Juliet in Africa

A Letter Home, Part I

2012-02-13T17:57:00.001+02:00

In response to my most recent blog posts, my Aunt Ev wrote to me to ask about the nitty-gritty of life here. She made some good points--when I write, I often take for granted the knowledge I have already gained either from living here or from having lived in Kampala, Uganda. I often don't explain the "why" for many of the things I talk about. In response to her good questions, I'll post a series of blogs on the day-to-day demands on my time and why we do what we do here.

Today's Question: What’s it like living in that climate?

Today's Answer: Here's the official answer, per this website here, "Rwanda has a temperate climate with temperatures of 25-30°C during the day; 15° at night throughout the year. Nights can be chilly in Nyungwe and the Virungas. Most parts of the Country receive in excess of 1, 000 mm of rainfall. Rwanda experiences two rainy seasons- the long rains between February to June and the short rains between mid-September to mid-December. Dry months are January, July, and August to mid-September. The country can be visited throughout the year."

But, that's not very illustrative, is it?

Sun drenches Lake Kivu

It's warm here. Not exactly hot. I just came from 7.5 years in Washington DC, where summers feel like they average around 90% humidity and 95 degrees Fahrenheit. I hate humidity, but, I've come to tolerate it. So, being here is really quite pleasant. I feel lucky to be at such a high elevation (Kigali is at approximate 1,567 meters or 5,141 feet). If we were at this particular equatorial location and at sea level, I'd be singing a different tune. It would be HEWWWW-MID.

Kigali, and Rwanda in general, is lovely. When we arrived at the end of November, Rwanda was in one of its two rainy seasons. It was glorious! Every single day, there would be a deluge for about 15 to 20 minutes. We were living in the Hotel Serena at the time, still looking for houses, so I had a view of the swimming pool and the rain would just dance as the drops fell on its surface! So loud, so soothing, so calming. Also, a great excuse to stay curled up inside and read a good book or watch some episodes of "The Big Bang Theory."

As we entered January, it just stopped raining. Totally. Nary a cloud in the sky, nary a moment of threat. No rolling thunder in the distance, no reprieve from the heat. And it got hot; 85 - 90 degrees Fahrenheit, every day. Fortunately, the mornings and nights here are very cool, and temperatures can plummet to as low as 55 F.

The sun bakes our back yard in Kiyovu, Kigali, Rwanda

Chilly nighttime scene on Lake Kivu, Gisenyi, Rwanda

With this heat comes sun. Equatorial sun. Mark is fair-skinned, genetically hailing from the highlands of Scotland. I'm a bit more rugged with a teeny tiny bit of Iroquois blood, but I'm pretty burnable, too. Sunscreen has become a must. Staying indoors or in the shade between 11 a.m. and 4 p.m. is almost required.

Hiding from the sun, by the pool

And that leads me to some of the more key changes that are occurring to us as a result of living in such a different place. I have to change my habits. As I just said, it's best not to sit, walk, workout, dance, etc. out in the sun. So, we have to adjust. We either purchase big-brimmed hats, slather on sunscreen every hour or just don't go outside. It's frustrating. This change, though seemingly small, is fundamental. Add this to all of the other changes you'll soon learn about, and you'll realize just how much culture shock I am going through.

Cool waters soothe in the afternoon sun

So, the weather is, by and large, fine. But it is a big change. It affects us every day. I find myself pining for snow, wishing I could curl up by the fire, kittens in my lap, blanket around my shoulders. But, that ain't gonna happen. So, we work with what we've got. And the sun beats down for another day.

Genocide

2012-02-10T16:07:00.001+02:00

For every visitor to Rwanda, it is compulsory to visit one of the genocide memorials here---either in Kigali or outside of town. Mark and I decided to visit Kigali’s Genocide Memorial early in January. It is dappled with beautiful, thoughtful, life-affirming gardens.

One of many roses in the Rose Garden, "a fragrant and peaceful memorial to Rwanda's lost loved ones"

More roses

Memorial gardens--these planters/sculptures represent something along the lines of "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil"

But here, we have a monkey on his cell phone, calling the rest of the world to inform them of the tragedy of the genocide and that something must be done.

The crypts are lined with trellises and vines; though it is harrowing to know that over 250,000 bodies lay under our feet, it did not immediately sink in for me.

The top tier of crypts. These descend down a hill and there are still more being dug as bodies are being discovered across the countryside.

My husband, Mark, absorbs the surroundings at the Genocide Memorial, Kigali, Rwanda.

In hind sight, it was a two step process. First, when we made our way through the museum portion of the memorial, I found myself, mouth agape, just staring at the various exhibits in disbelief. I had seen “Hotel Rwanda" (haven’t we all?). Sigh. Mark and I spent over 2 hours inside this dimly lit building, absorbing more and more darkness with only slight tinges of hope.

One of the Windows of Hope

Part of the Memorial Sculpture

Clothing of the Dead

Identity Cards; Muhutu e.g. Hutu, Mututsi e.g Tutsi

When we left, emerging into the sun, Mark made this point: imagine, please, your favorite sports team (or musical show on Broadway, or opera in Paris, or just any large event with many people gathering). For me, it is the Red Sox. Fenway Park holds 37,493 people during night games. Okay, now, recall my earlier statistic of 250,000 people, buried in the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Double that. Double that again. The math makes that one million people; the number of people who perished in the genocide in 1994. Now, back to our Fenway statistic: 37,493. That goes into 1 million 26.67 times. That’s right. With 162 games per season, that is over 16% of the entire season’s games, or 27 games, all attendants dead.

Think about that for a moment.

After Mark and I got back to our hotel that afternoon, I (stupidly) popped in a documentary called “Keepers of Memory” directed by the founder of the Kwetu Film Institute, Eric Kabera. I barely made it through the first hour and started bawling. And bawling. And bawling. The pain was incredible, and I never ever lived through the actual events.

I think about the genocide pretty much every day. I look at my new friends’ faces and think, “What are they dealing with, every day, at the back of their minds? At the front of their minds?” A few of my Muzungu (foreigners) friends, e.g. Americans, have told me that once you get to know your Rwandan friends, they’ll be very willing to talk about the genocide. I can’t say I look forward to that, but as I look toward our world’s future, I want to learn more. So I’ll ask them when the time is right. Reading about what’s happening in Myanmar/Burma is making me want to stay on top of this kind of thing a lot more. Am I passionate about it? I'm not sure. But, life is just too precious to remain dispassionate, don't you think?

Post Script: I've kept this blog brief because of my lack of expertise. I highly recommend visiting Rwanda to learn more but, barring that possibility, please feel free to read up on it. Books can't give you all the truth, but they can certainly help give you a better rounded point of view. Books and films I recommend: The Media and the Rwanda Genocide, Keepers of Memory, We Wish to Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda, and from a classmate at AU, As We Forgive.

Trailing Spouse

2012-02-10T14:56:00.001+02:00

I came to Rwanda to be with my husband, for the adventure and for the life experiences that would turn into great stories. Because he is busy every day with work, my husband is “distracted” and does not feel the same swings of emotion I do as a result of being unemployed (well, that, and he does not have my unique body chemistry). Since we first came here on November 27, 2011, I’ve done a lot. Mark has done a lot. A lot of what we have done has been together but a lot of what we have done has been separate. He has his job and all that that entails. I have a new house to get us settled in. I sat at home, waiting for the phone company, MTN, to come and install the internet. It took them 5 days to complete the whole process, involving me having to run to three separate stores to get the equipment they would be installing! When the internet was finally installed, it worked for 3 whole days and has never worked since. I then had to sit at home for hours and days waiting, first, for the technicians from our alarm company to even show up (what a waste of over 48 hours!) and then, when they finally came, their projection of a 2-day job turned into two weeks. I also have to stay home every Monday and Wednesday mornings till noon because that’s when our trash pick up comes.

While the alarm technicians were working, we agreed to have day and night guards, just until the alarm was complete. The day guard, Jean Marie, a sweet 20-year-old from west of Kigali, was well-intentioned but pushy. He spoke minimal english, pretty good french and perfect kinyarwanda. He always came to me to try to speak more english.

Jean Marie, Our temporary guard

Mark and I invested in a Kinyarwanda to English dictionary for him. He expressed real gratitude and that made us both happy. He was endearing but he sapped me of my energy. Because it took the technicians so long to install the alarm, Jean Marie ended up coming every day for 2 weeks. By the time his last days had arrived, he had implored both me and Mark to hire him as our gardner, guard, housekeeper, etc. every single day. He told me, countless times, that he was going to quit his steady (yes, poorly paying, but paying, all the same) job to work for us! We had made him no promises! I made it abundantly clear, in both french and english, that we were NOT hiring him. He should, under no conditions, quit his job in relation to us. I even advised him that quitting a job with no other job waiting was rather ridiculous. I explained that here, in Europe in the USA--all across the world--unemployment was high and voluntarily ending your job on the outside chance that some Muzungu (that means foreigner in East Africa) may hire you for a part time job was just not smart. He finally understood and, in the end, took it graciously. I can’t say that I wasn’t glad to see him go when the alarm installation was finally complete.

As a trailing spouse, it is my job (well, one of my jobs) to figure out what my passion is--what I want to be when I grow up. Kwetu Film Institute never responded my offer to teach script writing and cinematography. Normally, when I do not hear back from a place--a potential job--I give them about 5 days and then pester them periodically until I do hear back (or until I’m just way past the statute of limitations). Well, when I got no reply after one week, then two, then three, I realized, more and more, that I had no interest in teaching filmmaking. I’d rather be telling stories, not telling other people how to tell stories, and I have the luxury to do just that.

So, here were are, at the beginning of many tales. In the coming days, weeks, months and years, I’ll be posting those stories here. This trailing spouse aims to drop that moniker and do more than just sit at home waiting for people to show up. This woman will be a spouse who does many things and tells many stories in this unique country that is Rwanda.

For My Best Friend's Film

2011-12-12T09:26:00.001+02:00

Above, you see a beautiful short preview of a documentary my best film school friend, Kimberley Rose Williams, created. She is currently raising finishing funds to be able to finalize the last edit and then submit the film to festivals all over the world. I use this platform to promote her amazing work and ask that you consider helping to fund the movie (you can give whatever you want--from $.01 to infinity). You may contribute on kickstarter.com, an incredibly innovative site that helps artists realize their dreams. Here is the link: Broken Hearts & Butterflies. If you do decide to help fund the project, please leave her a comment letting her know where you learned about it! Thanks, everyone, for allowing me to use this platform for my dearest friend.

What's Old is New is Old

2011-12-09T17:16:00.001+02:00

The unfamiliar and the familiar

Emerging from the plane in Kigali,Rwanda, on that dark, warm, Friday evening in late November, I breathed in deeply,struck by the earthy, musty aromas; I felt like I was back homeagain. Having lived for a few months in Kampala, Uganda in 2008 andworked one month in Ethiopia the year before that, I fancied myselfan expert on the scent of Africa. I exclaimed to my husband, “Itsmells like Africa! Ahh, how I've missed that smell.” I'd neverbeen to Rwanda before, but the sensation somehow comforted me. Mixedin the all-encompassing odor of earth, flaura, and fauna was, mostjarringly, the spices of a thousand undeodorized bodies; I wassuddenly reminded of my inherent foreignness. This adventure inRwanda, after a whirlwind engagement and marriage, had begun.

Making the unfamiliar familiar

Last July, Mark's soon-to-be-boss, Ginger, sent him a link to an LA Times article about Rwanda's burgeoning film community. Ginger had sent it to Mark in an effort to entice yours truly. The article talked about how the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (AMPAS or "The Oscars" to you lay folk) had sent a troupe of creative people to Kigali to partner with Rwandan filmmakers and with a newly formed film program called The Kwetu Film Institute. Alfre Woodard, Jon Turtletaub and Phil Alden Robinson descended on this hilly hub--Rwandans have coined it "Hillywood" for its thousands of hills, or "mille collines"--and taught eager young filmmakers the finer points of production, from soup to nuts.

Ginger was smart; it was this article that sold me on moving to Rwanda with Mark (though, truth be told, I was already sold since he was going to be there). I immediately contacted the head of the Kwetu Film Institute, Eric Kabera, and offered my services to his school. He and his staff wrote back and asked me to join them as a mentor when I arrived in Rwanda.

That's pretty cool in and of itself. And there's more.

Networking

Upon our arrival, I wrote to Eric and we made a date to meet and discuss what we could do for one another. After our meeting and seeing his brand new film school/bed and breakfast (a fail-safe that will house visiting filmmakers throughout the year and others when times are tough), I offered to teach courses on script and cinematography.

Simultaneously, Mark and I were both networking like fiends--he with his new colleagues and me with, well, anyone--as we had left all of our friends and family (e.g. YOU) thousands of miles away. We joined a highly-recommended Yahoo Group called "Kigalilife," wherein we got daily emails with various postings for jobs, houses, cars, events, pets, club activities and assorted other sundries of life.

I took the initiative to write a mass email to the group, introducing myself as a filmmaker and storyteller and seeking any and all advice-givers. The response was instant and overwhelming. Dozens of folks, from Rwandans to expats, offered to meet up with me throughout my first week in Kigali. Among many others who shall receive full mention in future blogs, a kind, energetic, American journalist from the Agence France Presse (AFP) immediately offered to meet me at the see-and-be-seen watering hole, The Bourbon Cafe. I met Steve there and we immediately hit it off. A shared passion for Apple, Nikon and storytelling propelled us through our first meeting. As we sat and chatted, a steady stream of locals and expats greeted my new friend as their old friend. I instantly acquired even more phone numbers and connections; this man was a networking genius.

File this Under "Disney, It's a..."

We agreed to have dinner later in the week so Steve could meet Mark and I could meet more of his friends. We had a grand time at a local Indian restaurant and promised to meet up again, soon. The following Monday, VISA had a press conference to announce its new partnership with the Rwandan government. My new friend attended the conference in his capacity as a journalist and to support Mark's new venture. He hunted my husband down and offered to save two seats, that evening, at the local Quiz Night at Sole Luna (arguably the best Italian restaurant in town). Mark was unable to attend, but asked Steve to promise to save me a seat.

That night, I sat with Steve and some new friends from Kampala, in town to visit family. As we prepared for the night's questions--all hoping like mad that we would emerge triumphant--yet another friend of Steve's strolled by. "Heyyyy," crooned Steve. His friend paused to say, "I'll join you in a moment, I'm just going to say hi to some people." At this point, Steve let me know that this man, Daniel, was a german filmmaker. (Actually, he told me he was Werner Herzog. But, I've met Werner Herzog. So, I knew he was lyi--er, kidding.)

When Daniel returned, we got right down to brass tacks and started answering the quiz night questions in earnest. Only during a break did I mention that I, too, am a filmmaker and had just met with the head of the Kwetu Film Institute. It was at this stage that Daniel casually told me he had actually started the Kwetu Film Institute with Eric and was just about to leave Rwanda for some work in Palestine. He told me he'd known Eric for years and that I should, absolutely, teach some classes there. He then gestured toward Steve and said, "Oh, I even had Steve do some teaching at the school." Steve grinned and said, "Oh, I loved it. Lots of fun. Maybe you even saw my write up about the whole thing in the LA Times."

Wait, what?

"Seriously, Steve? You're the reason I came to this country?!" (Clearly, I didn't pay attention to who wrote the article.) Steve was delighted. "If I had a journal," he said, "I'd totally write in it, 'Tonight, a girl told me that she read my article in the LA Times about the Rwandan film community, and that's what made her decide to move to Rwanda. Now she's here, having quiz night with me in Kigali.'"

We were all glowing when we found out that we had tied for first in quiz night.

The familiar and the unfamiliar

Now, it is December 10th, 2011 and we've been here for exactly 2 weeks. Mark and I are just really hitting our groove. We're close to securing a new home to move into in January. We've made lots of new beginnings with some amazing people. We've grown closer together due to the stress of ALL OF THIS NEW STUFF! And, now that we're comfortable, we're headed back to the states for Christmas. What was once familiar will be unfamiliar, again. I am bright pink from the equatorial fireball that is the sun, I am just finally adjusting to seeing Christmas Trees next to palm trees and I have become accustomed to all scents, sweet and, um, savory.

Once we're back in the warm arms of our families, though, I'm sure the scent of pine, Christmas raisin bread and Mexican food (lo', how we miss it) will easily trump my new acceptance of the scent of Africa, but the familiarity dance shall continue....

Post Script--I am aware that there is a jarring lack of photography here. It is, in part, due to the fact that Rwandans are very averse to having "Muzungu" (foreigners) take their pictures, randomly. I'm aware that I could have taken more pictures of the landscape and had planned to, but time has been full and busy and got away from me. Trust me, though, when I tell you the next blog will be all about photography.

Insipiring Tale Right Around the Corner

2008-08-16T10:12:00.001+02:00

Hi Folks,

I was just reading this in the New York Times today. Inspiring and in my 'hood. Enjoy.

My Tolerance and Acceptance Return

2008-07-30T09:49:00.005+02:00

Playing with Friends, Lake Victoria, Uganda

In my last personal blog about Kampala, I carped about the Muzungu. I've had a change of heart. I took some time this past weekend to remember what it was really like to be 19 years old.

It was amazing.

I was experiencing so many new things--so many wonderful things--and I was doing it with some of my dearest friends. Many have since faded out of my life and we have lost touch, but after visiting the Ssese Islands and seeing the throngs of late-teens and early-twenties Brits, I realize just how valuable and important that age was. My tolerance has come back and my acceptance is close behind. Being attached at the hip to my friends was a natural part of life. I wasn't trying to be annoying to outsiders, I was trying to understand my world. As I watched a group of 12 kids, mostly women and about 4 men, spend 3 days cavorting through our campsite together, I realized just how much fun they were having--and at no one's expense.

Running with Zulu, Lake Victoria, Uganda

I remembered going to York Beach in Maine with Barb, Noah, Dawn, Audrey, Lexa, Sam, Jimmy, Jack, Ted, Josh, Steffi and Seth. I vividly recall literally running around together like a pack of wild dogs, always making sure that someone was with us. Our pubescent brains were still growing and we needed each other.

At the top of our lungs, we would sing The Beatles, EMF and Billy Joel together. (Just typing those three musicians' names together makes me smile.) We would tell each other raunchy jokes, experiment with just how far we could "go" with a member of the opposite sex before that person became a mate and play on the beach until well past sundown, simply because we were so heartily feeding off of each others' wonderfully hormonal energy.

As I watched the young Muzungu romp around the Hornbill Campsite on Baggala Island, I smiled at them. Strange as they may seem, they aren't really all that different from me. I don't begrudge them their growth quite so much anymore.

Zulu and Friend, Lake Victoria, Uganda

This May Not Be African, But It Is Still Very Important

2008-07-30T09:44:00.002+02:00

This is too important not to talk about.

Stop encroaching on my rights.

I'm Sick of Muzungu

2008-07-21T19:24:00.000+02:00

The Backpackers was a saving grace. I avoided illness and poop because of their cheap (but relatively nice) accommodations. But, man, I'm sick of Muzungu. A bunch of little European and American teenagers running around flexing their travel muscles, and in the process dropping their angst all over the place!

The girls: "I'm cute. I have a wrap skirt. I am wearing a t-shirt that advertises my cause. Want me."

The boys: "I'm hot. I wear flip flops. I have a baseball cap from the states and I always wear a t-shirt with cargo shorts. If I do not, my friends will reject me."

God, I'm so glad I'm not like that. And, my true saving grace: Freddy. He got the right folks into my flat and had it debugged, deloused, germicided and just plain cleaned. I get to go home! I get to see Kampala again!!!!

Traveling is great. But doing it with a pack of insecure brats is not. I'm glad I got the glimpse. It confirms what I already knew. I love Kampala, not backpacker Kampala.

Exploding Toilet: The Tale of Expedition Poo

2008-07-20T11:51:00.003+02:00

On Thursday afternoon, after a somewhat stilted, but mildly productive day of researching website designs for WPIO, I decided to walk home the long way. It was a relatively rewarding trip. I got some good exercise, but managed to kick up beaucoup-mud on my legs because it had poured earlier in the day--the dirt roads were now mud roads.

I was excited to go home to wash my legs and have a good, satisfying pee (we all know what I'm talking about. Stop cringing ;) ). I arrived at my flat, , opened the door and was immediately greeted by a wall of stink. "What the hell," I muttered to myself?! "I know I flushed the toilet this morning." (Though, to be totally candid, I had, um, clogged it up a bit.)

I unlocked the door to my bedroom and howled, "Oh my god!!" The wall of stink was now the great wall of stink. I stepped over to the open door of my lavatory and was greeted with, really, one of the most disgusting sights I have ever been privileged to behold. The hole in my floor, which serves as both my commode as well as my shower drain, was full-up with unbelievable heaps of sloppy, wet, brown matter. When stared at long enough (it was like a car accident--somehow, I could not peel my eyes away from it), the icky crap actually looked like a very overcooked beef stew.

Needless to say, I was breathing, exclusively, through my mouth.

After a good long, mouth-agape stare, I rediscovered my senses, leapt out of the bathroom doorway and slammed the door shut (well, shoved and wrestled with the mat under the door, and got the heaby jeabies and finally pushed the door shut). I grabbed my phone, slammed out a message to Freddy that basically said, "There is an enormous pile of human excrement in my bathroom. HELP!"
I plopped myself down on the couch and just stared. What the hell was I supposed to do? I wanted to leave, I wanted someone to take care of me, I wanted just to not have all of my and my neighbors' poo in my bathroom.

I calmed down after about 5 minutes. I still had no reply from Freddy. I then went into independent, problem-solver mode. I decided that if I could just find the proper receptacle (ziploc bags!) and the proper mover (a kitchen spatula that would never, ever again be used for it's original intention) and some good, solid footware (my hiking boots), I could defeat the poo on my own.

I gathered up the necessary tools, donned my uber-boots, and started lightly humming to myself, "I'm going on Expedition Poo. La dee da. Time for Expedition Poo." Armed with two Ziploc bags and a spatula, I tugged the door open and held my breath. Somehow, it was easier to remove the goop than I had imagined. But, it just kept coming. I'd slop some into the bag, and more would seem to bubble up from the drain.

Finally, I had removed most of the disgustingness, and was ready to seal the Ziploc bag (I really don't think I'll ever eat beef stew again). Rather unfortunately, but not really unexpectedly, I got a little wetness on my right hand. That was okay. I jumped up and turned on the faucet. A tiny trickle of pathetic, rusty water came out followed by lots of air. "You've got to be kidding me!" Very serendipitously, I had boiled water the night before and left the half-full tea kettle right by the bathroom door for tooth brushing purposes. I slathered my hands in some soap and the little, teeny dribble of water that had emerged from the faucet. After a thorough scrub, I poured the water out of the kettle over my hands.

Back to the Expedition. I grabbed a clean, as-yet-untouched Ziploc bag and used it as a glove to pick up the infected bag. I gingerly carried the bag outside to the trash (I know, that is so disgusting and probably unethical, but there you have it). When I returned to my flat, I felt satisfied. Even when Freddy returned home, I didn't even let him into my still sloppy bathroom--I had it under control. As soon as the water came back on, I'd run it with soap and all would be well.

The next day, while eating lunch with Jennie*, I mentioned my little adventure to her. "WHAT!? I would have run out of there instantly!!" I laughed and told her that it was just one of those things I had to do. She looked at my four-heads and said, "What about typhoid and cholera?!"

Snap. Why hadn't I thought of that? Moron. Very fortunately, I am immunized against both diseases, and I had thoroughly washed up, but now the prospect of going home was rather icky. I did not want to be in that odd, clouded, possibly sickening air. Jennie always seems to come to my rescue on these fronts: "Why not stay at Backpacker's for the weekend?" Good call, Jennie. Backpackers is a chill hostel in Mengo, a rather bucolic district on the other side of Kampala city center. I immediately phoned them, made a reservation for four nights and prepped to go home, pack and take a taxi to Backpackers.

When Freddy finally took my keys and inspected the bathroom after I had left, he was horrified. "You are strong! I would have run away from that!" Strong, stupid--it's a fine line ;) He has since had people come in to de-louse the joint, so to speak, with strong chemicals to kill germs and any potential critters that would be attracted to the sty that is my bathroom. The landlord is fully apprised of the situation, and, it turns out, that the water in the compound is running fine. I simply got the lucky blockage. They shall be assessing the damage this weekend and removing the mysterious block.

My fingers are crossed that I can return to Kyebando by Tuesday, but my new home in Mengo is lovely--and poo free.

*I have been spelling Jennie's name incorrectly. It is not Jenny.

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs

2008-07-14T11:38:00.004+02:00

Finding Balance in the Waters of the Nile

A lot has transpired since my blog in late June. I have now been in Africa for just 6 weeks, my boda boda wound is almost totally healed and Freddy received an anonymous, threatening phone call.

Yes.

In an attempt to scare him out of his human rights work, an anonymous caller phoned him at midnight one Saturday, and told him that he is humiliating the government.
"Which government, caller," Freddy implored?
"It does not matter."
Just before Freddy hung up on this person, the caller threatened to deliver the meat of Freddy's family to him.

Heady stuff. But, as I learned over the course of the following 5 days, somewhat common stuff in the land of human rights. And since I'm from the land of small town journalism, documentary filmmaking and, oh, that's right, America, I'm not so used to the commonality of a threatening (and benign?) phone call.

Freddy let me know that this happens often and that he was not frightened. In a move that shows just how much I value my own hide, I was frightened--for me. Somehow, I could accept the rationale that Freddy was feeding me about his status: "I'm not worried. They don't call if they are going to attack. They just attack." Case in point: he's been mugged and arrested on 3 separate occasions, each time having no warning whatsoever. So, his logic about not being frightened was not hubris. But, what about the bystanders? The folks he works with? Me?

In the end, this served as a tremendous learning experience. I spoke, at length, with members of Amnesty International, The Advocacy Project and with a Regional Security Officer (RSO) at the U.S. Embassy here in Kampala. All of them agreed on a few things: a) the decision I make, whatever it may be, is mine, b) that as long as I remain vigilant, I should be fine and remain out of danger, and c) the risk, for all of us (Freddy, Pascal and me), after being thoroughly assessed by the staff at Amnesty, is extremely low.

So, I sat with this information for a few days. And I sat. And I brooded. And I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me. A few times, I double-timed it down the road when I thought someone had been going in the same direction as me for too long.

And then, my friend Jenny reminded me: "Aren't you going to Jinja this weekend?"

In all the hubbub, I had totally forgotten. We had discussed it earlier the week before, but then this new event arose and, well, all my brain cells went into overdrive and focused entirely on my safety.

But, Jinja. Away from Kampala. Away from threatening phone calls. Away from people who may see me everyday.

Yes, Yes, YES! I must go to Jinja! I got on the Internet, booked a weekend at the Nile River Explorers Campsite (just along Bujigali Falls), and made plans to tag along with Jenny and her mum on the drive out (a 2-hour Matatu trip from Kampala to Jinja Center).

Fulfilling the First and Second Tiers of Maslow's Hierarchy

Lo', was it a-m-a-z-i-n-g.

I have never felt more frightened, more clueless and more alive in my life! I knew that I was going white water rafting. I knew that my cousin, LJ, had done the same in North Carolina not too long ago. And I knew that he had almost drowned. But, because I did virtually zero research on what I was getting myself into, and because I was desperate for a reprieve from Kampala and work, I did not even give it a second thought. In fact, as recently as the weekend I left for Uganda, my dear friend, Ritch, went river tubing (not even rafting), lost his favorite hat and almost drowned, as well! Both he and my cousin bid me to have fun on the Jinja trip, but, more imploringly, TO BE CAREFUL!

I still didn't believe them ;) I was just so happy to be in a new location with new people, where I could feel safe and calm.

Come Saturday morning, after a great night's sleep, we embarked on our bus ride to the banks of the mighty White Nile. Once there, we were directed to remove our shoes: "Unless you are assured that they will not come off in the rapids, take 'em off now," hollered one of the ripped, Aussie guides! So, we all left our shoes, our belongings (no cameras on this trip!) and our fear behind in the vans that we had taken to the riverbank.

Next up: meeting Juma, our intrepid, hilarious, well-known rap star (kids on the river banks screeched at him to sing to them, which he did!), Ugandan river guide. The motley crew that assembled at the base of his raft: 3 American women, myself, Heather and Liz, all in Uganda to work at NGOs; a Canadian woman, Meagan, doing the same; an Ethiopian woman, Seble, who lives in Kampala as a political refugee (who, it also turns out, had never swum a day in her life); and a deaf, British man, Ian, on holiday.

Heh.

We proceeded into the boat, as did about 65 other crazy souls into 9 other boats, after a brief introduction (and Tim, the head Aussie guide, let Juma know that Ian, our British raft mate, was deaf). At that point I appointed my self de facto interpreter. My sister, Abby, has a degree in ASL and spent one full year studying British sign language at Manchester University in Manchester, England. Some of it must have rubbed off on me, right? ;) Of course, in the end, we relied on lip-reading more than sign language to get us over the rapids in one piece.

At the outset of our boat ride, all of us shoeless, swathed in unflattering, super-buoyant life jackets and hilarious pink, black and blue helmets, the waters were calm and lovely. After extracting Seble gently out of the boat and placing her in the water like a new leaf, Juma proceeded to dump the rest of us, rather unceremoniously, into the cool, refreshing waters of the White Nile. We learned the basics of how to return to the boat, (those of us with no upper body strength got dragged in by the tops of our life jackets!), how to negotiate under the boat if we were trapped after a flip, how to stay with the boat after we were safely out from underneath and how to retrieve a rope line if staying with the boat was not an option. This was all practiced in calm waters. ;)

Back in the raft, we were taught how to row, how to "Get Down!" and how to go forward and backward. Every few minutes, from my perch at the front of the boat, I would turn to Ian behind me, and explain to him the basics of what we needed to know. Whether he was simply fearless or courageous, I am not sure, but his serenity and comfort with knowing he might be tossed about in the rapids of the Nile was actually quite reassuring.

Meagan, my mate at the helm, was struggling with the transition between drunk and hang-over, as she had only rolled into our banda around 5:30 that morning. We woke her a mere 2 hours later. Needless to say, our chances at not flipping were slim.

Our first few rapids were joyous! Grades 2 and 3, we whooped our way along the frothy waves and, after completing each headlong venture, we raised our oars in the air and, replying to Juma's call, "What do we say?!" we shouted with unrestrained glee, "We are the Winning Combination!!"

And then we sauntered into a Grade 4. And Ian and I were flipped and tossed and bandied about by the great torrents of water. And I smiled the whole way down. The water was deep enough, I kept my toes pointed high toward the sky and I met up with my savior for the day, Koa, one of about a dozen kayakers who always, always take the rapids first and then wait patiently to shoot into rescue any straggling swimmers who have been tossed overboard. As I straddled his kayak (in the missionary position), we chatted about how I was doing, and how much fun I was having. He gently paddled me back to my boat, where I was grabbed by my life jacket and hoisted back into the frying pan.

Lunch came next, with an interesting vision before us: a young woman, in one of the other rafts, was passed out and shaking uncontrollably. Her face was sallow, almost green. And no matter what the guides did to try to revive her, she simply flopped about like a rag doll. This helped to re-instill some of the fear I had originally left behind with my belongings and my shoes in the van at the shore. The safety boat came and retrieved the young woman and took her safely to shore (and, later, to the hospital).

We ate our pineapple, watermelon and biscuits and talked about what we had gone through. Heather and I were particularly cocky about our successes (even with me and Ian getting dumped on the Grade 4). All of us reapplied sunscreen, as the equatorial sun was hitting us twice as hard as usual--once from the sky and twice from the reflection in the murky waters. We finished our meals and began rowing again, somewhat apathetically, as the waters were so calm they weren't aiding our movement. Slowly, we made our way to the next rapid: a Grade 5 of rocky waterfalls: "Outatime."

We paddled for about 2 kilometers, so Juma had time to psyche us right out of our minds.
"This is the only rapid that you should not fall out of the boat. It is extremely shallow and rocky and there are 2 major falls on the way down." Heather and I exchanged wary looks.

"I'm going to, almost immediately, holler for you to get down and then I'm going to yell, 'Lean right!' Everyone on the left of the boat MUST lean as far right as possible. Those on the right, just lean like you always do. Keep your heads down! If you don't, your necks will bounce and you'll break your teeth."

And, whatever you do, do not get on your knees when you get down! You will, I guarantee you, lose your knee caps!"

After hearing all of this, I finally realized that Ian needed to know what had been shared. I tried my best to explain it, and gave him the highlights. As I was doing this, we approached the falls, only to discover that ours was the last raft to arrive. As we normally went 4th or 5th through a rapid, we just casually pulled up to 5 or 6 boats--at the front of the line. None of us was prepared for what came next.

We went first.

Juma apparently got a signal from the leader that we did not see. Suddenly, with me and Meagan in the front hot seats, Juma screamed, "Hard Forward! Hard Forward!" I dug in and hoped like crazy that we knew what we were doing. The first fall was about a 7 to 10 foot drop. As we went over it, the raft was canted at an awkward, sideways angle. We were not approaching head-on. The raft dumped down to the next level, and with that dump came an incredible "bounce" that shot me sky high and into the shallow, rocky, churning waters. I can just barely recall holding onto the rope that rings the raft, and thinking, in that millisecond, "Do I want to stay with this bulky, uncontrolled boat or do I want to just go with the flow?" As my body plunged into the torrents of the Nile, I felt the first of many rocks dig into my backside. As I gulped in my first of many mouthfuls of water, I had a brief, brief moment of thinking "Why did I let go?," followed shortly by someone (Meagan? Juma?) screaming, "Feet UP!!! Feet UP!!!!"

I kept my eyes wide open, aimed my body into the moving rapids, kept my feet as aloft as one can when one's body is being dragged across the bottom of the Nile, and sucked in a short breath as the next rapid roiled me under it's churning, manic path. At this point, I was still, miraculously clutching my oar, but I could feel that it was impeding me, as I was focusing too much attention on it and not enough on my own bodily safety. It was a no-brainer: I let the rapids drag the oar right out of my hands.

Gulp. I could feel my left hand being sliced open. Somehow, I thought, "Remember, Julie, my knees are okay. My feet are not broken." I felt another rock scrape across the middle finger nail on my right hand. Ow.

But I could see again, and what I saw was not another rapid, but, instead, a blue kayak, madly paddling in my direction.

Koa!

Not Koa, but still a Renegade Kayaker, Bujigali Falls, The White Nile

Only when he got closer to me (or, really, I got close to him) did I realize just how fast I was moving. Fast enough that reaching out and grabbing onto his kayak was much easier to visualize than to do. Fortunately, he had incredible upper body strength. With his long paddle, the force of the Nile and my desperation to live pulling and pushing us together, I managed to swiftly collide and straddle the front of his boat. As we were not completely out of harm's way, he bellowed at me, "Get on the back!" I slid as well as one can, when one has an aching butt, to the back and we tossed our way through the choppy waters to a cove of unmoving stillness.

When I arrived, I was greeted by my fair raft mate, Meagan. She was not, in fact, fairing well at all. A quick look at her showed me an open elbow wound, a bloody hole in her hip and scrapes all over her back. She was hurtin'. I was shaky, too, but I only had a little bit of red on my knuckles--color me Brad Pitt and put me in Fight Club. I helped her to sit on some rocks (slimy green ones) and we waited for a rescue boat to come get us.

I was taken up as a castaway by one of the other 9 rafts. A hearty crew was aboard and sympathetic. Meagan was scooped up by the Safety Boat, a raft manned by one very strong guide who stands atop broad, wooden supports and uses 8-foot long oars to make his way through all the rapids without flipping over.

My temporary hosts were chivalrous and kind and made no mind to the fact that I had thrown my oar to the dogs as soon as I was supplanted from the raft by a large dose of water.
After a bit of a traffic jam and some guide-swapping, I was deposited back with my raft, now tied to the Safety Boat. Meagan was getting first-aid for all of her new holes, and Juma, Alex (another guide) and Tim all took turns trying to cool the ire of me, Heather and Liz, as we stewed over the fact that ours was the only raft to throw rowers overboard (the only people who had stayed in the boat were Seble, Ian and Juma). We knew that Juma had guided us in too soon and too fast, and we needed some sort of nebulous, intangible assurance that it would not happen again on the upcoming 3 Grade 5 rapids we still had to surmount.

In the end, after all our cuts and bruises had been tended to with iodine and band-aids (Tim, as I yelped at the stinging on the back of my hand when the iodine made contact: "I love to make the girls scream."), our raft made its humble way toward the last 3 rapids. Heather and I were particularly scared. We even whined about wanting to stop right at that moment and walk home. But, we knew that was not what we really wanted. So, we approached the rapid. With Meagan now gone, I was at the front with Heather. Juma gave us plenty of prep time, pep talks and advice. Heather and I "Yawped" our way down the rapid, and as we road through the last of the bucking waves, we hollered more than anyone really ever should. "WE ARE THE WINNING COMBINATION!"

We made then next rapid without incident. The last rapid was a super-duper Grade 5 that came at the bottom of a whopping Grade 6. Everyone, including the safety boat, had to get out of the water and walk around the Grade 6 rapids. The boats were Sherpaed over a steep hill and then down to the other side, where, despite the down-grade from a 6 to a 5, still scared us out of our wits to see what lay before us: a whirlpool.

Heather, who was starting to feel the effects of being thrown out of the boat, stooped her way up the hill and realized that her back was thrown out. There was no way she was going to plunge through those rapids. And, Juma made us an offer that we really couldn't refuse: we could take the right-hand side of the rapids, thus avoiding the whirlpool. We would be far less likely to flip. Ian decided to get into a boat that was going to take on the whirlpool. More power to 'im.

So, and then there were 3. Seble, myself and Liz all tiptoed our ways down to the raft, now waiting for us in a cove just in front of the Grade 5 rapid. Juma smiled somewhat warily at the three of us, and we jumped in. I shoved us off, after convincing Liz that she really ought to man the front with me, and we made our way down to the turbulent water.

I felt like a 10 year old, determined to make it and actively ignorant to the danger in front of me: I was going to beat this rapid and I was going to stay in the gosh-darned boat! We skimmed by the right-hand side of the whirlpool, just missing being sucked into its vortex. We bounced. We heaved. Liz flew. And I stayed in the boat. Somehow, Liz managed to hold onto the rope and I pulled her back in almost as soon as she had popped out.

We stroked our way down the last of the waves. We were done. We had made it and lived to tell the tale. As we bobbed around at the end of the rapids, we watched the other, slightly more intrepid (foolish?) rafters go through the whirlpool. Many did not make it, including one poor soul who got sucked in and spun round like a piece of laundry. Somehow, though, they all managed to come out alive. We rescued two of them, both of whom were gasping and panting, amazed that they were still alive.

As I traipsed my way back up the hill to the waiting vans, I realized that my perspective had shifted. So, Freddy had been threatened. It was not good news, but it was manageable. When faced with actual danger, I stood up to it. If I was being followed by shifty people back in Kampala, so be it. I would stay alert and let my natural instincts kick in. Paranoia would no longer be my companion. Instead, I would remain vigilant. But, I would remember to have fun. And laugh. And embrace the life I was living.

The rest of the weekend proved to be quite serene and lovely, as Meagan, Heather, Liz and I nursed our wounds. By the time I returned to Kampala the following Sunday night, I was ready for the next thing, whatever it ended up being. I still am.

The Sun Sets Over the White Nile

Beauty in Jinja

Ethiopia in Crisis Once More

2008-06-24T09:56:00.009+02:00

After having spent almost 3 weeks in Ethiopia last August, hearing about their current, momentous plight is disenchanting, to say the least. While I was traipsing through Lalibela with Tracey Neale and Erma Millard Charles (www.veronicasstory.org), photographing and filming the lush green landscapes and the smiling children, I knew I was standing in the very same valley where the famine had taken over 1 million Ethiopians' lives in the early 1980s. During that famine, I was 9 or 10 years old. I sang "We Are the World" and "Do They Know It's Christmastime At All?" Ethiopia was the butt of many food jokes (see When Harry Met Sally).

But last August, I was filled with a simultaneous sense of relief and concern that far out-shot my childhood point of view. Sure, jokes were funny, and those songs were catchy tunes. But there was something more solid--stoic; real--about where I was standing.

Lalibela, August, 2007

Though the rainy season was generous while we were there, the prosperity was fleeting, at best. To have that thought was to bolster my own ego; I assumed it would be years--if not decades--before these people would be on the brink of starvation again. I assumed that they had figured out sustainable farming (though, deep down, I knew that not to be true). To think that those boys I met less than one year ago are aching for food right now breaks my heart.

Young Men Ask for a New Soccer Ball, Lalibela, Ethiopia, August, 2007

Please take a moment to think about what you can do for these people in Ethiopia. Donate some time, money, food? Perhaps someone reading this will be inspired to go to Ethiopia and help them change their paradigms about food and farming. Something drastic needs to happen, and another famine should not be the catalyst--but it is.

When the Land Produced Crops, August, 2007

I have attached a link to a slide show featured on my Alma mater's web site: Ethiopia Photo Blog

The Western (Or is it Human?) Activities of These New Friends of Mine

2008-06-19T13:39:00.002+02:00

Hanging out on the weekends in D.C. consists of any variation of the following: sleeping in, meeting friends for brunch at The Diner or Savory Cafe. Going out to bars to watch sports, to dance, to people-watch. Playing board games with my favorite fiend ;) Going for long bike rides, runs or walks through Sligo Creek Park, getting lost somewhere in Maryland and navigating my way back by wits, alone.

Here, life appears to be so different. Dirt roads, potholes that rival the grand canyon, children running through piles of trash. But, once inside my compound, life becomes oddly western again (or is it really just normally human?). My new mates Afrah, Enity, Beatrice, Sarah, Irene, Abdallah, Pascal and Freddy (just to name a few) have tea. They stop by to say hi. They invite me over for a homemade, Ugandan lunch. We watch The Fifth Element, The Pelican Brief, The Matrix.

On the weekends we do laundry, we go shopping at the market (okay: it is a bit of a stark contrast to the farmer's market in Dupont or Takoma Park), we meet friends who have just come a long way on a bike journey. We go for strolls down the lane.

In other words, we hang out.

Pascal, Juliet and Freddy, Kyebando District, Kampala

Kids enjoy the waning sunshine

Welcome to Uganda ;)

2008-06-11T11:10:00.000+02:00

As a very silly man said to me, "When you get to Uganda, be sure to welcome everyone there. And be sure to use silly string to stress your point."
So, welcome. Sorry I don't have any silly string. Funny how that isn't a common commodity here in Uganda.
Here I shall write a more personal supplement to my primary blog on The Advocacy Project's (AP) website, the great organization I am volunteering with. While working with AP and The World Peasants/Indigenous Organization (WPIO), and creating a documentary to help promote the WPIOs mission to bring civic education and human rights to the peasants and indigenous peoples of Eastern and Central Africa, I am surely going to have a lot to say about my own personal experiences. So, stay plugged in and tuned on. I'll be back with plenty of thoughts and observations.