For My Best Friend's Film

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

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 home again. Having lived for a few months in Kampala, Uganda in 2008 and worked one month in Ethiopia the year before that, I fancied myself an expert on the scent of Africa. I exclaimed to my husband, “It smells like Africa! Ahh, how I've missed that smell.” I'd never been to Rwanda before, but the sensation somehow comforted me. Mixed in the all-encompassing odor of earth, flaura, and fauna was, most jarringly, the spices of a thousand undeodorized bodies; I was suddenly reminded of my inherent foreignness. This adventure in Rwanda, 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

Hi Folks,

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

My Tolerance and Acceptance Return

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

This is too important not to talk about.

Stop encroaching on my rights.

I'm Sick of Muzungu

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

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.