fins, swam off and was gone for a long time – so eventually I followed suit, only jumping in to swim a great distance back ashore.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Oh, and one last story from before Zanzibar. As I wrote, I had been staying in the slum, walking around at night through streets lit by the flicker of candles from the occasional octopus stand, or by the kerosene lamp of a mama selling tortillas. In Swahili they use a word mishemishe to mean </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-h9Or8Q_D9J52Ca2RzRO7u1IwpypTxqxje1jEjjy0B746KbqZDIFhcVZmVx1h06aKV1kCptNtGmYieLECY79DEOYWBzfcrr2KU5Kp-TSMWlXe5QXlUNYyKJQ7plWVaA05vkeXuu29r0/s1600-h/DSC02531.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-h9Or8Q_D9J52Ca2RzRO7u1IwpypTxqxje1jEjjy0B746KbqZDIFhcVZmVx1h06aKV1kCptNtGmYieLECY79DEOYWBzfcrr2KU5Kp-TSMWlXe5QXlUNYyKJQ7plWVaA05vkeXuu29r0/s200/DSC02531.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5069055798111662738" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">the ways of the people, and I had started to understand the life that meant. One night, however, I decided to go back to the mzungu house to use the internet to communicate with the States. But my key broke and I was locked out (my mzungu host friend had left the country). She lives on the outskirts of town, about an hour’s walk to what you could start to consider city, and it was dark, which meant it was dangerous to be white and alone on the street. So like anyone might do, I went to the neighbor across the way, rang the bell and sweet-talked my way into spending the night. Bear in mind that I smell, having been sleeping on a mildewy mattress, I’m covered in a combination of dirt, sweat and mud from having just played barefoot soccer out front, and I have bloody feet for the same reason. Not a big deal – my neighbor just turned out to be the sister of Joseph Kabila, current president of the Democratic Republic of Congo – and their father, Laurent, before his assassination, was Congo’s former president. I ate a piece of her son’s birthday cake before going to bed – because, you know, they have fancy things like cake. The next day I was back in the slum, hunched over in a dirty corner with four mamas, cooking food together, laughing and continuing to learn mishemishe.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-57585911727672199692007-04-17T21:58:00.000+02:002007-04-17T22:04:27.000+02:00Layover in London<span style="color:#006600;">On a short note, I am going to have an overnite layover in London on my return trip to the United States and was wondering if anybody knew anyone in the city that would like to host me for an evening. Please email me, or have them email me, if you can help me out in that respect.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Thank you and sincerely,</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Ben Huntley</span><br /><a href="mailto:benhuntley02@hotmail.com"><span style="color:#006600;">benhuntley02@hotmail.com</span></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-33824674089663262552007-04-17T21:10:00.000+02:002007-04-17T21:20:44.199+02:00Swahili Places<span style="color:#006600;">I typed a long entry about what I've been up to, but it's on my laptop and I'm not sure how to transfer it to a computer with internet capabilities. The writing is a lot of catching up that I didn't think was too interesting, so in the mean time I decided to write and share with you the small parts of my yesterday and today - everyday life in Tanzania.</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Yesterday I took breakfast at my friend's house. Well, it wasn't really his house - there isn't anything to take in his house, so we went to his aunt's house. And there wasn't really anything there either. A big house with couches, a tv and pictures with broken frames in the sitting room. But then I walked through to find the bathroom - and the rest of the house was totally and strangely bare. No furniture - people must sleep on the floors. No finished floors, people must sleep on the cement. Nothing on the walls but dirt, nothing in the kitchen but a sink that dangled loosely from the wall. But his aunt brought me a big breakfast - tea with sugar and nine pieces of bread, on which she spread something that's like butter but without flavor. She was so happy to feed me that I could not be anything but happy to be there being fed.<br /><br />That afternoon I was at another friend's house. Her family prepared a meal for me: ugali (hot flour pudding - equal parts flour and water, boil off the water), peas, fish, spinach, and cooked chicken heads. One eats everything but the bones, which includes the tongue, the eyes and the brain. I cannot say I enjoyed the flavors or textures, but it made me appreciate, or more wholly understand, life. What a luxury it is to choose food. And what a luxury it is to have fat. Some people here eat everything they can and don't have that opportunity.<br /><br />Tonight I was in the slum again. It was the first time I felt comfortable in my Swahili - the first time I spoke without hesitation - telling stories and answering questions with more ease than I had previously known. A little boy wanted to be carried so I picked him up and told him not to pee on me - and then on that moment realized I had just told him not to pee on me in Swahili. I like that place. When I am in the center of the slum I am protected because I am known and loved.<br /><br />It rained most of the day, and consequently uswahilini (the swahili place - the slum) was filled with mud. The kids walked me back to the bus station just before dark and I hopped on the next available daladala (what the rest of Africa has called a matatu). There are seats for 16 people inside. We numbered 26 in all. Imagine seeing us cruise down the main road, sliding door open. Inside people are sitting in their seats, squashed by the other people standing between their legs, leaning against their faces, squeezed into every pocket of space from floor to ceiling. Then three of us, myself included, are situated outside the van, standing on a running board beneath where the sliding door would have been had it not had to have been opened to reveal some room for the inside to bulge. My hands found something on the inside to hold on to - a handle, a wrist - something reliable. And we continued like that for a few kilometers, rain spitting in our faces. That is my Africa, these are my friends, and this is my life, and I like it.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-14861152936912315072007-04-11T17:44:00.000+02:002007-04-11T17:49:26.404+02:00No More Mail<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Hey Friends, Family-</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Just wanted to say that because I will have an internship in the bush next month I will not be able to receive any mail. Also, following the internship I am flying back to the States - so if you want to send me mail, rather than direct it to Tanzania, please use my Iowa address:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Ben Huntley</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">1501 Westview Drive</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Coralville, Iowa 52241</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">USA</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">My apologies for the time gap since the last post. Much has happened in Tanzania and I hope to soon compose these stories for you to read. Until then, take care.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Sincerely,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">BH</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-4552286223603571772007-03-20T05:57:00.000+02:002007-03-20T06:07:41.784+02:00An article<p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Below is a short article from the US written to college-aged kids about the music project:<br /></span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"> You might not have read about it in the <i style="">American Journal of Medicine</i>, but they’re working on a new HIV/AIDS prevention in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>This new “drug” may never be endorsed by the FDA, but it sure is a lot more fun to dance to than any other HIV/AIDS medicine on the market.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The guy mixing this vaccine isn’t a chemist, he’s a producer.<span style=""> </span>That is about as far as my cute little analogy can go, but this is something we all should be paying attention to.<span style=""> </span>Right now, halfway across the world from where I am writing, the Kigali Boyz and Miss JoJo are recording a song with a purpose.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">These days The Kigali Boyz (KGB as they’re called) and Miss JoJo are two of the biggest Rwandese music acts around. <span style=""> </span>Spend any amount of time with youth in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Kigali</st1:place></st1:city>, the capital city, and you are bound to hear someone reciting words that one of these artists penned.<span style=""> </span>Although the media’s direct effects on public behavior are difficult to measure, we know that when we cannot get a song out of our heads its message is hard to <i style="">not</i> deal with. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Knowing that, Miss JoJo and KGB, along with the help of few other friends, decided that they’d put something new in Rwanda’s head, a little message about what is happening in their country and the serious public health effects this HIV/AIDS epidemic brings.<span style=""> </span>A message that we all hope will cause people to look at how they are living in a world that is being devastated by AIDS, which also begs the question, “so what choices are you going to make in this new world?”<span style=""> </span>This isn’t a plea for money from the West, or a guilt trip for a rich white business man (although I know <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region> could use your money, Mr. Rich White Business Man).<span style=""> </span>This is a message from the people of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region> for the people of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region>, to remind them that HIV/AIDS is literally killing their country, and that if they don’t change how they live, it cannot get better. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Fortunately, getting people to listen to this message should not be difficult for this group of artists.<span style=""> </span>Miss JoJo’s voice is, at the same time, beautiful and accessible, while KGB’s flows carry rhythms that at times even seem to double the background beat.<span style=""> </span>If you never took that music class you planned on taking at your local community college, basically what I’m saying is they’re talented and their music is catchy.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">When I say that these artists are stars on <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s music scene, I mean that.<span style=""> </span>People everywhere know their music, you can’t escape it; it’s constantly on the radio.<span style=""> </span>But the music industry in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region> isn’t like it is here in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>In fact, it’s not much of an “industry” at all.<span style=""> </span>Superstar artists don’t live in houses that you see on MTV, or drive Bentleys.<span style=""> </span>Most of them work day jobs, laying down tracks because they love making music and people love their music.<span style=""> </span>Without the “industry” of the music industry there really isn’t much money to be made off even the best albums.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">That’s what makes this song that KGB and Miss JoJo are putting together all the more impressive. These artists are not removed from the daily hardships of HIV/AIDS because of their fame. If Paris Hilton were to sing about growing up in the projects and about her violent lifestyle we’d all laugh, but when Jay-Z does it we turn it up. That’s exactly what these artists are doing. They’re not coming down from their mansions on the hill for a little public service project; they are a part of the community that is struggling to survive in the face of HIV/AIDS. They are authentic and they are good. What else is there to say?</span><span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-83338962224858305932007-03-17T09:54:00.000+02:002007-03-19T13:08:50.067+02:00A Music and Public Health Cocktail: Using Hoi Polloi Heroes to Intervene in Rwanda’s HIV/AIDS Challenge<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 17 March, 2007 (Happy St. Patrick's Day and belated Ides of March) - 11:41 - Dar es Salaam</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I would like to share with you information on a project I created and in which I have likewise been investing quite a bit of time. Simply put, the idea is to use Rwanda’s relatively new music industry to change public psyche regarding sexual behaviour and the transmission of HIV/AIDS. But before getting to logistics, allow me to briefly explain the evolution of this project.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The idea first started forming while returning from a weekend in Congo, coming through Gisenyi, RW. Two teenagers greeted me as I was walking along the Lake Kivu shore – turned about face, and walked with me back into town. It was not long into our conversation before the boys, in efforts to impress me, compared themselves to “KGB”, claiming they could rap like their heroes – even that they could rap not just like KGB, but like P Diddy, Snoop-dogg, and the others from the US. Miraculously maintaining my cool-guy status, I simultaneously informed them that being able to rap like KGB (Kigali Boyz) did not mean anything to me, because I had not ever heard of the group. My new friends proceeded to take me to a local internet café, threw in a USB memory stick and shared their favourite songs. This is amazing, I thought – these young minds are seriously influenced by the lyrics and lines of their hip-hop heroes… more so, it appeared, than of their teachers, elders or government officials.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Back in Kigali around the same time I heard a catchy radio-cut of a song in matatus heading to and from Nyamirambo (the non-mzungu Rwandese/African bumping street-neighbourhood) – and soon discovered the beautiful, rhythmic voice belonged to a lady stage-named Miss JoJo. A co-worker at the hospital heard me singing his friend’s lyrics and gave me JoJo’s mobile number. Soon thereafter, while on a short assignment from the Kigali Health Institute to Butare, Miss JoJo and I sat down for dinner and discussed some ideas that had been perculating in my mind.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">All this time I had been pouring through national AIDS data in preparation for a research proposal a friend of mine and I were submitting – and the things we found were astonishing. Instinctively we wanted to design research protocols, implement programs, and change public health through scientific means – but it occurred to me that hundreds before have already tried doing this – some successfully, many others not so. While we continue to plug away on the research, we also looked for quicker intervention strategies.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">My mind jumped back to the young Gisenyi boys and I realized that the common people create heroes from within their own ranks because they think they cannot relate to the power and politics of their national leaders. So all we had to do was link their heroes with the AIDS message, back the project with government support, and – voila – the minds and matters of millions of “mnyarwandans” (as they are called in Swahili) can be reached, influenced, and changed to bring about healthier living, longer life, and a more productive society.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The night before leaving Rwanda, Gilbert and I sat down for sodas with Miss JoJo and KGB, the top Rwandese female pop-musician and hip-hop group, respectively, in the country. If one or the other released a challenging song, it would be easy for someone to isolate and disregard their statement. But if these former competitors collaborated their talents and released a song together, they’d easily have the ears and minds of Rwandese, causing formerly unpersuaded people to consider what the NGOs and the government have been saying all along to the importance of ‘ABC’ (Abstain, Be faithful, and Condomize, with priorities in that order). Realizing the power they have to influence the masses, the musicians agreed to intervene.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It costs money to do all of this, though – money for studio time, and to pay a sound-engineer to harmonize the inputs, amongst other needs. Normally musicians front the money and make it back once the song is released. However according to KGB there is a law prohibiting them from making money on songs that address HIV/AIDS, so they would not be able to make the money back. Because they are professional musicians and live off their music, they cannot afford to drop 1000 USD in the studio even if it is for a good cause, so we worked a deal. I committed $500 and promised to promote the song in the US if they fronted the rest and went through with the project. They are excited, as this is potentially their big break to be known in the US, and I am excited as this is potentially an powerful intervention in the public psyche within Rwanda. They agreed to work together, run the lyrics by Gilbert to make sure it is the message we want released, and will start rehearsing soon so as not to waste expensive studio time. Within two months they’ll be ready to record. A slight problem, though, is that I took advantage of my appearance. To them, I am a white American male, probably rich, probably connected, and therefore the path to their professional dream. Taking advantage of that misconception and calculating anticipated support from people I thought might be interested in helping Stateside, I bluffed - promising the cash as if it weren't a big deal - got them started, and now have some fundraising to do before they lay down the studio-cut. If you are interested in contributing, I’ll leave information on how to make a donation at the end of the post.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Next, we wanted to get T-shirts, posters and decals with the song title, message and musicians’ names printed in the US to distribute in Rwanda. Because matatu drivers love to put stickers on their vans, making decals of their favourite musicians that simultaneously promote the song’s message is free advertising and a probable way to subliminally affect people’s psyche. Likewise, with the T-shirts – many Africans idolize western culture, particularly that from the US, and cherish clothing imported from the States. So every time they wear these shirts in town they will also promoting sexual behaviour change. We have been in communication with a graphic design artist and a t-shirt printing business in the US who seem to be interested in donating their time and resources at a discount for the project, with specifications/recommendations for the design and color scheme coming from the musicians who know what their fans will find catchy.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">That wraps up what has been established so far. Now I’ll explain where this project is heading.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">We are hoping to arrange a meeting between Gilbert, Miss JoJo, KGB and national leaders, particularly the head of an AIDS-awareness organization called PACFA Rwanda. We would like to get the project integrated with national support so it can be in large part owned by Rwandans themselves and not solely implemented and sustained from outside sources. If the people see national leaders working side-by-side with their heroes, they will be much more likely to seriously consider the message we are all trying to persuade them to take into account. The musicians also want to invite a world-popular American rapper named Sean Combs (stage named P Diddy) to put his voice on the project – which would add incredible support in the minds of the common people. KGB is hopeful that President Kagame will not only work with them to issue an invitation to Mr. Combs, but will also help get merchandise printed in the US shipped tax-free to Rwanda through the Embassy.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">If you are interested in donating to the project, please write a check made out to my mom (Joan Huntley) with "Rwandan Music Intervention" written in the memo (my parents’ home address is: 1501 Westview Drive; Coralville, Iowa 52241; USA). She has agreed to collect the money and will wire it to Africa when we raise the amount in full. Also, if you have ideas to help facilitate the project, please feel free to email me at: benhuntley02@hotmail.com</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As always, thanks for reading, and I will catch you on the flip-side.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">BJFH</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-37861274411556425312007-03-12T00:45:00.000+02:002007-03-17T13:49:44.044+02:00*Correction*<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ATTENTION:<br />After re-reading my previous post, I was horrified by my own analysis. What I wrote was unbalanced and unfairly harsh; I had ideas in my mind that were not accurately translated into words - and unfortunately the translation was unnecessarily negative. If in the last week you happened to log on and read the post, please re-read the edited version as it now stands. And know also that there are a lot of positives happening in Africa now. <br /><br />Although they are certainly present, not every story is about corruption, mismanagement or despair. And I would point to the Rwandan government as an example of that. With tremendous respect I look at the leadership of Paul Kagame, President, and his incredible ability to balance challenges while maintaining safety, security, and stability within his country. Rwanda is a nation that has its act together and is progressing at a surprising pace - oblivious to most of the world. <br /><br />Even in Tanzania, its neighboring country, people are surprised to hear that Kigali is a safe town. Tanzanians, as I suspect is the case with the people from every other country, still see Rwanda for its genocidal past and have not given it a fair analysis since. And not only do positive stories come from a governmental level, but also at an individual level there are many tales of success and hard work - many people who fight tirelessly for a bright future. <br /><br />The people I most closely interacted with in Rwanda were incredible examples of this, working long hours and making great personal sacrifices so their country could move forward. The Western media already paints the continent in its worst, and it is wrong for me to add to that lop-sided depiction. Naturally I fixate and magnify weakness in hopes that doing so, taking a detailed look, will lead to a better solution. Being mindful of this, I will try to also share the strengths I see everyday but have not commented on. <br /><br />Please accept my deepest apologies for posting before proof-reading, and my sincere request that you try to see Africa in a positive light.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-23852498215226347012007-03-12T00:06:00.001+02:002007-03-17T13:51:10.142+02:00Introspection, Thoughts from Rwanda, More Introspection, and my Mbezi Beach Classroom<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Sunday 11 March, 2007 – 20:36 – Dar es Salaam, Tanzania<br /><br />Leaving Kigali was not an easy move, but now with just a few days under my belt already Dar es Salaam has become a comfortable and familiar place to live. The other week my Iowa City pastor asked when my return home was scheduled – and in all honesty it took a moment to understand what she meant. Obviously she wanted to know when I’d be returning to Iowa City, but she used the word “home” – and I did not feel away from home. Cliché as it may sound, if home is where the heart is, then I am home everywhere I go – because I cannot help but dole out the depths of my soul to the people I am with.<br /><br />I have been pondering a paradoxical realization of late in regards to the self. This past year put me through many experiences that profoundly impacted me. The paradox is that while on one hand I know exactly who I have become – that is, I am fully cognizant of the effect these powerful experiences have had on me - on the other I have no idea who I am because I no longer completely relate to any one culture. Certainly I am not African; I was born and raised in the United States. And yet I am not American, because I have matured in Africa. And even within this enormous blanket called Africa, I do not belong to any one people group or culture. With Samburu lips I point to objects, and with Rwandese eyebrows I acknowledge people. Even the Swahili I speak is a mixture of dialects form Kenya to Congo, and my English certainly is not the same. And more than these external markings, I have changed internally too; my whole thought process is different. I have learned to walk places with the chi in my stomach rather than with the swiftness in my legs. It is an African way of walking that I never understood until one day I saw the transformation in hindsight. And my concept of inherent rights has totally shifted. Parts of me come from so many places; I am not sure how I will culturally re-enter the United States.<br /><br />Last night, for example, I went to a bar for goat and coke and struck up a conversation with a Maasai. A short while later we were head to head in one of his tribe’s rhythmic high-jumping contests – jumping and groaning, chanting, shaking our heads and rocking our chins to the same beat. Stuff like that does not strike me as odd anymore – just fun (by the way, they walk around the city just like they do in the bush, wearing traditional clothing with big holes in their ear lobes and an intimidating whooping sticks in their armpits – and also by the way, I beat the Maasai in his own game… but he was slightly inebriated).<br /><br />Perhaps I should compose a final analysis of Rwanda, but much of what I learned will likely trickle its way to consciousness over the next few weeks, months, years – so I am not in an adequate position to make finalized statements about the country. It did, however, leave me with a major transformation. I used to feel guilty for my privilege, but I do not anymore. In fact, in this sense I find guilt is a useless emotion that does not lead to anything productive beyond the alleviation of our own pain. The line between guilt and compassion is incredibly thin – and yet incredibly deep. I have crossed into that other land. And not only have I crossed, but I have understood the cross – and when examining privilege, where I used to find utter guilt I now see but utmost responsibility.<br /><br />In his book Compassion, Henri Nouwen describes the title’s only word as finding the most intense area of pain and making one’s home there. From that vantage point we can assist people to mental, emotional and spiritual freedom. That is the responsibility Rwanda put before me, a lesson applicable whether living in East Africa, The United States, or anywhere in between.<br /><br />This is not easy to bring about, and it is certainly not simple. When Christians talk about spiritual freedom, religion floods the mind – but it should not necessarily do so because by itself it is not a good answer. I am now realizing that the church has had a terrible impact on people around the world because it has not brought spiritual freedom but religious imprisonment, teaching people to believe and not think. It gives them faith, but not the ability to reach faith via understanding – and this is disempowering. When people are told to merely accept faith, then it is not their own but rather their evangelists’. But mental freedom is not attained when people hold fast to what is true without first testing everything. Because faith becomes a rigorous and measurable system of behaviour choices that, if followed to perfection, will lead to freedom (and not simply an expression of intense love for God), people can be twisted into incredible amounts of emotional anxiety; the conformity they strive for is not necessarily who they are or even who they truly want to become. Even if this sort of control moves people in a positive direction, it strangely resembles dangerous brainwashing of awful regimes from the last century – a sort of blind faith in what someone says. So if people are not being taught to think for themselves, how much have we really progressed? This is blind faith is endemic of the world-wide church, and certainly true of the early steps in my own faith journey<br /><br />In making these observations I am not trying to set myself apart as more righteous by preaching division from the church, because I do not have a corner on the market of wisdom. These are just some observations from a kid who is in the church, not of the church, but certainly not outside the church, so take them all with a grain of salt. Know that they are just as much criticisms of myself as they are of anyone else... and if we don't have the freedom to comment when we see things starting to go awry, then we don't have the freedom to be honest, vulnerable, intimate, and real before each other and thus, as a body, before God.<br /><br />The church is not a bad institution, though. It means well in assisting people to healing beyond what the world can provide – and I believe Christ has the power to do that, and the only power to do it completely. Many people have experienced depths of emotional pain that I hope to never know, and yet have come out of their valleys through faith and support of the Church. This is certainly true in Rwanda, where, through the church, people have learned freedom - freedom to forgive, freedom from their past, freedom to reconcile, heal, and love. It is also true of many other parts of the world. But in pushing the end result we’ve often forgotten that the path and process to get there is also important. So how do we bring people to spiritual, emotional, and mental health? I don’t know completely, just that it takes time, deerves attention to the individual's needs, and cannot be formulaic.<br /><br />As a post-note, I would like to insert snippets from an email a friend sent because I think he more closely and concisely says what I was trying to get at:<br /><br />***<br /><br />...you are right in your critique of faith being pawned in our churches absent of critical thinking. What kind of love is that for God when we don't search his ways and explore his mysteries? Is it an arranged marriage with Jesus? Or is there a courtship...a time to explore before committing? At least I think that is what you were trying to communicate. It is prevalent in the church everywhere. Did God say, "Love me with all of your heart and strength", but not with your mind? No, with our minds, too.<br /><br />What I've found is that I believe everyone is strong in some areas and everyone is weak in some areas. And we need to be humble in all areas. Same goes for churches... they all have strengths and weaknesses (blindspots). How can the Church be humble enough to admit this? How can we be humble enough to admit this? God have mercy on us all!<br /><br />***<br /><br />My perception of the root of Africa’s problems has also changed through many conversations with native friends who have helped me to see another angle. Previously I saw Africa as a victim of outside exploitation, and all this business about globalization and neo-liberal ideology really irked me. But I no longer think this is the sole cause of this continent’s problems. While Africa is a victim, it is also a culprit to its own suppression because of mismanagement, slow cultural work ethic and a lack of synchronization in movements to overhaul the status quo. Curious that as outsiders we blame ourselves, yet Africans also claim responsibility.<br /><br />Anyway, enough of this speculation and back to Dar es Salaam. It is incredibly beautiful here, like a vacation, which makes me feel irresponsible after having buried both children and adults who died from needless causes, knowing these sorts of things do not just stop when I am not around to see them but continue to go on. But my objective here is to learn Swahili and not to single-handedly save the world, so I am trying to learn to loosen up. Earlier this evening I befriended a Tanzanian of about the same age, sitting together at the point of the beach where the soft sand stops and the hard sand starts, just beneath the line of driftwood in the flat spot where the tide comes in. It was wonderful, laying there in the setting sun, learning Swahili as he wrote words with his finger in the sand – with occasional waves clearing the slate for more phrases. Not to brag, but from time to time coconuts washed ashore beside our classroom. And it was nice too, because he wanted to learn English – and we both knew just enough of each other’s mother tongues to facilitate learning without one language becoming a crutch and thus dominating the conversation. We are going to meet again tomorrow on the beach at the same time to continue our learning. So I think I’ll continue like this, taking three and a half hours of structured Swahili courses from a tutor in the morning, then using friendship to improve upon and perfect what I learned in the afternoon and early evenings. Although I cannot see the future or where this skill will take me, I am excited to get there, and until then will continue to work hard. Good night!<br /><br />ps. If you were wondering, I found out this week that I am 29th on an alternate-list for med school at Iowa.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-37714312622639675122007-03-08T05:44:00.000+02:002007-03-08T06:13:36.671+02:00Contact me in Tanzania<span style="color:#006600;">Hello all,</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">If you'd like to reach me in Tanzania, please make use of the following:</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Ben Huntley</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">c/o Dar Es Salaam Independence School</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">PO Box 32391</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Or send an SMS/text message to:</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">+255786798337</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">Sincerely,</span><br /><span style="color:#006600;">BJFH</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-46206526880982487492007-03-03T14:35:00.000+02:002007-03-19T13:26:09.699+02:00Pushing Cabbage In Congo<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 3 March, 2007 – 07:40 – Kigali</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The last couple of weeks d</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">isappeared on me and I’m not sure which dire</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ction they went, but all of t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">he sudden these are my final days in Rwanda. On T</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ues</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">day Tanzania greets me with the challenge of </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">learning Sw</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ahili through a two-month intensive training course, followed by a month-long internship in a remote central-Tanzanian clinic.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJVJWi5e0urH4syP8mZWawYeMr9TvzL0yNf6vNkCHri6zocIbkjxpKgcImkqmy7LyaUXu2rCE9THAfm-eNv52-Mvstc55pWyLAZzYvoulqlFNl4aDG6EWdfzmoGH15yIv6DaoH7KLiihw/s1600-h/DSC02272.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJVJWi5e0urH4syP8mZWawYeMr9TvzL0yNf6vNkCHri6zocIbkjxpKgcImkqmy7LyaUXu2rCE9THAfm-eNv52-Mvstc55pWyLAZzYvoulqlFNl4aDG6EWdfzmoGH15yIv6DaoH7KLiihw/s200/DSC02272.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037695413282314290" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The P</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">hy</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">s</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ics of Medical Im</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">aging class wrapped up nicely, and after that the Kig</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ali H</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ealth Institute (KHI) had me o</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n assignment crissc</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">rossing the country to teach and supervise students learning to take blood from patients’ arms. They first sent </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">me to the western city of Kibuye – a quaint town on lake Kivu that overlooks</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> Congo across the water. Gacaca was meeting when my partner and I arrived; prior to 1994 approximately 60,000 Tutsi lived in </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">the area, but 54,000 were killed</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> – hence the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">community </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">court hearings that still take place. Some of the saddest stories c</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8nXEFrcH7uMmADkwqHn2gkG1B8DPLcXJlsAbMKYiN1Tbe8cuzug2A0wzVJrIww3AQhNqJeoEORknp7WQHf3BI1et5jZTjm0TEd27Ze2zdvCzG0MXFp9FKPgw0WDqlypUBgVV8kbKm6Y/s1600-h/DSC02284.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8nXEFrcH7uMmADkwqHn2gkG1B8DPLcXJlsAbMKYiN1Tbe8cuzug2A0wzVJrIww3AQhNqJeoEORknp7WQHf3BI1et5jZTjm0TEd27Ze2zdvCzG0MXFp9FKPgw0WDqlypUBgVV8kbKm6Y/s200/DSC02284.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037699330292488322" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">om</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e out of </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Kibuye, but I wish not to </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">share them, as Rwanda </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">deserv</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">es to </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">be known for things a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">part from</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> G</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">enoci</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">de – and we’ve talked enough about the lingeri</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ng pain.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">B</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">eing on an as</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">s</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ignme</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">nt for a t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">eaching institution here is much different than what might take place back home. Im</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">agine </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">reaching your destination after a three-hour nauseating ride in an overcrowded va</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n, only to discover there is still another half hour to be traveled on foot out of town, through the woods, a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">long a p</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFY3GBrjHbHLDLQS3o4uKOjw-0QZWKMdlkExxU-QSUTVGFDsI4RoDTR356DdG2aL95LzLDjlDDraxwGXuttlRZhxvqeK5bKTfqAT6_t9fim7ujL99BHFStK_q27knBl-wCS9lwc9wcp4/s1600-h/DSC02233.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFY3GBrjHbHLDLQS3o4uKOjw-0QZWKMdlkExxU-QSUTVGFDsI4RoDTR356DdG2aL95LzLDjlDDraxwGXuttlRZhxvqeK5bKTfqAT6_t9fim7ujL99BHFStK_q27knBl-wCS9lwc9wcp4/s200/DSC02233.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037695778354534466" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ristine lake, and passed the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">fishermen befo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">re reaching campus. But what delight it was to be so far removed from the hustle and bustle of Kigali and to make fri</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ends with fishermen in their carved-out trees that serve as boats.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The teaching itse</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">lf was pretty uneventful. We brought needles and what not, and after a short lecture taught the students to take blood from each other. They did well to</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">o, most hitting the vein </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">on their first attempt. Only one </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzYyExlfReXerp_B4zkmIMFz3X0BqlquLBjnyRrGgwhPkdt6jNEgAbkgbOQvEN1jKBZknuxZbjynPdvK6ZtBsJuekfe3mVo4Y65ANtMS5IpJ68znUx0GNWyy_IOeCPQx0S766PE97BzE/s1600-h/DSC02276.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzYyExlfReXerp_B4zkmIMFz3X0BqlquLBjnyRrGgwhPkdt6jNEgAbkgbOQvEN1jKBZknuxZbjynPdvK6ZtBsJuekfe3mVo4Y65ANtMS5IpJ68znUx0GNWyy_IOeCPQx0S766PE97BzE/s200/DSC02276.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037698793421576306" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">student passed out in a class of fifty, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">so I was pretty happy. It di</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">d not dawn on me until</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> walking out of the classroom how painfully ironic it was that in trying to help a Rwanda rebuild its health care system I w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">as teaching students to take blood, when taking b</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">lood was the very thing that killed their families and crumbled their c</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ountry.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_o7oHsHMqwAgcN1OgZ-40JiGEldX47LeAd7AbvsMEt4WrFRFz6zxDjBJDw9S8Hvsr-dpNIYiM1eAYdsbaz84j5c3PLYs_rQ1LmzDLpfJZaNow3tVNJsF5gc9Ug4KSyRlGOxe3FPUn94/s1600-h/DSC02186.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_o7oHsHMqwAgcN1OgZ-40JiGEldX47LeAd7AbvsMEt4WrFRFz6zxDjBJDw9S8Hvsr-dpNIYiM1eAYdsbaz84j5c3PLYs_rQ1LmzDLpfJZaNow3tVNJsF5gc9Ug4KSyRlGOxe3FPUn94/s200/DSC02186.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037682652934477762" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qn-0ssDAMzbSeNBQF8yo4hzYcmz2cokfCB5D_PrhdliIGcmGw3GYqrA9aA78GPEk0LxkDhHLmQ-AqI9Dh3MQW8wS6zpOtcrz46HxNC3Ti375PLvjdL1NEU9L-WXtYnpDjsvN81bkHNM/s1600-h/DSC02181.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qn-0ssDAMzbSeNBQF8yo4hzYcmz2cokfCB5D_PrhdliIGcmGw3GYqrA9aA78GPEk0LxkDhHLmQ-AqI9Dh3MQW8wS6zpOtcrz46HxNC3Ti375PLvjdL1NEU9L-WXtYnpDjsvN81bkHNM/s200/DSC02181.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037681360149321634" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QF9n6GAwHK5xyM1Zq6mJ9QhV-HwNy0U3DUzIX6TlOkdauR3HKdDN2jRj-OqpkRwAcsEaEhv86PGh4PTXZtr28CjrfM_gQZ3i4Sw8J8ttE211twykKGvzUxfe1GyKB1xuBYf_gdtBLZA/s1600-h/DSC02182.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QF9n6GAwHK5xyM1Zq6mJ9QhV-HwNy0U3DUzIX6TlOkdauR3HKdDN2jRj-OqpkRwAcsEaEhv86PGh4PTXZtr28CjrfM_gQZ3i4Sw8J8ttE211twykKGvzUxfe1GyKB1xuBYf_gdtBLZA/s200/DSC02182.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037682111768598450" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKuYRM7blO4IjgR-iCcwsDz3VQERzzfTVyWole04z893AK50jA2S74dbgqTEbBmI1l8hfaIye4N9OF8_PRjftBGeOr1Cl35iO4yios9GUNSm_Dnyj-Xntr0EBvOA7lN1h98ibn9pfbzI/s1600-h/DSC02180.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKuYRM7blO4IjgR-iCcwsDz3VQERzzfTVyWole04z893AK50jA2S74dbgqTEbBmI1l8hfaIye4N9OF8_PRjftBGeOr1Cl35iO4yios9GUNSm_Dnyj-Xntr0EBvOA7lN1h98ibn9pfbzI/s200/DSC02180.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037680827573376914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6D-0IENwIHNjIDAsBRyXkKIoKDY8uSi-UnvpTYnRVyqKjuattV-coGhDrBxcTwzIfMlVHARV8q4IOKvJ2hf1A52hK0N4tsXqMluM72Xl1ySjjToGPLOcG-emS7FB4c0a87XfLr0nYtw/s1600-h/DSC02190.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6D-0IENwIHNjIDAsBRyXkKIoKDY8uSi-UnvpTYnRVyqKjuattV-coGhDrBxcTwzIfMlVHARV8q4IOKvJ2hf1A52hK0N4tsXqMluM72Xl1ySjjToGPLOcG-emS7FB4c0a87XfLr0nYtw/s200/DSC02190.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037686617189292002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiWsC5t43Fplgga08mpZ10rQzJdcuJ1_BI1lgAZ1UqHE4jlR95F1Vt_emy2FlzNpQgMLqM0rSVG8RtXwtCmDSJu0JlIv8j5XX6f46IkJmTpcy2t07YX9ldipeh-C0ecTjedqnheJBWIc/s1600-h/DSC02198.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiWsC5t43Fplgga08mpZ10rQzJdcuJ1_BI1lgAZ1UqHE4jlR95F1Vt_emy2FlzNpQgMLqM0rSVG8RtXwtCmDSJu0JlIv8j5XX6f46IkJmTpcy2t07YX9ldipeh-C0ecTjedqnheJBWIc/s200/DSC02198.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037691732495341570" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5T9KC1dvYxvtdF7HXUZIRlZY5KqG6ZOYw-oYUuUCrizz4EPSv9AJvXtBSTJ-X8DLMigIWArcC3P7DP6HnI3gAJRAv9ztzfAZ0mq54VZfkp3F-o6mnvy5LbCyELSAeMM-ZlT_0LV1-ew/s1600-h/DSC02183.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5T9KC1dvYxvtdF7HXUZIRlZY5KqG6ZOYw-oYUuUCrizz4EPSv9AJvXtBSTJ-X8DLMigIWArcC3P7DP6HnI3gAJRAv9ztzfAZ0mq54VZfkp3F-o6mnvy5LbCyELSAeMM-ZlT_0LV1-ew/s200/DSC02183.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037684138993162194" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Wit</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">h </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">an op</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">en </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Mond</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ay and Tuesday a few weeks ago, I made my </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">way </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">through</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> the mo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">untains in the north-western part of the country to the north-shore t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">own of Gisenyi. There I ho</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">pped on the back of a motorcycle </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">and cros</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">sed the border into Goma, of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Fearing petty theft, I</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> l</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">eft my credit card in Kigali </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">– but unfortunately did not bring with me as much money as perhaps I ought to have. After payin</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">g for a visa and one nig</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ht i</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">a cheap and sle</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">zy hote</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">l (look closely at the picture... on the night stand next to the bed lay a bible and a pack </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxiRrW1Zsvy-JIlPmrdK6uO4qgr0sovxMw-um9uLj3k9obSa8qHQfqkbTp9ZRMJHIfS2nt6_QVQ2aL6Z489QWQtP4Lu_mgnouJw4dZamOO0HMsXpcxaVoZ-tshKA0DnQELC3fg91IoZ4/s1600-h/DSC02236.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxiRrW1Zsvy-JIlPmrdK6uO4qgr0sovxMw-um9uLj3k9obSa8qHQfqkbTp9ZRMJHIfS2nt6_QVQ2aL6Z489QWQtP4Lu_mgnouJw4dZamOO0HMsXpcxaVoZ-tshKA0DnQELC3fg91IoZ4/s200/DSC02236.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037696336700282962" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">o</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">f condoms for the occupant to choose from!) only 100 Cong</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">olese Francs remained in my pocket</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">… about 27 cents. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The only affordable activity available was walking, and I dearly wanted to visit the ba</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">se of Nyirangongo – an active </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Volcano that spread sheets of lava all </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">over the area</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> five years ago – so I did just that… walked… some 20 </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">kilom</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">eter</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">s ou</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">t of town, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">throu</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">gh villages, to the bas</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e of the volcano. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">About </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">mid-afterno</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">on and in the </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">heat of the day, I passed through a police checkpoint and </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">was whistled off the road. My face must have looked exhausted and delirious, because the policewoman, bless her s</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">oul, sat me down in the shade and offered both an avocado and a mango. I cannot even rem</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ember the taste, but it was the most enjoyable fruit I’ve ever had. She was a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">pleasant woman, by contrast to the Congolese army who also pulled me </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">aside </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">earlier in the day, but who were not a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">s friendly.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAbDvPCE5InzxUePhQ-2UVItXbj4QyIG582IlslzcYN0a8tgLD20-Ndw1Xq_9iIKWadU-ZCDds0JeT5VWtdG1Wl1gud2iKbF2KyUe4Q1W5yjZ71oELdScw-2GBB3cSiTaF3d7ZYCk26w/s1600-h/DSC02193.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAbDvPCE5InzxUePhQ-2UVItXbj4QyIG582IlslzcYN0a8tgLD20-Ndw1Xq_9iIKWadU-ZCDds0JeT5VWtdG1Wl1gud2iKbF2KyUe4Q1W5yjZ71oELdScw-2GBB3cSiTaF3d7ZYCk26w/s200/DSC02193.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037689490522413042" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">After resting shortly in the shade of </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">her hospitality, I continued. Some time late</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">r I pass</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ed a beat up truc</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">k with a coffin </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">strapped to the back, and </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">a crowd of people gathered around to walk the body to a nearby cemetery – an</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">d for some re</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ason they asked me to take a picture. Per</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">haps it was an honor to be phot</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ographed, with a little dignity </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">restore</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">d to a sad set of circumstances, I don’t know – but I t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ook</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> some pictures and they were happy.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">At last I rea</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ched the Volcano and went to take a picture but a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">p</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXuUoGV6b770475JgmxWTbST5dwjh64hU1_n66vX_IoTKKGXeVEPVGm9h5GCe0EE8UhcQ5GMX-yI3H-gYM12RIyP5xOdATA75OQUA7QkToBFukD_1Dp48LQ5y5NKikc8JzmgNeaGR640/s1600-h/DSC02201.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXuUoGV6b770475JgmxWTbST5dwjh64hU1_n66vX_IoTKKGXeVEPVGm9h5GCe0EE8UhcQ5GMX-yI3H-gYM12RIyP5xOdATA75OQUA7QkToBFukD_1Dp48LQ5y5NKikc8JzmgNeaGR640/s200/DSC02201.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037679182600902514" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ark ranger stopped </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">me, saying a permit was needed to do so if standing </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">within the confines of a national park… so I backed up fifteen</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> meters to an area t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">hat wasn’t part of t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">h</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e national park, took the same picture, and headed back – on foot – to Goma, now 20 km away.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It didn’t take long</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> before some guys from the Congolese army jump</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ed out from the forest, ber</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ets and all, strapped with AK47s – but they were friendly. We exchanged </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">greetings in Swahili, then </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvbb5U4bCk9mH1OuP7PAu01Uwh-fjCdPrMJ6xf41sJ0CYkoBcx5_p91NocwN0QvRxwisqfmcz1ZVGL8yK7yhPatXYMTfP4Kmk0awbo7jCUtgv4SOsNZu5PBInmL-y-qb0rQlM70dIknc/s1600-h/DSC02208.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvbb5U4bCk9mH1OuP7PAu01Uwh-fjCdPrMJ6xf41sJ0CYkoBcx5_p91NocwN0QvRxwisqfmcz1ZVGL8yK7yhPatXYMTfP4Kmk0awbo7jCUtgv4SOsNZu5PBInmL-y-qb0rQlM70dIknc/s200/DSC02208.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037692514179389458" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">they helped me try to flag down a car heading back to town… except after fifteen minutes no cars came, so I continued on foot, eventually catching up </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">to some boys pushing cabbage on a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">make-shift bicycle. Since we were both going to Goma, and I could not just walk bes</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ide them as they worked hard p</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ushing a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">heavy load, I </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">jumped be</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">tween them and started pushing as well. It was damn funny for the peasants we passed to see a white boy pushing cabbage through Congo – but the lau</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ghter was rewarding as it was dir</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ected less at me and more at the comical situation.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtSDB0AK6d-KYY0ewIe9Pt0NTt3It-1Ooj8ocuSGeC37RGbmmM4-l2k5N-AxRrXJnLyzlHCTqkKxUemSZqgJNHDI5NiADDjMhnvCyoCkfnDrqycRGiYy4VskTv9RzIh76oV-OqnrvYmA/s1600-h/DSC02223.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtSDB0AK6d-KYY0ewIe9Pt0NTt3It-1Ooj8ocuSGeC37RGbmmM4-l2k5N-AxRrXJnLyzlHCTqkKxUemSZqgJNHDI5NiADDjMhnvCyoCkfnDrqycRGiYy4VskTv9RzIh76oV-OqnrvYmA/s200/DSC02223.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037694279410948130" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Some time later a Lorry (open bed semi </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">truck) came roaring by, carrying produce and people from Lord knows how far away. Seeing an </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">opportunit</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">y to get back before dark, I bounced out f</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">rom between my frien</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ds, ran </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">down t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">he truck, and with a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">le</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ap of faith pulled myself up and joined the peasants. They also found this to be funny – but again it was beautiful laughter. Maximizing m</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">y limited Swahili, a few of them almost cried they were laughing so h</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ard – and we just rolled like that, barreling through the countryside back to town. When one of the gentle</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">men came around to collect money, the peasants all stood up for me – saying the Mzungu was too funny to have to pay. And what a Godsend that was, b</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ecause I didn’t have much in my pocket and was not looking forward to </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">picking a fight in Congo. In a gesture of friendship, one woman even gave me three hand-lengths of sugar cane for free – and oh my was it good; even were there to be no sugar, the liquid in a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">nd of itself was healing to my dehydrated body. Lord, bless her soul too.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Last week a friend and I attended</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> a neighborhood barbeque, and the national TV cameras were there as well. Although some local elders talked for three hours about Gacaca and local politics, the majority of the footage that made airtime was of the mzungu eating at a barbeque and listening intently to a speech he did not unders</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">tand. Sometimes when they spot a white they can be</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">come very excited.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntOIWPvZrBXG0FIsdsM-5by31I6Yvn32luXCyF8RMOKUJIvW97L9EsaPLoXDgehuPqbbI8NTVNaOxHaqS1wMCtDcJRNd4MX0j7IjNZO2UtSCTShfqjz2D6Zwb-AFVKMQ4o23AdYb_KU0/s1600-h/DSC02290.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntOIWPvZrBXG0FIsdsM-5by31I6Yvn32luXCyF8RMOKUJIvW97L9EsaPLoXDgehuPqbbI8NTVNaOxHaqS1wMCtDcJRNd4MX0j7IjNZO2UtSCTShfqjz2D6Zwb-AFVKMQ4o23AdYb_KU0/s200/DSC02290.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037699978832550034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvjRkpxHtxDkR7GxAKrGXZOaIwUkxgbVNyxxy020lgRtCZmiztW_QXade0KQNDNjtfne4jRlodrm70B-vbj8NsTKDYMzgUtWxs6FvRRAnLB_4RpIKrENMMkVq8rvNr92qelDmq6GSt1o/s1600-h/DSC02298.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvjRkpxHtxDkR7GxAKrGXZOaIwUkxgbVNyxxy020lgRtCZmiztW_QXade0KQNDNjtfne4jRlodrm70B-vbj8NsTKDYMzgUtWxs6FvRRAnLB_4RpIKrENMMkVq8rvNr92qelDmq6GSt1o/s200/DSC02298.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037700348199737506" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Last week I traveled with a coworker to Rwinkwavu, a rural village that is home to a Part</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ners In Health Clinic. The place w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">as amazing, and their philosophy radical. Imagine a clean facility with internet in the middle of nowhere – and picture every patient being fed warm, nutritious food. Try to </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lp1F2cRuc6mI6WgRbsVhGNJGoE07Iv-v7KA7VGYDBqWkTEFf4Ll3mCr9P5mSkMI1Pz9z7_vJjfsfHIBlon8uz4UmA9DgEDyClmNoPOcZWipsG629orAJTrP1sX4ABuiaXXqtl4ms-9c/s1600-h/DSC02300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lp1F2cRuc6mI6WgRbsVhGNJGoE07Iv-v7KA7VGYDBqWkTEFf4Ll3mCr9P5mSkMI1Pz9z7_vJjfsfHIBlon8uz4UmA9DgEDyClmNoPOcZWipsG629orAJTrP1sX4ABuiaXXqtl4ms-9c/s200/DSC02300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037697801284130914" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">understand that by protocol, doctors make home visits if patients don’t show for appointments. But most importantly, picture an environment that breeds some of the ugliest and far-advanced tropical diseases, and yet even the patients and their families exude positivity. It’s like finding a patch </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">of sunflowers in the slums; we did not want to leave. Since then we’ve submitted a preliminary research proposal with hopes of returning to work </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">alongside friends w</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ho graduated from medical school him. If they pick up our proposal I’ll share it with you all.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-71311276664940070122007-03-03T14:33:00.000+02:002007-03-20T05:26:43.735+02:00Little Things From Kigali<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 17 Feb, 2007 – 14:24 – Kigali</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyaDma-OkPY0lZhlwhS3tZ7fvP7nCTKrkSUIXaWzAC0xTVr1c20Yd9Nr9pWMbfqKixw7glcntdfV4XQTvvwodjx79QMY72HitS8Bq7dZhTzk_QrEiX-GAuOmrvTB6Mf4Y-YRmKr9IzMo/s1600-h/DSC02097.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyaDma-OkPY0lZhlwhS3tZ7fvP7nCTKrkSUIXaWzAC0xTVr1c20Yd9Nr9pWMbfqKixw7glcntdfV4XQTvvwodjx79QMY72HitS8Bq7dZhTzk_QrEiX-GAuOmrvTB6Mf4Y-YRmKr9IzMo/s200/DSC02097.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037702160675936434" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Of course, I have an entire other life apart from crashing thoughts and genocidal encounters that I have not yet writ</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ten much about. For instance, I am living with</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> a loving family </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">in a s</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">afe neighborhood, with the most adorable children. When I first arrived we had two pets, a dog and a chicken – but then we ate the chicken, so now we just have the dog.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">He can be kind of nasty though. I was playing rough with him during my second week in Rwanda and he put a tooth through my palm. Within half an hour my mother was on the phone ge</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">tting the low-down on Rabies prevalence with Rwanda’s top Veterinarian, the mayor of Kigali. It was nice to be so thoroughly cared for. But the next morning I felt awful and slightly homesick, so I st</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ayed in bed dreaming about how comforting pancakes would be. It had not ev</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">en been two weeks but already I was dreading millet-porridge for breakfast every morning. I waited for noise in the kitchen to dissipate</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> so I could make my own food without being rude. When I finally crawled out of bed and into the kitchen, there were pancakes waiting for me, covered to keep warm. A mother’s instinct when I feared rabies and wanted to be home – lovely.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWV2Xkc1d1m25T4c8-SGWUAEmUXx7NhxTnifg9y9gjA42-y_99Fkn2EErh-e6RxszPWBeFTQ2XbJ9xF5GB1tkMIuuQCRYrrS5WPMuaJn-W-y1IezCx8eqk9a39A_1TE89kAPodiww0Os/s1600-h/DSC02104.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWV2Xkc1d1m25T4c8-SGWUAEmUXx7NhxTnifg9y9gjA42-y_99Fkn2EErh-e6RxszPWBeFTQ2XbJ9xF5GB1tkMIuuQCRYrrS5WPMuaJn-W-y1IezCx8eqk9a39A_1TE89kAPodiww0Os/s200/DSC02104.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037702444143777986" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The other night I was up late reading through a Medical Imaging </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">textbook, trying to prepare for the following morning’s lecture – and completely stressed out. My six-year-old sister came into the dining roo</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">m and sweetly asked what I was doing. “I can’t talk now, my friend, I’m trying to prepare for class tomorrow”. Seeing how not-to</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">gether I seemed to be, she then offered: “Well, usually when I need to prepare for school I just color for a while then go to sleep”. Her innocence was so beautiful, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I couldn’t help but<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">p</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kJASjbnNZn97GeK5VMLdgZNso6FgfpoIKyLVMhiLzQ6ZytMV8xFMBTuW3AroG7mkXp25sMf1877ppNPwhVdSaOOVcuFW8tti8aGWcxIKW4XMje0DpOvo7L-IA7d2nmDlOLhmnHtu-S0/s1600-h/DSC02114.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kJASjbnNZn97GeK5VMLdgZNso6FgfpoIKyLVMhiLzQ6ZytMV8xFMBTuW3AroG7mkXp25sMf1877ppNPwhVdSaOOVcuFW8tti8aGWcxIKW4XMje0DpOvo7L-IA7d2nmDlOLhmnHtu-S0/s200/DSC02114.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037704016101808354" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ush my book aside, smile, and wish her goodnight as she ran off t</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">o </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">We have five house helpers who live with us</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> as well. Some of my </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">favorite moments are sitting out back with them over a charcoal fire, trying to learn Kinyarwanda while sucking sweet nectar out </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">of fresh sugar cane. And then there are all the times getting from place to place by matatu - cruising through Kigali, the driver blaring Bob Marley, f</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ling that every little thing will be alright.<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5jfXYQayVf-0z-aN1mVSV_5u8vjIEmLYx57kxabM9CTibEo5_kF-G6bUUeOpiZ-hE6ov2YTaC6uEJUt-a-2tPpUxPh2MuZTcQ2QjOysVJpgqBpbPJiICu1ODP7A-YKVzDaExIvENPVc/s1600-h/DSC02107.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5jfXYQayVf-0z-aN1mVSV_5u8vjIEmLYx57kxabM9CTibEo5_kF-G6bUUeOpiZ-hE6ov2YTaC6uEJUt-a-2tPpUxPh2MuZTcQ2QjOysVJpgqBpbPJiICu1ODP7A-YKVzDaExIvENPVc/s200/DSC02107.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037703509295667410" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Teaching has been a fun challenge too. Although it seems pretty </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">tame compared to all the other stuff going on, I’ve enjoyed thinking on the spot – sometimes shoving the chalkboard aside to draw incident photons and ejected electrons on the walls and floors, representing Bremsstrahlung Radia</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">tion and the Photoelectric Effect that makes X-ray generation possible. My students laugh, but the unexpected craziness seems to help solidify the physics in their minds.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Last week was a special one for me – a white coat ceremony. This probably sounds shocking if you know me well, as I’ve vowed never to attend a WCC – the first step in a long, ego-inflating process that often separates doctors from their patients. But I have to wear a lab coat at the hospital, and someone stole the one I was borrowing. In the course of trying to recover the contraband, I spiced the laundry department with laughter and made a great many friends. When I came into the hospital on Valent</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ine’s Day there were dozens of patients and much work to be done – but I bopped into Laundry to say hello, and was then presented with my first white coat – specially tailored to fit my frame. Because I am white, they assumed I was a doctor, not just a lab tech, and thus made it extra long. The dimensions are not quite right, my name is written in pen, threads dangle here and there, and my hands don’t fit in the pockets – but I love it… partly because it is my coat, but mostly because, tattered as it may be, it represents the imperfect world I wish to heal and be healed by.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">* Post note – the day after I originally wrote this entry my coat was stolen and I was very upset… but I put word out in the laundry department and when it cycled through again to be washed I got it back!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Hospitals are wonderful places to study cultures. In the United States I’ve seen people explode when their headache is not treated in what they deem to be a timely manner – but in Africa mothers sit patiently, even </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">when the child on their lap has Tuberculosis. After work the other day, my friend Gilbert – who is a doctor because the interhamwe did not kill him – and I were talking about politics in the US. After I explained the tension between Democrats and Republicans, he matter-of-factly observed, “at least no one is going to kill your family for their beliefs”. He is teaching me a lot about being positive and seeing things in perspective. Again, he matter-of-factly commented the other day, “say you don’t have a job – at least you have legs. Someone out there doesn’t have a job or legs, so you are actually quite lucky”. Sometimes I hear things of this nature in the United States, but they always seem overly-virtuous and somewhat artificial because everyone has legs – and those who don’t have access to quality health care. Here though, in Rwanda, having no legs is much more probable, and therefore gratitude is a much more powerful lesson.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">If you have chance to tune in</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">to Rwandan Television, please watch carefully when the Rwandan Coffee commercial airs – you might recognize the white guy. Filming was fun… and knowing that I’m on a commercial in Rwanda makes me laugh.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn5-UUxR9J4OGE7n3kLW-VoRUVuxxOBoaEH1gaWMLu8H-LLZ6BTodi4LkLB39K51Tg-vxhPywSjgeJL0sogImnm6qlhGIi3bC3N4CYdpUxX2SnZikK7kpLlLN0NPw7lEYoCj6E9SAZEo/s1600-h/DSC02117.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVn5-UUxR9J4OGE7n3kLW-VoRUVuxxOBoaEH1gaWMLu8H-LLZ6BTodi4LkLB39K51Tg-vxhPywSjgeJL0sogImnm6qlhGIi3bC3N4CYdpUxX2SnZikK7kpLlLN0NPw7lEYoCj6E9SAZEo/s200/DSC02117.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037705373311473906" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It was also a great week because a friend from the US, unprompted, pledged financial support – and so in celebration I ate fresh fruits and vegetables. It was the first time in I don’t know how long that I was satisfied on something other than tea, bread, plantains, potatoes, rice, and ugali (equal parts flour and water, boil off the water). When I finished eating – oh was I happy! – I just sat there and soaked up all the nutrients, kind of like moving from the couch to the living room floor on a lazy Saturday morning so you can lay in the sun rays that flood through the window and march across the floor. Growing up, I always heard about nutrition but it never made sense because I took it for granted. But now I understand how absolutely amazing fresh fruits and vegetables really are.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-61302715819492839962007-03-03T14:31:00.000+02:002007-03-20T05:31:00.042+02:00Gacaca<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Saturday 17 Feb, 2007 – 11:36 – Kigali</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjwM0iUxYYtWqHIcXjXculm3DDshqnkpbhFIicbmb6VTAKOENPFLCidPXU_kWpbvk8-Hc9-D7FFlWU7s433M1qr0fFIN4wGZTutyl-VwGz7Env1BBEFd4khVMtpNulbIOh1GbRaTVk1E/s1600-h/DSC02121.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMjwM0iUxYYtWqHIcXjXculm3DDshqnkpbhFIicbmb6VTAKOENPFLCidPXU_kWpbvk8-Hc9-D7FFlWU7s433M1qr0fFIN4wGZTutyl-VwGz7Env1BBEFd4khVMtpNulbIOh1GbRaTVk1E/s200/DSC02121.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037709208717269250" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and its capitol is the smallest city of a million you will ever find. Meet someone once and you are bound to run into them again. Last weekend at Gacaca people greeted me with a great bit of hostili</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ty – particu</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">larly the woman I sat next to who, for no apparent reason, relentlessly chastised me for</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> jotting notes and drawing sketches. Recognizing quickly that we were not going to get along, I tried to avoid her, but throughout the remainder of the hearing</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> she and her friend glared an uncomfortable, unwelcoming stare – unnerving in its own right, and all the more coming from a foot away. When court adjourned I noticed the killer’s family approaching her, and I turned away. “She’s one of them,” I thought, shuddering, and hoped we’d never meet again.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The following Friday night a doctor friend of mine and I were walking through Nyamirambo – a bustling layman’s neighborhood – when a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> car pulled u</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">p next to us. Friends in the front seat greeted my friend, then introduced themselves to me. With a wink and a smile, I took them off guard in their own language as I always like to do, and everyone laughed. “Rashonje?” they asked. Yeah, we were hungry. So at their invitation, we got into the car – me first, then my friend. After settling into the back seat, I turned to greet the woman ne</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">xt to me. She looked familiar, and I knew I had seen her somewhere before. She spoke first, in a startled voice. “Hi. I know you from Gacaca”. Oh shit. Squeezed into the back of a car – we were cramped just as we’d been in that packed courtroom, and I could neither leave nor hide. Just my luck she was a friend of a friend of a friend – and now we were going out to eat together. Given the choice to pretend nothing happened or address head-on our uncomfortable history, I chose the latter.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Dinner was powerful. As it turned out, both of us wrongfully assumed each other’s identities. Recounting how we came to this realization is not nearly as important as her story – so to save time, suffice it to say that she </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">was Tutsi and present when the man on trial killed her mother and sister – and because I was white and at Gacaca, she assumed I was French – a supporter of both the former genocidal government and the current corrupt judicial system.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVHVLJtK39WGj_FE0nK1SYYENIbt61_6HRLLmsKycLud3RxF-NQRmB7yTKFPDo-4BH_WfuDCtL4-QuS_-VtixvXRplkuBY1ALgUysNEsoaYdh_yKC092WqvunmaKbGNUcMskCS8RosGE/s1600-h/DSC02132.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVHVLJtK39WGj_FE0nK1SYYENIbt61_6HRLLmsKycLud3RxF-NQRmB7yTKFPDo-4BH_WfuDCtL4-QuS_-VtixvXRplkuBY1ALgUysNEsoaYdh_yKC092WqvunmaKbGNUcMskCS8RosGE/s200/DSC02132.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037709797127788818" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n her neighborhood, a community of approximately 500 Tutsi, there were only 17 survivors. The Hutu on trial, an obnoxiously fat man, was a famous killer in the area, directly responsible for murders in at least ten homes - and who knows how many others for which he was an agitator and accomplice. He had previously been sentenced to 27 years in prison, but his family is very rich – and through obvious corruption, his file, stored at the prison, was conveniently erased. When the Tutsi community cried injustice, officials agreed to start the trials over again - from scratch.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Before I arrived at Gac</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">aca, my friend gave her testimony. Her mom was screaming when the Hutus broke into their home, “Mukuobwa, come here – come to mommy”. But she didn’t – she ran and hid nearby. Two minutes later, gun shots that still burn in her ears. Pow Pow. Then silence. After some time, she went back to find her mother’s body stuffed beneath a bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">The fat man stood and began to speak. “Yeah, I remember your mother,” he feigned a thoughtful, sympathetic voice. And then in a sick and biting tone, continued “she had a distinct face. I remember shoving her beneath the bed. But I did not kill her – I just helped put her there”.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Does that shock you? It sure did me. But try to understand the overwhelming number of convicted murderers</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> (with 300,000 killers, at two trials per day every day it would take 410 years to hear every case), coupled with limited prison space and no death penalty. The judicial system does not have room for mere accomplices – so all he has to do is claim a mere passive participatory status </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">and he is a free man. That gives him freedom to ruthlessly interject pain, admitting, as she stood giving her testimony, that he was indeed there – that he saw the horror in her mother’s eyes as she voraciously grasped for life with one arm and held Mukuobwa’s sister with the other, and that his warm hands knew what her limp body felt like. That’s sick.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">After the court dismissed for deliberation, as I said in the introductory paragraph, the killer’s family approached Mukuobwa. That is when I turned away, missing the humiliation and mocking so disgustingly lavished on a vulnerable, hurting young survivor. “Whatever you are saying and doing is only a waste of time because he won’t go back to jail. It was the inyenzi who killed themselves. They were inyenzi, weren’t they?” And I wasn’t watching when the onlookers chuckled in unison each time she spat inyenzi – cockroach – a derogatory Hutu ter</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">m for Tutsi.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeez-ssZbHeUStN0vY9oYiU5vI57TZCvLiXVQDpBSiLQHrPiZ86UVKrcuzoO9xqS8wsDL2j9UXCMbDXhORS0xDc8nLTi8uGxXPKwWCOlNPOf5L2qUx683_HRBLGtmBuKHg3XvkWWTy2Qo/s1600-h/DSC02144.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeez-ssZbHeUStN0vY9oYiU5vI57TZCvLiXVQDpBSiLQHrPiZ86UVKrcuzoO9xqS8wsDL2j9UXCMbDXhORS0xDc8nLTi8uGxXPKwWCOlNPOf5L2qUx683_HRBLGtmBuKHg3XvkWWTy2Qo/s200/DSC02144.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037710527272229154" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">When our conversation came to a pause, my friend quietly added, “For us, genocide is still going on” - a powerful statement coming from a man who effectively escapes pain through Tai Chi and a fortress of other peaceful philosophies. “I really believe survivors are not safe. We will be killed, because genocide is still very much in the minds of people”.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I should pause here to explain this thought. Last week I sat on a balcony with a former UN employe</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">e who was here during 1994, and we talked about the genocide until well past sundown. Genocide doesn’t just happen, he pointed out. This thing had been brewing for decades, and its philosophy had been passed down from father to child for generations. This was a very well organized plan – and there are still people who wish to see it completed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Psychologists say the killing became addictive, and I have yet to find anyone who disagrees. The guilt of murder is so heavy that the only way to lessen the weight of what one did to a single individual is to do it over and over again. That’s why he says present day Hutu hate is really only Hutu guilt manifested – and that the only relief will be to kill everyone who reminds them of their past.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I asked an innocent</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> question that proved to be almost comical to my dinner companions. “Do you think I have seen killers on the street?” Of course. All the time they are being released from prison, making room for others. “You can just catch them on the streets – but they code what they say,” he said. “They call it university. If two were in prison together, then see each other in town after they get out, they might say, ‘Hey – I was with you in university. And they are always being released because the government does not know what to do. It can’t kill them and can’t imprison them. How can there be justice? There cannot be”.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMFpQeeWnXduv-3S2uZgTwi1OSp4cR07eQl38J90UMmRNuMqngiJJvUVBE1Qc1lRS4q15vnZHXhLYTegIYDJ5rlTHfeh-xRZUkBpCLofFmWjCZVY4mItZdK-jdfG0V8aTneEYkN9WHJQ/s1600-h/DSC02162.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMFpQeeWnXduv-3S2uZgTwi1OSp4cR07eQl38J90UMmRNuMqngiJJvUVBE1Qc1lRS4q15vnZHXhLYTegIYDJ5rlTHfeh-xRZUkBpCLofFmWjCZVY4mItZdK-jdfG0V8aTneEYkN9WHJQ/s200/DSC02162.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037711369085819186" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">n villages, killers are even judges on the Gacaca panels – and if there are 8 judges in all, quite easily there might be only 1 or 2 Tutsi. This, too, is a difficult position to be in, because Tutsi judges are still killed. In fact, Tutsi survivors in general are killed so frequently, says he, that although he sees it in the newspaper, he doesn’t even bother to read the article because he knows its there and that nobody is doing anything about it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I asked what the new identity cards look like. He got his out to show me – then Mukuobwa, from across the table, softly said she had an old one, her mother’s, that she pulled from her body that afternoon. And then abruptly, yet quite naturally, we left the restaurant. And it occurred to me that even that moment, leaving the restaurant, was symbolic of life in Rwanda – abrupt, jagged, and yet so accustomed to being abrupt and jagged that it almost seemed fluid.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">*Post note from 3 March – last week we went together to hear the verdict. He was guilty on all counts and re-sentenced to 27 years in prison.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-11618956642148422872007-03-03T14:29:00.000+02:002007-03-20T05:51:42.389+02:00Communion/Exhaustion<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Monday 2 Feb, 2007 – 09:26 – Kigali</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRwZUEarEpT8cVn7i178twKuYYdkc4qibZtcfW0WHi7nMV0pd_oBQ0qFyKySxLZcc9DvowGVZY_4tKb-rHVpyCDN6ZRn6_WZhxNWvLqj93kvEiIxlo7OjLL-UsvLuCp0CZS5KVXlGP7M/s1600-h/DSC02077.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRwZUEarEpT8cVn7i178twKuYYdkc4qibZtcfW0WHi7nMV0pd_oBQ0qFyKySxLZcc9DvowGVZY_4tKb-rHVpyCDN6ZRn6_WZhxNWvLqj93kvEiIxlo7OjLL-UsvLuCp0CZS5KVXlGP7M/s200/DSC02077.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037714719160310082" border="0" /></a><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqec6Q6JydErGz7zTiWdOrTXqkQ4Win_p1xlTlRR_KfO7ZAfA14_itO6NyOicT55UMzst6qnR0rQB_Ex4-fcQF8LgxoiSChhFl-Csv9Lb550cCY8KfosLFxWQQy1Vm_wddNsn4Ab7_6vY/s1600-h/DSC02081.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqec6Q6JydErGz7zTiWdOrTXqkQ4Win_p1xlTlRR_KfO7ZAfA14_itO6NyOicT55UMzst6qnR0rQB_Ex4-fcQF8LgxoiSChhFl-Csv9Lb550cCY8KfosLFxWQQy1Vm_wddNsn4Ab7_6vY/s200/DSC02081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037715535204096338" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Of late, most days in Kigali have been difficult, and the exceptions are few a</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">nd fa</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">r between. This is not a complaint or solicitation for sympathy, but simply a cross section of life that I want to share; for if this is what it’s like for me, you can imagine what it’s like for most Rwandese. Most of the difficulty is fueled from not having much money; spending five dollars per day renders my account bone dr</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">y before I get home. So sometimes I skip meals, but then am hungry and subject to depression. The other night I brought biscuits home and se</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">t them on a shelf. When I </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">came back five minutes later they were gone. I asked my little brother how that could be and he told me, “Because you cannot own food – it’s to share”.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Being white and in</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> Rwanda can be hard at times too. Last night I told this to my Rwandese friend, but she could not believe it. “Can that be true? No. In years past we were hostile to whites because they represented the non-intervening world, but Rwandans are much more friendly today”. So I told her stories. I told her about the guy two days ago who got off his motorcycle and introduced himself with a question and a biting tone: “Why do you come here and expect everyone to speak your language?” I was crushed, furious, and defensive. With a cold stare, I wanted to look at him and say, “well, you dumb ass, English is actually one of your country’s official languages”, but that would have been terribly foolish. So instead I responded in Kinyarwanda: “Beetay bjaway?” (How are you?) – then quick</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ly added “Cheh cheh kah” (Shut up). It was a foolish and I’m not happy with myself, but I was hungry and frustrated and tired and – yeah, whatever, I cra</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">cked.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Yesterday I went to Gacaca (a community court that still hears cases and sentences killers from the 1994 genocide). Although the meetings are open to the public, throughout Gacaca eyes drilled through the back o</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">f my head. Afterwards a noticeably disturbed but friendly gentleman approached and greeted me in English. We talked for a while and he explained who everyone was, what was said, and how the court worked. On our side, three men in pink uniforms were getting into the back of an official-looking truck. “Those are the prisoners,” he said plainly. “Two of them are killers and one is a witness to their innocence, but he lies. The one there,” he pointed, “sitting in the middle – he was on trial today. He killed my mother”. At the moment, I am not sure how to hold that interaction.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I finally got ho</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">me last night and collapsed on my bed - and lay there for probably two hours - exhausted, frustrated, defeated. Wanting more than anything to be understood. I pictured putting a USB adapter at the end of an IV so I could shovel my depleted state into words for you to understand. All sorts of tough questions swarmed through my head. Why am I here? Why did I give up the comforts of home? What am I supposed to do with all I see and experience? Then, without straining, an answer just kind of appeared. I came here to serve and not be served, because that’s what Jesus did, and he is my model. And then I remembered something about being part of the body of Christ, about setting aside the self, and how testing of faith develops perseverance. So I got </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolUkxKhGP9D0p6dnbvbHAZIlkB8J0nsl96rtdRim7tQoTD2IweGec6by-V432Bc0BPOZjrXKl2G5T_VgIHsqnZZKlBiotBOwZcrZOhgHK_IvFUYGYb8Og5E_-u_aJK0TNO3UzxrbbLWU/s1600-h/DSC02089.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolUkxKhGP9D0p6dnbvbHAZIlkB8J0nsl96rtdRim7tQoTD2IweGec6by-V432Bc0BPOZjrXKl2G5T_VgIHsqnZZKlBiotBOwZcrZOhgHK_IvFUYGYb8Og5E_-u_aJK0TNO3UzxrbbLWU/s200/DSC02089.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037716535931476322" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">up and went to the dining room, poured wine into a cup, tore off a piece of bread, and took communion. And at that moment, better than ever before, I understood what it meant to take the body “in remembrance of [him]”. Exhausted but not in despair.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Picture to the left is of the church in Kicukiro (just up from where Shooting Dogs was filmed)</span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-82388424951212209242007-03-03T14:27:00.000+02:002007-03-03T14:29:03.092+02:00Email to Andrew<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Hey Hirsch -</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Thanks for taking time to write. I actually have four or five long entries to post but for a number of reasons have not put them up yet. Mostly I like to tell myself this is because I've been busy - but really I know much of it is because things have not been going well - and thus I know the writing is just whining... and how can I whine about life being difficult when I've got an ipod in my pocket, a laptop in my backpack, health insurance, and a plane ticket back to the US? And yet in some respects it has been difficult, and in some respects I have been poor. I have these things because people gave them to me, but for my personal bank account - I'm way strapped. I'll spare the details (and thus the whine), but basically for a while there I was having to skip meals or just eat bread - and I didn't have money for fruits or vegetables - or anything nutricious really. And this became depressing, because I was hungry and tired, and people looked at me like I was wealthy and spoiled - and the shearing between what I felt and how I was perceived hurt. A friend asked how I was really doing, though - and I told him... and after thinking/praying with his wife, they decided to give me $100/month for food... both for me and for others (a contributing factor to my hunger was that street kids needed food more than me - hence I bought them lunch and went without) (don't think i'm righteous - you'd do the same if you were here). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I am actually now at the internet cafe, but the connection is too slow to upload entries. There's lots coming, though - and many pictures.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Something I won't make public (because I don't want people to think I'm full of myself), but which is kind of neat... I went to the Partners In Health clinic with a friend, met Paul Farmer's wife Didi Bertrand - a medical anthropologist - and submitted a research proposal that combines elements of genocide, AIDS, and prison/justice systems. At the moment I've been told to wait, but I might very well get the chance to do research on an untapped topic with Gates/Clinton Foundation money. Sometimes I get too excited and have to chill a bit - take myself less seriously, because at the end of the day I'm just a small dude on a big planet trying to catch a glimpse of a bigger God. So research with PIH or not, I'm not that important, you know? </span><script><!-- D(["mb","<br /><br />I've also met with the top Rwandese pop-music artists and think I've convinced them to release a song about HIV/AIDS, love, faithfulness/fidelity, et cetera. Pretty crazy to think I can just change influence them and thus public psyche like that. There are a lot of details to come, but I'll let you know how it works out.\n<br /><br />Do you mind if I post this email on the website? It feels better to have explained what I've been doing to you in a manner that isn't overly dramatic, and maybe others would be interested as well (or maybe not... this is all just small dude stuff that only sounds big because it's happening in an area that people are afraid of).\n<br /><br />Take care,<br />Benja<br /><br />ps. I don't know this JJ song, but you're more than welcome to send an MP3 as an attachment and I'll download it when I get to Dar Es Salaam, TZ next week.<br /><br />pps. Yes, I think single-handedly works just fine.\n",1] ); //--></script><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I've also met with the top Rwandese pop-music artists and think I've convinced them to release a song about HIV/AIDS, love, faithfulness/fidelity, et cetera. Pretty crazy to think I can just change influence them and thus public psyche like that. There are a lot of details to come, but I'll let you know how it works out. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Do you mind if I post this email on the website? It feels better to have explained what I've been doing to you in a manner that isn't overly dramatic, and maybe others would be interested as well (or maybe not... this is all just small dude stuff that only sounds big because it's happening in an area that people are afraid of). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Take care,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Benja</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-71345996357146867132007-02-10T11:02:00.000+02:002007-03-20T05:51:16.317+02:00Shooting Dogs<div style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Friday 9 Feb, 2007 - 21:38 – Kigali<br /><br />In January, 2005 I drove to Chicago to see “Hotel Rwanda” and cried in the theater. It was a powerful movie that, oddly enough, left me feeling good – like I was noble for caring, seeing it and becoming educated. As the credits rolled I remained frozen, eyes glued to some nonexistent point beyond the screen. I thought I understood.<br /><br />Two years later, with all sorts of eagerness, I set foot in Hotel Des Milles Collines – the real Hotel Rwanda, an icon of the country and of genocide in the minds of the West. I do not fully know what I was anticipating: something difficult to swallow yet wholesome, something about finality and closure. Part of it was an expectation to be grounded in my humanity – as if being there, in the shadow of a nightmare, might cause me to better appreciate my own evil potential in a broken world. And if I could understand that, then maybe I could recognize its early developments, suppress them, and be good.<br /><br />But the shearing between what I expected and what I experienced left me raw. It was a remarkable moment, realizing I had been conned. Although the Hollywood film portrays genocide, it dawned on me that the movie is really about hope and positivity; a hero who lives, a family that is reunited, and an ending that is uplifting. But being here, in Rwanda, I realize there was nothing good about genocide, and the ending is not uplifting.<br /><br />I see the ending on the streets, in the papers, and even still in the health care system. Just last week a little boy was admitted to my hospital with a machete-severed forehead; some one did not want his father to testify to accusations of genocide crimes from thirteen years ago, so they attacked his family. Yesterday I passed a three-year old begging on the streets – alone. Americans cannot handle that ending. It doesn’t make the movies; it doesn’t make the news. We hear all the positives about the Gacaca system, but in truth it is a mockery of justice. Cold-blooded murderers stand in front of their victims’ families and deny the pain they caused, meanwhile their friends cut foreheads, shatter windows, and threaten potential witnesses that can challenge the lies.<br /><br />If you have enough courage to face truth and want to understand Rwanda in 1994, set aside Hollywood’s entertainment for a BBC film called “Shooting Dogs”. It does not hide or hype, it just tells. The film, shot on location, is so raw and numbing I could not even cry, but only sit and shake, and feel spasms throughout my chest. It will leave you silent and sober, but strangely alive, aware, and appreciative for your privilege. If you do take up my challenge, please send me an email after the movie.<br /><br />I still think Hotel Rwanda is a good film, but it is not valid if you are trying to understand what took place outside, or even within, the confines of the hotel. Rwandans say it selectively leaves out details from its own story that they find appalling. The toughest one being that only Tutsis who could pay were saved. In fairness, I have no qualm with Paul Rusesabagina’s pragmatic decision, because he used the money to bribe Hutu leaders – but Rwandans think the film makes a hero out of an ignoble man. Thus, they voted him the 2006 Villain of the Year (The New Times, 1 Jan, 2007).<br /><br /><br />As grim as I’ve been, I should say that not all is lost. Hutu and Tutsi are now terms only used in private conversation; in public Rwandans exist without distinction. People are trying to move on. And it is also true that Hutus and Tutsis work and live together, however this is only made possible with conscious ignorance and chosen forgetfulness. They all know pockets of violence and unhealable wounds remain throughout their Rwanda. At the moment, this appears to be the ending that Don Cheadle’s film left out. But maybe it is just the middle of a longer story. Maybe with the influx of NGOs and humanitarian aid, and with efforts to move forward, necrotic wounds will fall off and instead of living their history, the generation after the next generation will tell it only as a story. At least, that is my hope.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKsggVItrXzAjZvukv8RcuJkxciv-3qySIOhyfCXYwAEdrWePPaOL5x6VvFQJ-vZ2tpj4UZvNa21VS8QGkFtqnEVMFMfK2AxO7M3fHfLieJwLzCChjar3hyphenhyphenCHNLJz3471RZE4euSPtSM/s1600-h/BelgiansMurdered.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029838784401041698" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKsggVItrXzAjZvukv8RcuJkxciv-3qySIOhyfCXYwAEdrWePPaOL5x6VvFQJ-vZ2tpj4UZvNa21VS8QGkFtqnEVMFMfK2AxO7M3fHfLieJwLzCChjar3hyphenhyphenCHNLJz3471RZE4euSPtSM/s200/BelgiansMurdered.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> </div><div style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Photo of the blood-stained walls where 10 Belgian UN soldiers were killed, a building adjacent to the KHI campus</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-61980766685075622742007-02-10T10:58:00.000+02:002007-05-29T06:04:00.680+02:00Life in Kigali<div style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><div><div><div><div>Thursday 8 Feb, 2007 – 18:58 – Kigali<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9i2L1Ax4lihkZZdxM-o-ZUhyphenhyphenQ8A2zUm6y9-Wqy0buBHRf_Q7nfJ46mC94w6HE_WKHshJ4k2m4McyUjB_PVIjM425OdA4KWXgcau_hq4k8MuRGIwMFFAEL8eCv019hDNhbZ1FNxkrkRUQ/s1600-h/RainyDay.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029830757107165378" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9i2L1Ax4lihkZZdxM-o-ZUhyphenhyphenQ8A2zUm6y9-Wqy0buBHRf_Q7nfJ46mC94w6HE_WKHshJ4k2m4McyUjB_PVIjM425OdA4KWXgcau_hq4k8MuRGIwMFFAEL8eCv019hDNhbZ1FNxkrkRUQ/s200/RainyDay.jpg" border="0" /></a>At last, the first real update from Rwanda, not on genocide, not on a social justice conference, but simply on what I’ve experienced – life in Kigali. A long list of thoughts have accumulated that will someday hopefully make their way into a coherent and presentable posting, but I do not quite have time to do that now. All along I have wanted to share these with you, but more often than not at the end of the day I have been so frustrated by setbacks, annoyances, and the slow pace everything takes that I’ve been afraid to write, fearing immaturity and lack of patience would drone out meaningful observation.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ioAbwreUXgWnrRIULtiFV6IQRdraxMcpK1ARWwHcMgWuDk5v-wuakZsMV5lZsfzRSqGKVNuiMGchSFZVY-nxp_sBAUJ6pvWCBlRIMOsnoG6ofwuDDAH95sQK2R4JOwt-R6oLFzYr2Us/s1600-h/Faisal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029829876638869682" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ioAbwreUXgWnrRIULtiFV6IQRdraxMcpK1ARWwHcMgWuDk5v-wuakZsMV5lZsfzRSqGKVNuiMGchSFZVY-nxp_sBAUJ6pvWCBlRIMOsnoG6ofwuDDAH95sQK2R4JOwt-R6oLFzYr2Us/s200/Faisal.jpg" border="0" /></a>After the first couple of days teaching Med. Lab. Tech. students, things kind of went downhill due to poor communication and lack of planning on the institute’s part. Essentially, when I finished giving my presentations, the course instructor ran out of immediate ideas for class. This upset me. On the streets people are dying because hospitals cannot treat patients efficiently enough to free beds for the other sick, and yet in the teaching institute, with all the educational resources available and potential for improvement, we sat idle.<br /><br />Another professor asked for assistance (aka, wanted to know if I was interested in taking over) teaching a Physics of Medical Imaging course. I spent the next week reading textbooks, taking notes, and preparing lecture material – but I was miserable. It felt like I was spending all my time preparing for the next step but never taking it – and I just wanted to jump, to do something, to be useful somehow to someone. Once teaching began, some of that dissipated.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiTMOvArMh3v6b7aIpxBYAuxC5DWmQJN-Gf5oCgShySGpcYNxHh_vsqU1M0VFSihv7mrbx0oegu-K6v2CrDHKMaFP9t_WfAVzvnjZyZfeqqbh_VCpJwyZoOK6CFW1xchby9MdfOoE-N0/s1600-h/BenFaisal.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029829391307565218" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiTMOvArMh3v6b7aIpxBYAuxC5DWmQJN-Gf5oCgShySGpcYNxHh_vsqU1M0VFSihv7mrbx0oegu-K6v2CrDHKMaFP9t_WfAVzvnjZyZfeqqbh_VCpJwyZoOK6CFW1xchby9MdfOoE-N0/s200/BenFaisal.jpg" border="0" /></a>A large part of the frustration stemmed from not having a clinical outlet, as was my original intention. Whereas the world of academia is filled with artificial productivity, being in the hospital never seems like an absolute waste of time. After a series of disappointments, looking for clinical placements, I finally interviewed for and got a joint position in the Emergency and Laboratory departments in a large private hospital.<br /><br />…<br /><br /><<>> Ok, look – this is getting really tiring, trying explain how everything has come together… and I understand that context is important, but if it is alright, I kind of just want to share stuff that I’ve been carrying with me, and hopefully it will make sense to you.<br /><br />Yesterday morning was heavy. I like to get to school early when I teach. It was just before 7 and really quiet – the same sort of stillness you feel when you go outside after a heavy rain. No cars, no music, no wind, no people. And I was walking down the sidewalk heading one way, and this guy was in the middle of the street coming the other way. But he had no legs, so with sandals protecting his palms, he shuffled his body like an ape down that dirty road. He did not ask for money – he just walked like a man walks down the street, trying to make the best of the cards he was dealt. Images like this do not bother me as they used to; they still make me think, but I’m getting used to them and over my privileged-white-person guilt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RokgciK_JwFKFXXEdmhnXv-MAXhqvVl758HNPxzwJOJuTVENUHsLuHN6k84-2-R1s8WHArZGh-TgIw_yXie4CEV_1itr5IzgytcF7jJvShoovQ1EOjrK4j48Z20PluxrkKrylGDZpXo/s1600-h/OldWoman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029831315452913874" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RokgciK_JwFKFXXEdmhnXv-MAXhqvVl758HNPxzwJOJuTVENUHsLuHN6k84-2-R1s8WHArZGh-TgIw_yXie4CEV_1itr5IzgytcF7jJvShoovQ1EOjrK4j48Z20PluxrkKrylGDZpXo/s200/OldWoman.jpg" border="0" /></a>Okay, back up a couple of weeks so I can register some stuff before I was able to be at peace with all the third world’s craziness. I got into a half-empty matatu, heading home. Matatus do not leave until they are full. This meant I had to wait. People waiting on the inside of a Nissan van cannot go anywhere, which makes them great targets for beggars. A beggar approached the open door. He was blind – both eyes gouged out – holding the hand of a younger man who walks him around. One of the blind man’s eyelids was turned inside out for extra effect. When he held out his arms, I noticed he did not have much for fingers. In fact, only a right-hand stump and one left-hand finger remained. There were scars where fingers used to live. The guy next to me gave money, so I gave money too. Sometimes when I don’t know how to react I just watch what the local people do. After he collected, he was lead to the next matatu. But as soon as he left the next guy came forward, without missing a beat, as if he had been waiting in a line. This one was in a wheel chair and also had an assistant. Both legs cut off at the shin, both arms cut off at the forearm. Some days I’m never approached, some days these lines are endless.<br /><br />Today my sister called when I was walking down the street. I was trying to listen, but got distracted. To my right, leaning against a tree, was a three-year old girl. Alone. Begging. What do you do about that?<br /><br />I don’t give money to beggars anymore. I used to, sort of. Well, not really – but I did on occasion. Giving money does not so much help their problem as it does alleviate my guilt. I also just don’t like to give money – not so much because I’m selfish (although I am), but because I don’t know how they are going to spend it. When I was drinking tea this morning, a man approached me from the street, sniffing a bottle of glue in his left hand and holding out an open palm with his right.<br /><br />I used to have a long list of criteria that beggars had to meet in order for me to help them, but I got rid of most of them. For the most part I just look at people’s feet – if they have shoes they are okay. A young girl, maybe 9, was shoeless and begging the other night on my way home from the hospital, so I took her to a restaurant and ordered chicken – protein… something that is actually good for her (as opposed to fried potatoes, boiled flour-water, mashed plantains, and rice – a combination of typical meals, all options lacking nutrition). I think it is better to buy food than give money.<br /><br />An email to my sister from a while back:<br /><br />Hey Lizz-<br /><br />Funny I should describe it as a wave of happiness, with the implication being that happiness is not the norm. My feelings here are similar to what I found your feelings to be in Syria. Parts I love, others are absolutely draining. In particular, hearing people shout "mzungu!" (meaning white man) is especially tiring. The term is not usually meant with any hostility or inkling of racism, and yet it's exactly that – seeing someone for their color and not their person. I say 'not usually' because although they claim it's an innocent term, as the recipient it's often received with the implication that white people are rich and ignorant, a constant reminder that we are outsiders… and that the boundary will always exist. It's used like this: "Mzungu!" pointing and giggling, "Hehehe… what is that white man doing, he must be lost! Hahaha!" Or what feels worse is when people shout, "Mzungu" to get my attention, then knowing I don't speak their language, crack a mzungu joke for all their friends to laugh at. It's a term used without realizing or attempting to understand why people like me are here in the first place. Not that people's appreciation should be the determining factor of whether or not we choose certain paths of service, but void of appreciation the paths are much more difficult to travel, and painful in their own right.<br /><br />Frequently people pose as friends, establishing a relationship, and then two minutes into the conversation comes the sad story and hit up for money. But they don't need the money – they're lazy and want to rip off the gullible. These are Maria's thoughts, not mine. She points to situations like this that she's been in as a person with money. Because she drives a car, people think she has money to dispense. It's a fair assumption, but if their need was as dire as its made out to be, then the pitch would be posed to everyone who's willing to listen – not just the black driving a car or the white wearing a tie.<br /><br />But then just when I feel exhausted, a barefooted child runs to catch up with me and says in a soft, voice of awe "mzunguuuuu". And he clasps my hand with one of his, and with the other runs his curious fingers through the hair on my arm – like he's come across an odd machine that he really wants to study and know. And I pick him up, and we spin until we're dizzy – then put him down when he is on the verge of wetting himself (a 'short call', as it's named here). Then we laugh and walk and hold hands, and move down the dirt road together. These moments make all the others worthwhile.<br />With love,<br />Benjamin<br /></div><br /><div>This sort of teasing I described happens all the time. It's ignorant racism; the people mean no harm. But it is frustrating. What's equally frustrating is this realization - that to look at a beggar and not give is worse than to flat out, cold-shoulder, ignore their existence. When you look and try to treat them with dignity, you light hope which, when let down, hurts both of you.<br /><br />Alright, my work. What do I do? Well, like I’ve said I’m teaching Physics of Medical Imaging (x-ray, CT, ultra sound, MRI, etc). There are only 10 students in the class, which is much more manageable than the 45 in the first course. The schedule is ever-changing, but it does not bother me anymore – I just roll with it. Figured out that getting upset is a waste of time – and once I got that down, everything seemed to go much better. Last week I taught on Wednesday. This week I teach Wednesday and Friday. Next week I teach Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. Some days for only two hours, some days four hours straight. What am I saying? Just that it’s confusing, but I hope the students are able to take away useful education.<br /><br />Work work. I’m at the largest private hospital in the country, in the departments of emergency and laboratory, and in the operating room on occasion. Pretty much I fill in gaps – triage patients, take vital signs, throw on ECGs, and take blood out of arms. It’s a hospital in a third world country, which I realize sounds exciting, but the work is actually pretty boring and uneventful. The big reason for this is that it is private. That means it’s fancier, cleaner, and for rich people. And frequently rich people go to the hospital for small things – headaches and such. Most of the adults either have high blood pressure or malaria, and most of the children have bronchospasms or URTIs (upper respiratory tract infections… crap in their throat/lungs that makes breathing difficult). Other than the malaria, it’s really not all that different from a hospital in the US.<br /><br />But what about the poor people? They go to the large public hospital. When I asked about this place, the description I got was: multiple patients per bed, unrelated to each other, different diseases. Men sitting crouched in a corner, IVs coming out their arms, the tubes leading to a blood transfusion bags above their heads.<br /><br />I wanted to see these things for myself, but did not know how it would be possible. A few weeks ago when I applied for an internship I got the old bureaucratic run-around. A bunch of stupid people wanting to display their power, making life difficult when all I wanted to do was help. So how did I verify what I was told? Let me break here to tell you a story from Nairobi (it will make sense in good time).<br /><br />I was sitting next to a Maasai (what you picture when you think of tribal people from Kenya – spears, beads, scars, et cetera) and struck up a conversation. At one point I asked him how often he really wears his traditional clothing. “This, my friend,” he said pointing to his outfit, “is a pass that gets me places I would not otherwise be able to go. When people see me like this they’re taken back and wowed. And they also think I must be uneducated, so they don’t even bother to tell me I cannot go through some closed doors. When I wear this, I can do anything”.<br /><br />From him I’ve learned I can do the same, except at the opposite end of the spectrum. My white skin and fancy clothes are passes that get me anywhere. So I put on some polished leather shoes, carefully made my tie, and set off to the public hospital. Everything I heard was true. A man in an automobile accident, moaning, gaping wound. A fly crawling in his bloody leg. Patients curled up every which way throughout the hallways. They are not supposed to be there, but you cannot move them because they’ll just come back. They contort their bodies to squeeze into the smallest of spaces, hoping to be seen next, and then somehow fall asleep like that. Time is elastic in Africa – people don’t mind waiting, don’t really have schedules, and just kind of do their thing. And so it is in the hospital – people just waiting to be seen.<br /><br />A TB/AIDS ward – packed, much different from my experiences in the northern-Kenyan bush clinic. Eighteen inches between beds – and there are a lot of beds in a small room.<br /><br />A story from a friend of mine, from his residency years at the public hospital before he became a physician in the private hospital: A co-worker, responsible for stocking the hospital, one day noticed they were running out of Oxygen, but for some reason did not think to get more. Three days later, in the middle of the night, the oxygen ran out. There were eight children on oxygen – five of them died. My friend was distressed re-telling the event. Parents screaming, crying, “why didn’t you tell us? We could have sold our houses, our everything, and gone to the private hospital”. Stuff like that happens in the public facility. It’s the place you envision when you think of African hospitals - understaffed, underfinanced, overburdened. It’s a mess, an embarrassment and a shame.<br /><br />Back to the clothes. These fancy clothes did not originally cross the Atlantic with me, but once landing in Rwanda and getting to the Kigali Health Institute, it was apparent that teachers are expected to dress in such fashion. At first I hated wearing fancy clothes in an impoverished because I hated being ‘that white guy’. But then my little Rwandese brother told me sometimes kids go home and brag to friends and family on days they shake hands with a white – as if it were something special, like shaking hands with a President. Ever since then I have not minded dressing nice, because I shake hands with all the street kids – in some small part breaking down the misconception that rich whites are above them. Shaking hands with all of them makes it less special and more normal.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowZjDxCnOmzs-480wk9jLwf_Z3OUG_VxMA9jbxovHrncelUEDF0toWUNeIAWix47dqVw77QU3FnnGTpflSv0SQjrbWd0F9p4nxvy6-oa9x-bec3I0ZfOh4ASPejCDjZRuTak7F5RvHeI/s1600-h/GlassWall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029835842348443890" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowZjDxCnOmzs-480wk9jLwf_Z3OUG_VxMA9jbxovHrncelUEDF0toWUNeIAWix47dqVw77QU3FnnGTpflSv0SQjrbWd0F9p4nxvy6-oa9x-bec3I0ZfOh4ASPejCDjZRuTak7F5RvHeI/s200/GlassWall.jpg" border="0" /></a>One of my favorite parts of life here is walking. Sometimes when I’m on the streets I catch people looking at me, wondering how much I have really invested in their country – wondering whether or not I speak their language. I don’t, obviously, but I have learned a handful of useful phrases, and can exchange greetings with the best of them. So I wait, timing it just right, then say as we pass each other “beetay bjaway?” (how are you?). Oh they laugh so much with delight, and I smile, but most importantly by the time they settle down to ask a follow up question, I am far enough away to effectively dodge such a trap.<br /><br />I’ve got so much more, but 1) I’m hungry and tired, and 2) If you’ve made it this far, you’re probably also hungry and tired.<br /><br />I’ll try to write more often, but so many nights I come home exhausted and it’s difficult to move, let alone think. Thanks for caring, though. I really appreciate it. Many days I feel sustained by the thoughts and prayers of my friends back home.<br /><br />Sincerely and with love,<br />Benjamin John Fullerton Huntley</div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-57978427883855729842007-01-29T12:27:00.000+02:002007-02-10T12:08:25.590+02:00Nairobi - Social Forum, Slum<div><div><div><span style="color:#006600;">18-28 Jan, 2007 - from Nairobi, an airplane home, and the Kigali airport<br /><br />I recognize it has been quite some time since my last posting, and certainly there is a lot to process, but I’ll start first outside Rwanda, in Nairobi, Kenya, where I have been attending the World Social Forum. With an estimated 50,000 participants, nearly every country was represented in one of the largest gathering of social movements worldwide.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6nfKR49ZjKNft_nuKpvp3wlW_Wykg6BtqHJqskiQG-4nYFkDVvBbRQSBv3wKp3OKp1RvxqsrgVOf-9Vz7tLoOwipmTz_3jercWgMq9OnmbXXLy95KBgI_q2gOeH4FnAK1rU7jS41vD0/s1600-h/WSF.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029844458052839778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6nfKR49ZjKNft_nuKpvp3wlW_Wykg6BtqHJqskiQG-4nYFkDVvBbRQSBv3wKp3OKp1RvxqsrgVOf-9Vz7tLoOwipmTz_3jercWgMq9OnmbXXLy95KBgI_q2gOeH4FnAK1rU7jS41vD0/s200/WSF.jpg" border="0" /></a>Over the last few days I have been attending a subset of sessions with The People’s Health Movement called the World Social Forum on Health. Along with panels on various health issues, this micro arena served as an open platform from which individuals could speak on health concerns from their countries. In attendance was a mixture of students, physicians, the suffering poor, radical liberals, and a combination of the bunch. But saying the conference was a smash success is constructing a façade. Some positives came as a result, but in general the organization was shoddy, transportation sketchy, and outcome questionable.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxObZEdWfVBlcZb2e3I0VIlvjlPsBZxLR-_bfCzPzUdifyREYKZXoBr9L8W7E9s-fVSg46NCTcOc1i7ta5JHTBgHtRpbdchXlvxd20hTIYw-O0JPqCHnQqT1OLJqLvxh0Mv5Ftqc1fN0M/s1600-h/WSFStreetKid.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029844659916302706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxObZEdWfVBlcZb2e3I0VIlvjlPsBZxLR-_bfCzPzUdifyREYKZXoBr9L8W7E9s-fVSg46NCTcOc1i7ta5JHTBgHtRpbdchXlvxd20hTIYw-O0JPqCHnQqT1OLJqLvxh0Mv5Ftqc1fN0M/s200/WSFStreetKid.jpg" border="0" /></a>At one point mid-week a number of Nairobi City Council members sat in attendance. Kenyan participants did not take long to press their guests on the city’s garbage collection in slums and elsewhere. As it stands, any street functions as waste disposal. Council members argued it was the citizens’ responsibility to bring trash to dumping sites (ten by twenty foot designated plots of land). But that is a flimsy response. To begin with, sites are often front and back yards of homes - surely a health hazard. Economic factors and poor living conditions also make the problem much worse than heaps of coke bottles and rotten food. Have you ever wondered how people go to the bathroom without running water? The simple answer is plastic bags. These toilets are then dropped in dumping sites on the people’s way to work. To the council members’ comments, my co-attendees argued their compliance, saying only when the sites overflow do they set garbage in the streets. And in their support, in spite of tax dollars paid, it seemed that dumping sites were rarely picked up.<br /><br />But we also discussed issues at a larger level, such as the effect of globalization on health. This is, for me, a new and fascinating topic, as I am starting to understand the interconnectedness of health, economy, and the environment. Allow me to give an example. Cocoa is a cash crop in Ghana, which the European Union only charges a 0.5% tariff to export raw beans into their countries. However, the tariff jumps to 31% if Ghanians wish to export a processed product. So Ghana sells its resources at a low cost in order to have them processed in the developed countries, then buys its food back at an elevated cost. Essentially the people get screwed. Unfair trade results in economic suppression, which means at a family-level less money is available to spend on health care, food, education, et cetera. At a larger level, the situation is not much better. Said one speaker, during the thirty years between 1960 and 1990, African countries borrowed approximately 540 billion dollars. They have since paid back $550B, but still owe $295B because of interest. He went on to point out Africa spends more on paying debt interest than it does on health and education. His point was that although bringing poor countries into the global market was supposed to be helpful, it has actually destroyed domestic economies and worsened people’s health. The blame seemed to be placed on the developed countries for exploiting the poor nations. But surely much of it ought to be shouldered by the governments of the poor nations as well. Adding to the existing problem of unfathomable corruption, they have not organized themselves to get production plants up and running in their respective countries, which is within their power to do.<br /><br />On the last day, participants drafted health proposals for their respective continents. Those from Asia were concerned with drug companies exploiting their people as guinea pigs. Issues of sexual and reproductive health made their way to the South American recommendation. I helped a young Kikuyu draft the African document, which included issues of sanitation, affordable health care, availability drugs (anti-retroviral and other – which although are readily prescribed, are quite difficult to find, so I am told), and female genital mutilation.<br /><br />As I fly back to Rwanda and reflect on the week, however, it all seems a big dance. Of course I hope I’m wrong. I hope my pessimism is misplaced and that the political power of the People’s Health Movement (</span><a href="http://www.phmovement.org/"><span style="color:#006600;">www.phmovement.org</span></a><span style="color:#006600;">), a global health body of local, regional, national, and international health organizations, is stronger than my perception. But without international governmental officials present, I wonder if any of these proposals will be read or taken seriously.<br /><br />***<br /><br />As much as I enjoyed working with an international body on international health concerns, by weeks’ end it seems that I have learned much more from those outside the conference than those from within.<br /><br />It only took two matatus to reach the sports complex where the conference was held from the house I was staying. Sometimes it took more if drivers decided more business was available on other routes. Usually, though, the 15 km (9 miles) stretch could be made in two hours’ time.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0XjAo0-m9VY/Rc2YAqW06UI/AAAAAAAAAGs/D33IHTEBR8U/s1600-h/Kibera.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029843495980165442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0XjAo0-m9VY/Rc2YAqW06UI/AAAAAAAAAGs/D33IHTEBR8U/s200/Kibera.jpg" border="0" /></a>Once completing the first leg, there are a number of routes that lead to the WSF. 45 always goes there, and 46 does as well, except the other day when 46 went to a slum. At first this was frustrating; a kilometer walk to the next stage, from which a taxi could be taken back to the main road, where one finds matatus that lead to the WSF. But then I looked around: a grid of blue and gray corrugated tin sheets nailed together like a third-grade science project. Barefoot children and trash heaps. Trash everywhere. Circling around the affordable housing was a trench - a moat of urine, shit and water run-off. A cesspool of filth. Picture a car, stripped of its wheels, thrown in the moat, serving as a bridge to some while housing others. Downstream a woman stooped over and used her hands to fill a bucket with the juice, trickling through all that trash. She poured out the yellowish-brown juice – not tinted, but a thick, dirty color, similar to what snot looks like at mid-day on a construction site. She poured it on some plants, but it was all over her hands, and where will she wash it off? She won’t. So now there is probably E-coli everywhere, and on the vegetables, and people will get sick.<br /><br />The next matatu drove a short distance, then stopped to let someone out. We waited, as we always do, until it filled up again. We were still in the slum. And I noticed something else. Body odor in Rwanda smells like sweaty-armpit, like a teenage boys locker room – sick, but familiar if you’ve ever missed a day of deoderant. The smell on the bodies we picked up from the slum was of rotten fruit, and feces, and Lord knows whatever other odors their skin soaked up the previous night.<br /><br />That morning it took 3 hours to go 15 kilometers, but now I understand the World Social Forum. In the opening days it frustrated me to no end, sitting for hours in meetings where the only development seemed to be a roomful of sore cheeks. But now I do not mind all the talking. Obviously I hope steps are taken as a result to bring change, but at least there was an arena for people to share their stories, a place to de-tox from the hell they live in. Meanwhile, each night I go home to a hot shower and eat until I am satisfied. In years past this made me feel guilty – but not anymore. The discrepancy does not bring fault but rather responsibility to use privilege appropriately in order to reduce hatred, increase respect and, for me, preach love through Christ Jesus.<br />And while I am here, I’ll share another story. On the ride last week I sat next to a rather pleasant, older mother. She looked like she was about 45, so I suspect she was actually in her mid to late thirties. We traded cell phone numbers and the next day she invited me over. Her family lived about two miles further down Ngong Road, past Nakumat Junction for those of you who were with me last summer. We got out and started walking when she warned me she about the slum. Not to scare me, but just so I was mentally and emotionally prepared. “Ben,” she said, “I want you to be here, in the slum, to see how we live so you don’t attend the Forum and discuss issues of health, return home, and never understand what this is”. We meandered down the dirt walkways, through the strip of market space, took a right where the clotheslines crossed, and turned into her tin home. One room for her, her husband and their two kids. It looked like maybe the seat-high table gets pushed forward at night, with the arm-rest width of their chairs designating sleeping spaces. There was a bed that was walled off by a sheet. But that was pretty much it – one room to sit, sleep, do homework and cook – one room to pass time. I took dinner with them – a glass of Sprite, although I think they were going to cook Ugali when I left (boiled flour and water). It was pretty miserable, and yet they did not complain. In fact, most of the people walking around seemed surprisingly happy. Most admirably, although my host told me of the struggles to make rent each month, it was not a sad-story-turned-sales-pitch. She never asked for money – or even implied that I should be sympathetic and give. She simply wanted me to see truth. I think that in coming here, I was hoping to be Jesus to people, to love and to share. But more often than not, they’ve been Jesus to me.</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvi0lBUTHNMY0urW-vRWnkTXZwe6CJN3iD_iIGl1g-r1NNwsX-qbgu-QPzxShwhfYwxdhf01jXmla3JkKq50uxJrCRvCnjSwmEyJcyuxTi-4uGVA11jYSln6XDWU9uVlm0qAeuIXogTI/s1600-h/Leopard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029837160903403778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvi0lBUTHNMY0urW-vRWnkTXZwe6CJN3iD_iIGl1g-r1NNwsX-qbgu-QPzxShwhfYwxdhf01jXmla3JkKq50uxJrCRvCnjSwmEyJcyuxTi-4uGVA11jYSln6XDWU9uVlm0qAeuIXogTI/s200/Leopard.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-49659329866166795032007-01-29T12:22:00.000+02:002007-01-29T12:26:57.914+02:00To Bryan, Jordan, Geoff, JJ, Bren, P, and the others<span style="color:#006600;">Wednesday 24 Jan, 2007 23:20 – Nairobi, Kenya<br /><br />To the friends who are praying for me back home:<br /><br />I am so far behind logging my thoughts and experiences – but the last few days, tonight in particular, have been incredible moments during which my missionary host family in Nairobi has poured into me. This evening Linnie, a pilot by trade, spent two hours viscerally answering questions about life’s challenges here. He also explained the intricacies of flying in the bush – airborne commitment points, down drafts, the physics that make short runways problematic, and hazards that do not exist in the US like finding grazing animals on runways, or missing wind socks, which up and left to become roofing for someone’s hut.<br /><br />I appreciate more than ever the commitment these individuals have made, and sincerely wish to follow in their footsteps. As his job is more difficult without the luxuries available back home, so I long to become a great surgeon who knows how to operate effectively even without a full set of tools. And for what? For social justice? For preferential options for the poor? For adding pages to someone’s story when their book was expected to close? Well, yeah, that is all part of it. But more than that, in the name of Jesus Christ, for introducing people to a source of healing that neither doctors can provide nor science can describe.<br /><br />I should say that it was wonderful to again meet with friends from the bush who have since found sponsors and are now studying in Nairobi. Matt, with the money you sent I paid for two young women to attend the conference as well. The fees for Africans were significantly less than those for Westerners, hence footing that bill seemed like chump change, but they were incredibly grateful. At the end of the first day, they thanked me but said they would likely not be able to return until the end. To get from home to Nairobi, they rode 24 hours in the back of truck, so I was a bit puzzled why they’d come so far to only attend two days. Probing beneath their embarrassment, I discovered they didn’t have financial means for transportation (a buck fifty per person per day), so I gave them cash for that as well... and for food. I felt strongly that if I was to invite them to the conference then I should also provide means of living so they could use the opportunity. All in all, I think I only spent seventy USDs on the two for ten days’ time, which seemed insignificant compared to the thought that women were being empowered – especially for the nurse who lives and works in an area where female genital mutilation is the norm.<br /><br />A great bit of my time was also spent trying to get two from the bush admitted to medical school in Cuba (Havana’s Latin American School of Medicine is supposedly a tuition-less medical school with an emphasis on training people from underserved areas to go back to their underserved areas and provide health care). For some political reason, students are not allowed to apply on their own, but rather must rely on direct government-to-government communication, so I got to know the Kenyan-Cuban embassy well. Unfortunately I don’t think we made much progress, but I remain optimistic. All of this – the conference and the embassy - is really a microcosm of what I hope to do in life, use my privilege to stick a foot in the door and give others opportunities in the larger geopolitical realm. At any rate – Matt, thanks for your faith and trusting me with to put that money to good use – and for the rest, as always, prayers appreciated.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-9223333280229770902007-01-09T10:59:00.000+02:002007-02-10T11:37:48.655+02:00Mail Me<div><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">If anyone wishes to send letters but distrusts international mail, a reliable alternative presents itself. At the end of the month I'll be attending a conference on international social justice in Nairobi, and will be meeting up with a friend from the US whose organization is also attending. My friend, Emily, has kindly agreed to bring me any letters you wish to send with her to Kenya. So if you'd like to write, please have your letter delivered (arriving before January 19th) to</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_SdAKEc4NCzEWQs_1Y1BO11XTrhzUfCXoUozN81sMvWyQxol634Equt2FACnF_-RKWzn0mQiXquQdAlmzoxfcs5SIiqQXwQWcptWPXl3kn54eK5BsgFvR2Si0cWz0cUAGmnNW9OqpoM/s1600-h/Skype.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029837912522680594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_SdAKEc4NCzEWQs_1Y1BO11XTrhzUfCXoUozN81sMvWyQxol634Equt2FACnF_-RKWzn0mQiXquQdAlmzoxfcs5SIiqQXwQWcptWPXl3kn54eK5BsgFvR2Si0cWz0cUAGmnNW9OqpoM/s200/Skype.jpg" border="0" /></a>Emily Carlson</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">Attn: Huntley</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">4126 Chester Ave. Apt. #2</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">Philadelphia, PA 19104</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">Please also feel free to send chocolate, pictures, and/or music.</span><br /><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">Thank you and sincerely,</span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,102,0)">BJFH</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3229112273721718095.post-2274757807292234132007-01-08T12:43:00.000+02:002007-03-20T05:50:10.638+02:00Medical School<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Monday 8 Jan, 2007 – 08:56 Kigali</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It was a beautiful day at 6 this morning when my alarm clock got me out of bed. The sun had just started to share its rays, the birds sing their songs, and the preacher man next-door scream about heaven and hell like there was no tomorrow. We get that a lot in Kimihurura, my neighborhood, living next to the Pentecostal church. It was a big day for me, a 22 year old near-adult, getting ready for his first day of medical school... as a lecturer. In two hours’ time I was to stand in front of 47 second-year students and introduce them to their course in Medical Laboratory Technology. But before we get there, let’s back up a bit and talk about the formation of this nebulous internship.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Two years ago I met a Rwandese physician named Maria Kabanyana at an HIV/AIDS conference in Iowa City. Over the course of a few days we became friends, talking about AIDS, genocide and a few of the world’s other plagues over coffee at a downtown shop. We kept in distant communication via email, often with long gaps in between messages. I’m not sure if it was first my proposition or her invitation, but somewhere along the line we began discussing the possibility that I’d visit Rwanda, getting a first hand experience of its health care system.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">She put me in touch with an administrator at the Kigali Health Institute (KHI), to whom I sent my resume and request for an internship. A couple of emails later everything was confirmed, sort of. I had received notice that I’d be interning in the department of “Med. Lab. Tech.”, which I took to mean medical laboratory technician. Given my experiences as an EMT on an ambulance, working in the ER, and spending the past summer as a health care provider in a northern Kenyan bush hospital, I assumed the internship would entail something in clinical medicine.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">However, two weeks before departing from the US, it occurred to me that I did not really know the details of my internship. Upon enquiring as to what precisely it would entail, I received the following message:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">"Benjamin, courses here will commence 8th January. At the moment we are about to start the year plan but will be coming to you shortly, probably on monday. At the moment however, Is there any subject in medical sciences you would like to teach?"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">What? Teach? I am merely a student on furlough, hoping to be admitted into medical school myself, not teaching it. But then this realization: with genocide came the collapse of a health care system. Doctors and students alike either sought refuge or were murdered. And of those who fled, few will likely return to this nightmarish land. Rwanda is now proactively trying to rebuild its health sector, with focus put on training nurses, paramedics, and medical students. And so yes, teaching. After all, I do have a degree from a reputable institution and thus license enough to share what I’ve learned with students who have not had the same opportunity. After a flurry of exchanges and conflicting details from multiple sources, I decided to just show up, figuring it would all make sense once I arrived.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">As it turns out, “tech.” actually stood for technologies as in “medical laboratory technologies” and not technician, as I had incorrectly presumed. Furthermore, KHI, I learned, was actually a university and not a teaching hospital. Hence, what they keyed in on was not work experience but the Biomedical Engineering degree under my belt.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Last Thursday the Med Lab Tech professor and I got together to discuss my stay at KHI; he had not yet planned out the semester, but thought it appropriate that I begin on day one, teaching a lecture on Lab Safety. Then in a few weeks I’ll travel around the country facilitating the curriculum’s phlebotomy education at branch campuses, which involves lecturing, demonstrating, teaching, and supervising during their in-hospital rotations.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I also have a joint-appointment in the department of Medical Imaging, where I’ll be teaching the physics of Ultra Sound, X-ray, and CT (I made sure to wiggle my way out of MRI because of its dauntingly complex physics). This will likely take the majority of my time, studying by night and lecturing by day – seven hours, five days a week. Fortunately they use the same textbook as I studied from during my master’s level course. Unfortunately they only have one book to share between myself, the other instructor, and about 45 students.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">So back to today – the educational system in Rwanda. After a small breakfast (peanut butter and jelly on a bread roll – peanut butter costing $4 a jar but, for me, absolutely worth it), I took tea, sent emails, and headed out the door. The first matatu (translation: twenty people crammed into a microbus, calling itself a taxi) took me downtown. The next one far away from where I needed to be (the chauffer, taking advantage of my ignorance, told me he was going one way, took my money, and went the other). Frustrated, I hopped off, said my prayers, and took a motorcycle-taxi to campus (my first time on a motorcycle since working in the hospital three years ago, where I saw my fair share of paralyzed cyclists).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I made it to the empty classroom just in time for my 8 o’clock lecture. “But where are the students,” I asked Roman, the paid professor. He assured me they’d trickle in. And then the most peculiar thing happened. Seeing that I was in the right place at the right time and ready to teach, he wished me luck and shuffled back to his office – and never came back.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I had 2 students by quarter after, 5 by 8:25, then back down to 3 at half past eight. Janitors came ten minutes later to pour buckets of soapy water on the floor, a perfunctory cleansing of an already clean floor. Apparently the first day class is a casual one and, for laboratory students, optional at best. Most of the class, said the ones who were present, were looking for housing and attending to other needs, and probably would not show. This is cultural difference I find difficult to understand, as I would have arrived last Friday to take care of these things ahead over the weekend. But so it goes – just because it is not the way I’d choose to arrange life does not mean it is wrong. So after an impromptu lesson in Ultra Sound physics (the only other subject I had been reading up on) I dismissed the small but diligent crowd for the day.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">And so I roll with it – but hopefully tomorrow I’m rolling with a full class. At least now I’m on the verge of teaching, and can face the street people knowing I am doing something – helping to rebuild a health care system that can address their needs.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">In the mean time, back to the books…</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3