August 7, 2011

August 7, 2011

                First and foremost, I want to thank all of you who reached out to me in my moment of…well…let’s just call it a down period.  I hesitate to use the term weakness, as I don’t think, right now, there is anything weak about me willingly standing in front of so many unknowns and trying to sort them out to the best of my ability; however, the last few weeks were a realization, and, perhaps, one that brought with it some confusion as well as some sadness.  I was writing a friend just now and typed without thought, “There are/have been so many beautiful moments in this journey, but I must remember that - unfortunately - those moments must also be tempered.”  As another friend always says, the best metaphor for life is the ocean, constantly ebbing and flowing.

                I think allowing myself to share the “downs” is equally as important to the sharing of the ups, as it is a more realistic approach to this experience as well as to life.  Not that I encourage everyone answering, “Well, today started out with a contact problem that left my eyes so red and swollen that I ran into a glass door I couldn’t see which broke and cut my hand which then bled onto my sandwich that I brought to work so I don’t have a lunch now” to the simple mid-morning question “How is your day?”  We don’t need to go into ALL of our problems but maybe enough so that we aren’t pretending.  Maybe instead…”It’s been a rough morning, and no, I am not crying.  Just contact problems.  Want to go grab lunch?”

                Filter.  I am definitely learning. 

                On Thursday, I awoke to preparations for my trip to Kampala.  Miranda and I had made an appointment to meet with Esther, the head of the Kawempe Youth Center, in Kampala on Friday; and due to the fact that Kampala is a good five hour drive away, we had to rent a car to get to the city (Again, NO MORE BUSSES!).  I should clarify that the car does come with its own driver, as I would never attempt to drive in this country.  It is a bit too intense for me.

                Our driver, Robert, was so kind as to let me take over position as DJ, and I began playing songs from my I-Phone.  I rolled down the window, looked out over the Ugandan landscape, and listened.  It was as if the previous day melted away, and I now knew that my time here in Uganda had begun.  And, I don’t know if I can explain that feeling, especially since I have been here for three weeks already, but I simply knew.  I am no longer on vacation from life but rather I know that this is my life.  I have arrived.        

     

How does it feel? The air was coolly whipping my face.  My hand was out the window trying to catch the passing wind.  How does it feel?  The music was playing, and it was all I heard.  I sang quietly to the words, allowing my eyes to open and close at their will.  To be on your own.  And, when they were open, I watched the sky and the ground and the faces going by.  And, when they were closed, I watched skies and grounds and faces as they, too, were going by.  With no direction home. Kentucky, Canada, Wisconsin, Indiana, Florida, Maine, Virginia, England, Spain, Austria, Ireland, Scotland, California, Colorado, Tennessee, Mexico, Costa Rica, Kentucky, Uganda.  Like a complete unknown. Wes, Cupe, Mom, Dad, Taylor, Megan, Garnett, Thea, Lizzie, Baby Bale, Baby Kuczynski,  David, Mark, Laura, Jenny, Angela, Lee, Amanda, Brittany, Adam, Joy, Nana, Bumpa, Becky, Brenda, Grant, Liz, aunts and uncles, cousins, camping friends, yoga friends, book club friends, bunko friends,  and the memories and faces just kept coming and coming . . .  Like a rolling stone . . .  and I was home.

            My new friend here, Anna, called me a car crier.  She was right.  I cried.

            We stopped for lunch at the equator, which is one of those statements you never expect to say in your life.  Or, if you do, the restaurant’s name is The Equator.  Well, that was not the restaurant’s name, and we were, for that lunch, still in the southern hemisphere.  Obviously, it was a rather touristy place, with one safari group coming in as another one left.  The six of us (I was with Miranda and then there was also four of the students from Harvard.  They were just in another car.) dined on good food, and I realized we were no longer the tourists; we were not wearing hiking gear or taking pictures, and we didn’t look rugged.  We looked liked students/me who were here for an extended amount of time.  Do I already belong?

          It was around this thought that two small Ugandan boys passed by the café, looking onto the porch and seeing a sea of white faces.  I don’t know if a person can see hunger or if it is just a longing in someone’s eyes, but those children almost made me sick.  A division I have noticed but did not want to believe does exist here.  Had my plate not been empty, I would have taken whatever was on it and given it to them.  Why was it that we were up here eating away, and those two boys were not?  It should not be this separate, and children should not look longingly at food.  That should be a right not a privilege.

          We continued on to Kampala, and I checked into my hotel, looking a bit ragged I must admit.  Hey, I had just traveled six hours with my windows down and dirt and my hair flying.  It was not my finest couture moment.  And, not that this hotel is super swanky or anything, but the front desk lady said to me, “Do you know how much our prices are?”  The class division or stereotype or whatever it is you want to call it had quickly reversed, and I was on the receiving end of judgment; did she think I had longing in my eyes?  It made me realize I should not be so quick to assume that I saw anything in those boys’ eyes but rather just see two boys walking and, quite possibly, making fun of the “muzungu” tourists paying for overpriced food.  I don’t know their situation, and I may only hope the boys didn’t notice us at all.  I turned to the lady, knowing her own mistake, and simply said, “Yes.  I would like a room for three nights.”

          I took a shower that lasted too long and was too hot, but I loved every minute, as that is a rare occurrence in Mbarara.  I was soaking it in.  I had room service for dinner and climbed into bed to read and then to be enveloped by exhaustion.  Lovely.

          Friday morning I was to meet Miranda at 10am so that we could go to a nearby market for some shopping.  I woke up early, went downstairs for breakfast and some reading, and then headed off.  We combed through one of Kampala’s markets, as I was looking for some more clothes.  Coming here, I had been advised not to bring too many clothes, because I could buy them when I got here.  I am not a huge fan of the market, as I have never been one for shopping, and I wish I had brought more of my own clothes.  Oh well…I did get a few cute, practical items.

          We had our meeting set up with Esther from Kawempe Youth Center (KYC) at 2pm, so we allowed ourselves plenty of time to get there, as we knew it was going to take almost an hour.  We got slightly lost, so we had to call for directions; and, when we finally did arrive, we were greeted by a woman, dressed in a cherry red, full pantsuit, waving profusely as she tried to direct us into the center.  Her smile was as big as her arm gestures, and I liked her immediately.  This was Esther.

          After introductions and welcomes, she led us first into, what I have termed, The Library Esther Built.  Books lined the walls on either side of the room, and at the bottom of the binding were precise numbers and letters, clearing stating where each and every book in that room belonged.  The Dewey decimal system was meticulous, and as I ran my fingers across the edges of the books, I was amazed at the variety of literature available.  There were books in the local language, books for teens, books for children, school books, reference books, and even an Encyclopedia Britannica.  How did Esther acquire all of these books? 

          She went on to tell me she was in a partnership with a university in Holland, and many of the books were shipped over by them.  It was impressive.  However, the books are not allowed to be taken off the premises, as oftentimes they won’t be returned, so she next showed us the on-site reading room.  There were chairs and tables and could sit 80 people, and more important than anything, it was being used!  Even as we stood there looking, people hardly took notice, because they were so enmeshed in their books’ words.  I was speechless, and as many of you know, that is hard and rare for me.

          We saw a computer room in construction that should be done by next week; an outside learning area used for peer discussions and learning; a volleyball/netball (basketball) playing area; a children’s room, full of books as well as play items; and, the secretarial area, which is used to generate income for the center.  It was all unbelievable, especially since this one lady’s vision had created it all.

          We next sat down with Esther, anxious to hear about the history of the center and how she came to build such a wonderful project.  She informed us she had always wanted to educate others, and at some point in her life, was forced to drop out of school because her father lost his job.  She got a job as a librarian and put herself through school over the years, earning a Diploma in Library and Information Science.  Her goal was to help children who have grown up in poverty acquire an education and be provided another option for their lives.  And, Kawempe was the perfect location, as it has one of the largest populations in Kampala and is also the most destitute area in the city.  In 1998, she started the process of building her Kawempe library.  By, 1999 the library had opened to the public, and today the library has grown into a full scale youth center, alive with children and the buzzing of activity.  Esther can be seen in every part of the center.  And, if you would like any more information about the center, you may visit http://www.kawempeyouthcentre.org/

          As she was telling us about her story and asking questions about our goals for the Millennium Villages’ Youth Center, a small girl (aged 2-3) comes over to me and leans against my legs.  A beautiful child, I couldn’t resist playing with her. And, before I knew it, she had climbed up into my lap, wanting nothing more than to simply be in my lap.  I looked up at Esther and inquired about the little girl, and Esther told me that her name is Shanita and that she doesn’t have a mother.  I asked what happened to her mother, knowing she had probably died due to the rampant AIDS epidemic.  However, that was not the case, and nothing could have prepared me for what I was told.

          Her mother had thrown Shanita into the trash as a newborn, and a woman found her, saved her, and has raised her thus far.  Esther then spoke in the local language to Shanita, and Shanita did not respond.  I asked what Esther had said to her, and Esther replied that she had asked Shanita if she had eaten today.  Shanita’s lack of response was a clear response.

          Shanita sat with me the entire time we were there, and I allowed her to draw on my notebook, my arms, and even my shirt!  She was so precious.  When it was time to go, I made the move to set Shanita down on the ground, and she grabbed my legs and started to cry.  At first I thought I had somehow hurt her, so I turned to Esther to see if she had seen anything.  Esther smiled knowingly, saying Shanita did not want me to go.  By this time, Shanita is saying through tears, “I want my Muzungu.  I want my Muzungu.”  (Muzungu, just to clarify, is the African term for white people.)

          Esther asked that I pick her back up and carry her to her home.  I did.  When it was again time to leave her, it was obvious Shanita knew what was happening, and she was squeezing my neck as tight as she could.  I had to peel her off my body, as I looked around where I was leaving her.  It was the depths of poverty, and it took everything I had to walk away from that sweet child.  Her shouts as I left brought tears to my eyes.  That is the part of Africa that is the hardest – and at the same time the most beautiful.  The children.  Shanita.

          I went back to the hotel where I had a Skype call about our visit to Kawempe with my project manager in New York, and although the end of my visit at the center was difficult, KYC and Esther overall have given me so much hope and inspiration for my own project.  This was the first time I felt like my job here was truly beginning.  We are setting the foundation.

          Saturday consisted of pricing goods for the center so I can put together a budget proposal for MVP.  After we had completed that, we met with the Harvard contingency for lunch and a quick movie, and then we said our good-byes to that group, as they are all headed back to the states.  I finished the book Outliers, which if you have not read it, I highly suggest it.  I am so glad I was able to finish it before the project really takes off, as there are so many ideas and theories I hope to implement/discover during the creation of the center.  It is a wonderful book.

          Today we had Peter, our taxi driver on the return trip, take us back to Mbarara, which ended up being only a 4.5 hour drive.  We made no stops, which really cuts the time down.  At one point, we got behind a bus similar to that which I rode in to Rwanda, and all of my worries and concerns about that mode of transportation are confirmed.

          NO MORE BUSSES! 

          Finally, we were about 45 minutes away from Mbarara, and Peter mentions that he saw some zebras on the way to Kampala the day before.  I got very excited, as I have never seen wild zebras, and I replied, “Maybe we’ll see some today.”

          And, as if the universe had heard my request, we saw a herd of 7-8 zebras grazing with some local long-horn cattle about 15 minutes later!  I was so excited!  I know the pictures aren’t great, but I was taking them from the car on the side of the road, approximately 40 yards away.  There were two big zebras taking care of a baby zebra, which eventually got tired and lay down in the grass.  It was so fun, and I cannot believe I saw wild ZEBRAS!!  Even Peter said we were lucky, as at that hour (~3pm) zebras are usually closer to water and not within sight.  Yeah!  My luck!  ZEBRAS!!

          Arrived safely back home, did a solo yoga practice, finished writing the blog, and am now going to bed soon.  It was a jam-packed weekend, and tomorrow begins the preparation for opening the center.  With memories and stories and ideas in my head, I am ready to move forward; however, I can only accomplish that because I have a strong foundation built upon a rich past.  Many thanks now, once again, to all of those individuals who have helped shape me into the person I am.  Through your encouraging words, continued time and effort, and unfailing support, I am in Africa.  I hope you know if you are reading these words, you are, too.   

August 3, 2011

August 3, 2011

                I know again that my timings are going to be off, because I was backtracking for so long and now am almost going to skip a week completely.  However, I am doing that for me.

           Focusing my energies on the project and the center is what is now best for me.  Thankfully, I will soon be settled enough to do that.  It has only taken three weeks.

                Realizing that I wasn’t writing because I wasn’t happy was also a new concept for me.  I was talking with Miranda, and we both mentioned that we haven’t gone into the details about everything with our families or friends.  Wes has been the only person on my home front that is privy to all the juicy details, but I think I even refrained from telling him everything.  I simply didn’t want him and everyone else to worry.  Even though, I myself WAS worried.

                Within the week, I had a crick in my neck that didn’t go away for two days, my first nose bleed since childhood, and now I am sick with a GI upset once again – much worse than the first one, too (I even took antibiotics today.).  I have always known that I take my deep worries out on my body, but I didn’t even know how immensely hard this has been on me (guess my body did).  I think you go into “everything will be alright and I am halfway around the world from home so there isn’t a lot I can do about it anyway so I will just sit tight and wait for the moment it all works out” mode.  And, please read that statement again faster so you start getting your mind to where mine was at that moment.

                Now, please read it a third time even faster….and that might be closing in on how my mind was racing.  I don’t think I was allowing it to slow down, because if I did, reality would set in.  I just had to keep going. 

I knew this was going to be difficult.  I knew I would cry.  I knew I would be confused.  I knew I would have questions.  I knew my life would be upside down.  I knew my views and beliefs would change.  I knew I would get sick.  I knew I would experience new things.  I knew I would learn.  I knew I would have good days.  I knew I would have bad days.  I knew I would have to be outside of every comfort zone I have ever known.  I knew I would miss everyone and home like mad. 

I did not know I would consider giving up. 

            That slapped me.  I was so stunned the thought even crossed my mind that I had moments afterward where I did not move.  If you have spent time with me at all, you would probably be keenly aware that quitting is not really a part of who I am.  Now, I will say I did quit golf and band when I was in high school, but really?  Who wants a player with a 23 on the first hole or a player who is asked not to blow into the instrument (I was asked to just finger the keys and pretend to play.)?  That is not truly quitting but rather accepting my short comings.  However, I can’t remember a time other than perhaps those two incidents where I gave up.

                I have always been someone who needed to succeed for no other reason than I don’t know how to be a person who doesn’t try wholeheartedly.  I may fail miserably in the process, or it may turn out completely wrong; but, I do it, and I do it the best way I know how.  That to me is succeeding, because I am trying in the first place and doing so with the best intentions in the second.  Either way it goes, I will learn a valuable lesson and walk away a better person. 

                So, staring desertion in the face was like looking through a magnifying glass.  Everything was distorted and overwhelmingly large; and, seeing something that closely is borderline grotesque – and perhaps fearful, too.   I walked away.   I walked away from that looking glass and realized I came to Uganda for some purpose.  I may not know what it is right now (as uncertainty and doubt seem to be running themes in this experience), but there is a reason I am here.  I will start tomorrow with a new outlook, one where I will be focused and certain of my uncertain path here.  I can’t be afraid, and I can’t think I will have all the answers.  I won’t.  I will just have to accept this journey and everything – both good and bad – that it will bring.  And, I can do so in the manner of me; that I know.

July 29th, 2011

July 29, 2011

I am STILL in backtrack mode, but I hope to get caught up sooner than later, as I know it needs to be done.  It is simply that I am running a hundred miles a minute and haven’t had a chance to slow down.  I am continuing with the story…

Saturday, July 23^rd, 2011

Beforehand, mom and dad, you may want to skip this part.  Love, your safe and smart-decision-making daughter.

Once we boarded the bus back to Uganda, I thought I would have ample opportunity to spend the time reflecting on all that I had seen and learned, and it did start out that way.  We boarded the bus around 5:00pm and took off at the scheduled time of 5:30pm (to my delight!  It was on time!).  The sun was just starting to set on those breathtaking Rwandan hills, and at moments, I felt like I was in a postcard.  Looking out of that bus window, I was amazed at the simple beauty of this country. 

Towns are spread apart, and when we did come upon a new one, it lasted only a minute or two bus-passing-by-time and consisted of a few homes, scaling up the hills, and usually a tiny town center.  As the sun began fading, light also became sparse, as many of the towns had little to no electricity.  One image I will have a hard time forgetting is looking up into the hills at a farm with the sun setting behind it; the farm laborers were hoeing against the disappearing sun, which blackened out their features and left only their silhouettes of movement.  It reminded me of those tissue paper mosaics I made in art class in grade school.  If you remember, the front image is cut out of black construction board, and the tissue paper is then glued onto the back to add the color. 

I think all of these images added to my Rwandan haunting, as I had just finished the museum an hour before loading the bus and the massacre was fresh on my mind.  Then, as I sat on the bus while it navigated dark, winding roads, all I could think about were the hills and their secrets.  How many people were killed in this tiny villages?  How many neighbors turned against their friends as a result of a campaign of hate?  Who remains in that wilderness, never to be heard from again?  The darkness was descending.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that when a gentleman who worked for the bus company stood up to talk, I was a bit jarred.  Obviously, he was speaking the local language, so I could not have understood him anyway, but the lights that had been turned on for his announcement increased my mind’s confusion, making the commotion that ensued that much harder for me to understand.  For, as soon as he stopped talking, people stood up and clamored to the middle aisle.  At this point, I really don’t think anything of it, as I figured the man must have said something about getting close to the Ugandan border.  Ok.

Now would be a good time for an explanation of the bus set up.  If looking from inside the bus to the front of the bus (as if you are sitting down), there are two seats on the left side for passengers and three seats on the right side.  A crude table, with the red X depicting me and the blue Miranda…

FRONT OF THE BUS
X  X	Aisle	X   X   X

So, we were riding along in the bus, now with the aisle completely full of people, with the majority of the passengers having stood up from the side with the three chairs.  Again, at this point, I am not thinking anything about it. 

                Until we come to a curve in which the bus must veer to the right.                 Pure, pure, pure terror set in very quickly, because as you can imagine the weight of the bus was severely off balance at this point and the driver was going the normal 55-65mph on these curves.  I, sitting in the left window aisle felt the bus starting to tilt as it rounded the curve and also saw how far it was tilting when I looked at the window.  I turned to Miranda, who also realized what was happening, and said, “The bus is going to flip over.”

                Around that time, the road leveled out, and the bus straightened.  Miranda and I, both turning white with fear, were looking around and wondering what to do should we hit another curve like that one.  Miranda, being very reasonable, suggested that we must be very close to the border.  I nodded my head, still almost paralyzed with fear.  And then the bus starting to round another corner…

                I don’t know if the bus was actually tilted more the second time, or I was just too aware of what was happening; regardless, I grabbed the chair in front of Miranda to stabilize myself and was so terrified I shouted, “Please sit down.  You are throwing the weight of the bus off.  Please sit down!”  People looked at me like I was crazy, and one man even turned to me in PERFECT English and said, “You need to speak in French.”

                I went between terror, utter disbelief, and anger in the matter of moments.  All I could sit there and think about was that if this bus tipped, I would be these people’s landing pad.  Needless to say, when the bus started on the next curve and I looked through the window to the ground coming closer, I turned to Miranda and said, “Let’s move.  I’m not staying here.”

                With the aisle full of people, Miranda and I stood up in our seats and climbed across the aisle to sit in the three chairs opposite us, which were empty.  Although she and I both sat in silence and prayed, I thought about how I had a fighting chance on this side.  The thought of survival is awful.

                Pulling into the border was less than refreshing, but at least I was able to put my feet on the ground.  It was dark and scary, and I did not want to stop walking.  In fact, a man said something to us, and I walked right on past as Miranda slowed down to talk.  I turned around and yelled at her to come on, only to discover that that man was a border officer.  I had to go back and show my passport.  Oops.

                We got through customs and got back on the bus, which I was not excited to do; however, my choices were either stay at a dark border by myself or get back on the bus of terror.  I thought the latter was the better of my two options.  It, obviously, was, but it did not get any better.  Instead of winding roads, Uganda’s roads are straight; due to this, the driver thought it appropriate to lay on the gas pedal.  My guess is we were going approximately 80mph through the dark, whizzing past cars and swerving in and out of traffic.  I couldn’t even talk at this point; I just wanted to get home.

                Seeing the Mbarara sign was my saving grace, as I knew I only had minutes before I was leaving the death trap.  And, when I got off and saw Pamela’s husband Martin waiting for us, I ran over to hug him, as I was so damn happy to be alive and on the ground.  As we were driving back to our new home, Martin went on to say how happy he was we were back safely, as busses are so very dangerous and leave groups of people dead regularly.  Again, I was so damn happy to be alive and on the ground.  No more busses for me.

July 26, 2011

July 26^th, 2011

What a day today has been!  And, I will get to describing it later, but for now I must write about the weekend, as it was like none I have ever had.

Friday, July 22^nd, 2011

Miranda and I had decided to go to Rwanda with Diana and Pamela, both women who work at MVP.  Diana is also a graduate student at Columbia, here doing a practicum for her program, and Pamela is a native Ugandan, acting as the trainer for Diana’s project.  Since Diana has been here, she has taught a coalition of women how to work with glass beads in jewelry design.  And, the finished products – consisting of necklaces, bracelets and earrings – are gorgeous, jewelry you would find in high-end stores.  Anyway, she has a potentially lucrative contract with a very big American brand (which I will not mention, as it is not for certain at this point) for some African crafts and is in need of acquiring more artisans to join the project.  Since MVP has a site in Rwanda whose forte is basket weaving, Diana had decided to visit that site and speak to them about including the baskets in the contract.

As Miranda and I have the responsibility to find an income generating activity in which to involve the adolescent center, we thought it would be the perfect opportunity to expose ourselves to this new craft.  So, in discussions with Diana on Thursday, it was agreed we both would tag along.  And, of course, the bus they were taking that Friday morning was leaving at 4am, since it is a five hour bus ride to Kigali, Rwanda.  I mentioned in my last entry that I had to pack all of my suitcases Thursday afternoon, and this was the reason.  I knew upon our return Sunday that we would be changing our hotel arrangements, and we wanted to store our luggage at the new location.  Miranda and I took our belongings to Mass General’s guest house, which is where we were moving on Sunday, and woke up at 3:15am to get a car by 3:30am.

We, of course, had already arranged the car to pick us up, so when 3:45am rolled around, I was surprised the driver had not come.  I will never cease to remind myself that this is Africa.  He finally showed up shortly before 4am, but now I understand why the driver wasn’t concerned that he was late.  The bus we had to wake up at 3:30am to catch did not arrive until 4:45am.  We sat outside in the dark.  When we did finally board the bus, I was so exhausted I just sat down and closed my eyes.  However, I never left that hazy state somewhere between being awake and being asleep; nevertheless, it was rest, and I was glad for it.  It was also during this lack of clarity I realized why we had to leave so very early.  All buses either leave late at night or first thing in the morning; my thought is that the air conditioned bus, packed with 50-some bodies, gets too hot to travel in during the middle of the day.  I am not for sure about this reasoning, but I think it is quite possible. 

There was a two hour drive to the border, where we, along with all our stuff, had to get off the bus to go through customs, first with the Ugandan side and then the Rwandan.  Crossing the bridge on foot, I look around my surroundings and realized why Rwanda is called “The Land of 1,000 Hills.”  Having the sun’s first rays of pink caress the rolling, continuous hills was breathtaking.  There was the lovely mist of morning hanging on the trees, and it looked as if the waving greens were covered by a billowy blanket.  I wish I had a picture to show right now, but the area was the border; I was advised not to bring my camera out, and I listened.  Hopefully, your imagination sees the beauty.

Going through customs in Rwanda was not a simple task, as they check every item you bring.  While we were standing there waiting, Miranda told me we were not able to bring any plastic into the country and that security would confiscate any we brought with us.  I had some of my belongings in plastic baggies and resigned myself to them being taken.  However, when security searched me, the plastic was right there on top, and they didn’t take it.  I can only assume plastic baggies aren’t really the concern but rather – perhaps – weapons are the security issue; however, the country is one of the cleanest I have ever seen, with absolutely NO trash (including plastic) anywhere on the streets.  All Rwandans are required to spend one Sunday a month cleaning all the country.  Seeing the streets, I understood their great efforts.

The winding road through the hills concluded in a city that, like Kampala, could have been European.  There were shops and cafes, but I could only look at them from a distance, as we were soon to be off into the country.  The Rwandan MVP site, which is located in Mayange, was approximately a thirty minute drive from Kigali.  We first stopped at a local breakfast restaurant, and I had my first taste of chapati (which is similar to Indian naan).  I didn’t know what I have been missing, as it was delicious. Bellies full, we soon got back into the car to head to the ladies.

Walking into the tiny building, I was awed by color and faces and baskets and laughter.  It was simple and pure, with a pulse of life all to its own.  An interpreter explained what we were doing there, and we watched as the women carefully wove their respective pieces.  I watched and took pictures, as my curiosity abounded; then, I noticed them looking at my I-phone camera with equal curiosity.  I showed them the pictures I had taken, and the amazement in their eyes was evident.  I am most positive they had never seen anything like that phone/camera, and they kept trying to crane their heads to see the phone’s screen as I took more pictures.  These women and their spirits are beautiful.

Diana kept attending to the business portion of our trip, and soon enough, quality control was mentioned.  The colors of the sisal (a fine thread-like material from an agave and pronounced seize-al) need to be exact, and the discussion turned to how they formulated the dye for the color.  Soon enough, we were whisked outside where a woman and her small child were starting a fire, and a bowl sat balanced above, beginning to boil.  A woman, who I assumed was the leader of the group, pulled out a crate of colored powders that I could not figure out what they were.  She carried them over to the boiling bowl and threw in a spoonful of one of the powders, and the bowl erupted into blue, which was then stained onto the sisal.  She then took another spoonful of a different powder and threw it into the bowl, and green grew from the bottom, as if it were somehow alive.  She once again dipped the sisal into the bowl, and the two dyed areas looked like the sky above and the ground below.  Again, a balance of north and south.

After such a wonderful circus of color, we sat down to rest, and a few of the women came out to join us.  I was watching one of the women as her fingers were delicately weaving, and she took her work, which happened to be hot pink, and placed it beside my hot pink shirt.  We both nodded our heads and smiled, as our communication was limited to sign language and expression.  The woman began pulling materials out of her bag while she spoke to the interpreter, and the interpreter looked at me and informed me that the woman wanted to teach me the process.  I nodded my head vigorously, as I had wanted to learn but didn’t know how to approach the subject. 

The woman sat close and motioned this direction and that, and I tried to follow, knowing this simple explanation could not describe the precision and craft needed for this art.  However, I was happy to watch and honored to be included into their circle.  She finally put the project she was working on down and then picked up a green, unfinished bracelet to show to me.  I again nodded my head, telling her I loved the color and realizing she would not understand.  To my delight, however, she nodded her head, too, and then set to work on the bracelet.  The interpreter once again turned to me and said, “She is going to finish the bracelet, as she wants you to have it.”

I don’t know sometimes how I get so lucky, but I watched that woman as she diligently sized the bracelet to my wrist and completed the unfinished clasp.  She wrapped the bracelet onto my wrist, and when she had secured it, I grabbed her into a hug.  She was my new friend. 

We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the children and the women, but my new fascination was with the children.  Two little girls, probably age 3, were kneeling outside the building where the women were working, and they were picking up sticks and playing with an old, plastic water bottle as if the two items were the newest and greatest toys.  They laughed and created, attaching the water bottle to their shirts by putting the cloth in between the top and the bottle and then screwing them together.  She would walk around afterward, looking down every so often to see if it was still attached.  There was also a little boy who was playing with a stick that had leftover dyed sisal attached.  He was waving his makeshift baton as if a conductor of a band.  And, they were happy.  This is what is so endearing to me about the rural Ugandan culture – they are happy with what they have.

       Leaving the women later in the afternoon was hard, especially when my friend came over to say goodbye to me.  The interpreter told me that the woman said she would be looking for me the next day and called me her friend.  I told the interpreter to please let her know I would not be returning the next day, but I think the message got lost in translation, as Diana went back on Saturday and told me my friend kept asking why I wasn’t there.  I hope my friend knows I carry her with me.

Miranda and I went to Kigali that night, and Diana and Pamela stayed at the MVP site.  We had discovered earlier that day that buses only left for Mbarara at 5:30am, 9:00am, and 5:30pm; we decided to save money and time and just go home on Saturday on the 5:30pm bus.  Having made this decision, Miranda and I wanted to see a bit of the city during our short stay.  We caught a ride back to the city with some MVP employees and found a decent hotel to stay in for the night.  Our next mission was food, as we had not eaten since breakfast.  We found a restaurant in a travel guide and headed out for what the book described as good food and great views.  The book was right.  We sat on the top of one of the many hills and looked out over the city as the sun faded behind the west.  We got two large pizzas, thinking we would make a dinner and a lunch out of them, and split a delicious carafe of wine.  Halfway through the carafe and partly soothed by its effects, I looked at Miranda and said, “You know we are going to eat all this pizza tonight.”  She laughed, nodding her head, and said, “Yep.”

Sleep came fast and hard that night, and I dreamt about so many discussions occurring throughout the day.  I guess we take memories with us more than we even realize.  Very good day.

Saturday, July 23^rd, 2011

                Miranda and I slept in on this day, as both of us were in need of any rest we could scrounge up.  When we finally did join the land of the living, it was almost 9am Kigali time, which is 10am Uganda time.  Neither of us ever sleeps in that late, and both of us felt much better.  We walked around the city for a bit, and then decided to head in the direction we both wanted – the Genocide Memorial Museum.  Our taxi dropped us off at what, at first, looked like a business of some sort, and because I never saw a sign outside the building, I honestly didn’t think he had let us out at the right location.

                Walking into the building, however, we began to see groups of people and knew we were in the right place.  We talked with the attendant for a bit, asking how long the audio tour would take and were told approximately an hour and a half.  I asked Miranda if she was ready, and she responded, “I don’t think you are ever ready for this.”  She was right.

                You begin the tour outside in the memorial gardens, where there is a beautiful wading pool with elephants surrounding it.  Elephants, if you don’t know, in the Eastern world are a symbol of strength, wisdom, and perseverance, themes that reoccurred often throughout the museum.

                The tour then leads you down a flight of steps to the mass graves, where over 250,000 victims of the genocide are buried.  The graves, which span about 50 yards lengthwise and 4 yards in depth, are divided into three levels and are massive, concrete covered, unmarked, flat graves.  The stillness was chilling.  As I walked around the second level, I heard singing coming from down below.  My first thought was to rejoice, as the voices were unified in such a harmonious way.  However, I soon heard wails intertwined with the singing, and the rejoicing quality I had felt a moment earlier slowly slipped away.  I walked over to the edge and realized a memorial service was being held on the third tier.  Fifty or so people were standing around the bottom grave, placing flowers on the stones and swaying gently to their mourning.

                I did not want to observe this ritual, as I felt like a voyeur, distant and uncomprehending.  No matter how badly I wanted to empathize, as my own tears were now falling readily, I realized quickly I could not.  I have no manner of understanding or empathizing, because I have never been haunted by a past of such darkness.  I said a prayer for the deceased, and I said a prayer for the living; however, it is the latter who wail in suffering, as the aforementioned are silenced in peace.  Neither is comfortable for me right now.

                Miranda and I continued on, and I walked back to an area where thousands of names bear the passing of souls.  I walked pass the letters, and I walked pass the words.  How can so many stories be condensed to a name?  I kept thinking this as I walked, until I looked down and was jolted.  With fear or with shock, I do not know.  I just stopped. 

                Rwandans are still finding remains from the 1994 massacre, and because the museum was established to bury the dead with respect, an open grave is always present.  Instead of the concrete cover, there are glass windows, leaving the underneath as well as the reality blatantly exposed.  The caskets are covered with a purple and white cloth, bearing the symbol of the cross, and are stacked neatly, making room for all those to come.  Seeing this combined with the singing and wailing simply stopped me.  I didn’t know what to think.  I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know.

                The tour continued, weaving around gardens of remembrance, but it was the three different, descending gardens connected by a flowing fountain that resonated with me, especially after seeing the graves and the memorial service in progress.  The first and highest garden was the Garden of Unity, symbolizing the time before the genocide when the country was in harmony, like those voices I first heard.  The second and middle garden, the Garden of Division, was full of lush plants, growing almost like a jungle; the wailing voices entered into my mind once again, loud with their pain. 

You are asked to sit in this garden and contemplate its meaning, which was easy to do for me, because I as a spectator felt so divided at this point.  I knew what should have happened but was faced with what did happen.  And, isn’t that so common in everyday life?  We know what we should do but are pulled by one reason or another to feel or do something else.  Where is the peaceful balance?

While listening to the audio tour as I sat in the Garden of Division, a phrase caught my attention and made me further reflect on how I am living my life.  It stated that it is time for “Individual Reflection on Personal Responsibility.”  In a time where pointing fingers rather than accepting the consequences of our actions seem to be more commonplace, I have been and will continue to be an advocate of this succinct statement.  I hope you may be, too.

    And speaking of hope, I looked around the wildish garden I was sitting in somewhat becoming morose when my eyes fell upon this.

It was standing alone, reminding me of the beauty we must see in the world rather than its mistakes.  I took that with me into the next Garden, which was the Garden of Reconciliation.  It, again, was surrounded with elephant statues, one in particular talking on a cell phone.  The audio tour explained that this statue represents the communication to the international community, which is a message I believe is not limited to Rwanda.

The tour winding throughout the gardens ended soon after the display, and next we were led into a building full of pictures and stories of all those who lost their lives.  One million people in 100 days – it is a harrowing fact.  If you are unfamiliar with the genocide, I encourage you to research it, as it is a history in need of remembrance.  For, if it is forgotten, it could potentially happen again.

I left there feeling spent, as our one and a half hours had somehow become four.  Nothing can minimize genocide, not even time.

And, time by this point in our day was escaping quickly, as we had to be at the bus station at 4pm.  So, we rushed to get our belongings, made a quick supermarket and deli trip, and headed to the bus, where another adventure awaited us.

However, I will wait to tell that story tomorrow, as I am again getting very tired.  I promise that the beginning of this week has not been nearly as jam packed as my last one, so my blogs will be much less dense.  In fact, I am purposefully keeping my schedule lower key, as I realized at the beginning of the week how extremely tired I am and have been.  It is just better to slow down.  Maybe Africa is rubbing off on me more than I initially thought.