Being a woman coming to work in an Islamic Republic, I prepared myself for a lot of things. I mentally prepped myself to be a ghost, to sometimes be heard, but definitely never seen. I brought a suitcase full of clothes that were two sizes too big that covered my neck, wrists and thighs. I packed a dozen scarves to cover my head with. However, the social reality of working in an office funded by the USG in Afghanistan sometimes wildly differs from my conservative expectations. But sometimes it is a little more than I could have prepared myself for.
I have really enjoyed the culture, energy and personalities of the people I work with, so here are a few anecdotes from my daily office life:
When I first arrived, I was struggling to get all of the staff names right. First off, names are all Arabic. At least in Africa, people will frequently take “Christian” names like, Peter, or Christine. Or they will be named after some popular American word, like Immaculate or Duplex. Here there are names like Amira or Taqdeerullah. Anyhow, there are three men that share my office, and two of them I always got confused and my friend helped me by saying, “B is the religious one, so just remember B is for Beard”. And he is the more religious of my team. Everyday at about 1:00p and 4:00p he will go wash, put on his Kufi (white prayer hat) and lay out his prayer rug facing the Qiblah (Mecca), and begins his subtle chanting and kneeling. At first I was very careful when interacting with B. I made sure to be very proper and to know my place. And then he sent me a video on Skype that was “too funny”. The video was set in an American work place with a man in a suite who stared as a women bent over in a tight skirt, and another woman slapped him. I courteously chuckle chatted him back.
Another day, my expat colleague was talking to another staff member and said (referring to the innocuous carrot and stick approach), “For some reason Dr., your stick is not working. You keep waving it, but nothing is happening.” Now, the thought had crossed my mind, but this is Afghanistan, so I remained professional and let the moment pass. But B, B of all people, just burst out laughing and repeats it to the next guy that comes through the door.
The contrast to B is all of the men that come through the office and don’t even acknowledge my presence. In Afghanistan, like many places I have lived, greetings are a very important ritual. You can spend 15 minutes just asking back and forth after your companion’s family. If someone walks in the room, you stop working, stand up and he goes around and greets everyone. It is insulting to just say hello and keep typing. Unless you are a woman. If you are a woman, it is fine to keep working, because many men will just walk right by your desk.
…
One day while just the two of us are in the office (usually there are 4 other men), A, the young, very beautiful, shy woman that sits next to me asks out of the blue, “Is there an Amazon store?” I look over at A, sitting in her headscarf with her dark sweet eyes and ask, “A what?” assuming that she can’t possibly be talking about the Amazon.com that I frequent. “A store for Amazon. You know, the website, can you go to a store?”. I have not talked too much with A as she is really quiet (at least when men are around), but I do know that she has a husband in Canada. I walk over to her desk and she explains that her cousin is getting married next month and she wants her husband to go to the store in Canada and buy her a dress to bring with him to Afghanistan for the wedding. She shows me two dresses. One is a typical American bridesmaid type dress – black strapless with an a-line skirt to the knee. The other is a straight-up va-va-voom, Jessica rabbit type dress – bright red, also strapless but with a sweet heart cut, long, tight with a high slit. I look at this young woman and think to myself, you must be hiding a rockin body under that house-like outfit… I am shocked, are women here allowed to own such items let alone wear them?!? After further prying, it turns out that traditional Afghan weddings separate men and women, and women typically wear really fancy dresses in the hopes of impressing the mother of a young bachelor. But my colleague is already married, so I guess it is just a great opportunity to wear something sexy!
The contrast to A is G. G is really a rather ‘western’ Afghan woman. She does not wear a head scarf in the office, and she wears tighter clothing and shorter sleeves than most. She has a very friendly, blunt affect and is almost flirty with men. However, she has a horrific husband. She will come in and show us bruises or burns where her husband has beat her or thrown acid on her. She tells us that she works because when she brings home money, her husband does not beat her so much…
…
N. N is one of my favorite people I have met here. He is a twenty-something, good looking, good humored, hard working man. His family and culture is very important to him but he does not take time out of the day to pray and frequently has lunch brought to his desk to eat. N and I are always laughing, when I am out sick, he always asks after me. He will tell me all about his family or about the party he attended the night before. When I asked what a party in Afghanistan is like, he tells me that he and his friends gather, and they play instruments, predominately a stringed instrument, and they sit around and sing. N really makes me wish I could actually experience The Real Afghanistan. I wish I could be invited to a friend’s home, and drink tea and sway as my friends sang traditional songs.
N recently lost a 1 year old nephew to meningitis. When he returned from leave (keeping vigil at his brothers home), the moment he entered we all hugged him (well the men did, I can’t hug men), and then immediately circled around and B launches into the sing-song of a Muslim prayer. They raise their hands at the conclusion of prayer and murmur quietly in the way that the Messenger of Allaah (peace be apon him) once did.
…
The other night at dinner, my friends were telling me of a colleague who is so sweet, and always cautioning them to live in the moment. He has lost an eye to the insurgents and has been blown up a number of times.
…
When I came here, everyone was afraid for me – all we know of Afghanistan is what we read or hear in the media. That information is predominantly of the war, the insurgents or the brutality of the old Taliban regime. Typically I leave room for you to make your own interpretations, but on this blog, I am really hoping that you get the following: This country has been to hell and back (well, maybe not back entirely), Afghans have dealt with, and still deal with, many complex and frightening problems, but, through it all there is joy and humor, strong relationships and a vivacious culture, and maybe most astonishing, a belief in the potential of the future - A beautiful vitality.
*I have used letters to represent coworkers as many local national staff risk their lives to work with us.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
CallSign Charlie-Eight-Two-Zero
That’s me. Charlie 820.
After our first attempt to land at Kabul International Airport, the captain gets on the intercom to announce that conditions are bad for landing as he could not see the necessary indicators on the ground. It is a whiteout snow storm; apparently, it has been dumping snow all day. He tells us that we will circle for 30 minutes to see if conditions improve, and then take one final attempt to land, if we cannot land again, then we will just return to Dubai (no big deal, just turn around and fly back 3 hours). The pilot makes sure to remind us that Safi Airline is the safest airline in Afghanistan. Though, the timing of that statement was less than reassuring. I look out my window, and all I see is white, I know I must be surrounded by mountains, but can’t see a thing. I imagine we must be close to the ground but have no idea. My stomach is a bit nervous, not sure if it is because I am in a plane trying to land in a snow storm amidst towering mountains, or if it is because I am (hopefully) landing in a country at war. Or some mix of both. Needless to say, I am a bit more on edge than usual during this landing. We start the decent again. All of a sudden I see the runway right below us, our wheels touchdown, and the cabin breaks into tentative applause. I breathe a sigh of relief.
The airport is like most airports I’ve been to in developing nations. Sparse. Though with a few more guns. All of the ladies dawn their head scarves as we step off the plane, and we rush to get through passport control. The luggage pickup is an old school conveyer belt surrounded by numerous Afghans asking if I need assistance (for a price of course). But I, being the master packer that I am, have it under control. Someone asks me if I am with [my organization] and tells me my vehicle is waiting, but I do not recognize him so I blow him off. Not about to begin this foray into Afghanistan with a kidnapping. The power shuts down. We all stand around the luggage roundabout in the dark until the generator kicks in. Eventually my luggage comes around and I make my way through customs (just another series of queues) to my escort. He verbally welcomes me (men and women do not shake hands here, let alone hug) and we exit the airport.
It is a quiet evening, dampened by the falling snow. Everything is that glowy blue that comes about on a snowy evening just as the sun finishes setting. Due to airport security protocols, there are numerous abandoned walled-in lots surrounding the airport where no vehicles are allowed. As we make our way across this empty snow field I find myself hoping that I did actual recognize this man, and it wasn’t just the 2 days of travel talking. He starts to talk to me about my project and about the weather in California and I feel a bit better. We pass through what appears to be a crack in a barrier wall, and find ourselves in a parking lot filled with landcruzers with UN painted on the sides and, somewhat more discrete, armored vehicles. Eventually we walk up to one such unremarkable armored vehicle and a Scottish man steps out and says, “You must be Rachel”. He introduces himself and loads my stuff into the back. I hop in to find two other expat men in the back seat already. The security man climbs into the front seat, turns around and says in his thick Scottish accent, “We are on yellow; there have not been any instances in the last two days. First-aid packs are here and here (pointing to packs on the backs of the driver and passenger seats), I have weapons up here with me, and the rest are in a trunk in the back of the vehicle (beneath all my shit). If anything happens, just lie on the floor and follow my directions. We have about 10 minutes till we reach HQ”. He then gets on the radio to inform HQ that pick-up is complete and we are en-route. By this point my head is swirling; So many possibilities and so little instruction. Nothing has happened in the last 2 days - in what kind of world is that satisfactory? I imagine that if anything were to happen, it would be pretty difficult to hear any instructions from my security escort. But, I take a breath and try to steady my heart rate. “Here we go” I think to myself.
By this point it is dark in Kabul, but traffic is still plenty. The driver speeds in and out of traffic, sometimes against the flow, but rarely ever stops. People step out in front of our vehicle to cross the street, and I hold my breath. As we make it through police checkpoints, the security radios it into headquarters. Shortly we pull up to a gate that magically opens and we enter a garage.
Everyone piles out into the building, and I do a three-sixty, not sure where to go. I poke my head around and find my way into the security control room - abuzz with radio communication, the walls covered in maps and trackers. The guy in charge eventually asks me if he can help me, and, after learning I am new, promptly launches into a rant on how they run the security operation and how they track every movement of every member of the team. He explains the callsigns to me, and tells me I am now known as Charlie Eight-Two-Zero. “Charlie 820, Charlie 820” I repeat in my head, but my mind hasn’t quieted from the car ride, and this new influx of information is just making my mind swirl at a faster rate. Eventually the guy who runs the overall security operations of LGCD comes and takes me up to his office. At this point, it is 7pm on a Saturday, so everyone just wants to go home. He offers me water and sits me down in front of a big screen. Though I would prefer a cigarette, the water and the darkness calm me a bit. Then he tells me in his Irish accent, “This presentation is not meant to scare you, just to give you a realistic idea of the situation on the ground”. Great, I think to myself, again, not finding the forewarning reassuring.
We proceed to spend the next hour and a half going over every major hit that has taken place against our project in the last few years. We discuss the fact that because we are closely tied to GoIRA’s (Government of Islamic Republic of Afghanistan) and the US governments counter insurgent program, we are a considerably higher priority target than NGO’s and even other private contractors. I begin to piece together the nature of my program, working with the PRT’s to clear areas (of insurgents) and then work to build infrastructure and livelihoods on behalf of GoIRA, in an attempt to create a relationship between civilians in these remote places and their government. It starts to make sense that we would be a target, but definitely not something that had dawned on me before this debrief. He details houses and projects that have been hit. At some point I interject, “I know this may be a bigger question than you are prepared to answer, but have you sat down and identified the threshold at which the loss of project and security personnel outweighs the benefits of our work?” He gives me a wishy-washy answer with the underlying emotion being that no one thinks we are there yet. He then runs down all of the security protocol and pushes me off to HR to sign papers and get my body armor and cell phone.
Being that it is nearing 9pm, the HR rep just hands over my body armor and tells me to meet her Sunday at 8:30 to go over everything. I am thankful for this reprieve, as all I desire is a warm shower and a bed. She calls for a vehicle to pick us and take us to my new home. We climb in, and the security escort up front immediately asks us for our callsigns. I stumble and dig for the paper in my bag where I had written it down. “Charlie Eight-Two-Zero”. Again we are bumping our way through the walled, pot-holed streets of Kabul with the crackle of radio traffic in the background. We arrive at my new house, and security gets on the radio and requests for them to open the gate. Men in body armor and AK’s come out and open the gates. Inside are shooters in various strategic positions aimed at the gate, and my vehicle. I am not in Kansas anymore…I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. I ask for assistance, and the security escort opens it from the outside with no problem. It dawns on me that this is an armored vehicle, and the doors are like that of a vault. Gotta put your back into it.
I climb out and once again drag my shit through the mud and snow, and look up. It is a multi story house with old southern architecture. We step into the marble foyer with sweeping grand stairwells. My escort hands me over to the head of security of the house, and he gives me a tour of the house and runs over what to do in event of earthquake, mortar shells or compound attack. He says, “You will know if we are under attack because you will hear a big boom and then the tak tak tak of gun fire”. Sweet. I ask him if we should fit my body armor and put together my grab bag, but due to the late hour, he too puts it off until tomorrow. Left alone to myself, I shower and try to wrap my head around things. I head down to the kitchen to see what’s to eat. I chat a bit with the few people snacking at 10pm and head back to my room. I am dead beat, and look at my queen bed longingly. My mind is racing, but I am drained and allow myself to climb in. It doesn’t take 10 minutes for me to be up and packing my grab bag. Basically a grab bag is bag you grab in the event of attack that has all of the essentials (warm clothes as it is winter here at 5,000 feet, food, water, first aid, meds, cash, passport, phone). I place it next to the door with my body armor. I get back into bed and fall asleep as I mentally run over the actions of what to do if we are attacked (some people count sheep). At 4pm California time (3:30 am Kabul time) I wake up. With every little noise, I pause to assess its significance. I go over and over everything that I have been told in the last 12 hours, and try to piece together the likelihood of a hit on this house, this night. I feel inadequately prepared for anything and everything. I try to will myself back to sleep, but at 6:00am, I give up and go down to the gym.
A new day awaits. The sunlight is somehow reassuring. I call for a car to take me to the office, climb in and give them my callsign. Charlie Eight-Two-Zero.
NOTE: I have been intentionally vague about names, places and protocal. If you have questions feel free to email.
After our first attempt to land at Kabul International Airport, the captain gets on the intercom to announce that conditions are bad for landing as he could not see the necessary indicators on the ground. It is a whiteout snow storm; apparently, it has been dumping snow all day. He tells us that we will circle for 30 minutes to see if conditions improve, and then take one final attempt to land, if we cannot land again, then we will just return to Dubai (no big deal, just turn around and fly back 3 hours). The pilot makes sure to remind us that Safi Airline is the safest airline in Afghanistan. Though, the timing of that statement was less than reassuring. I look out my window, and all I see is white, I know I must be surrounded by mountains, but can’t see a thing. I imagine we must be close to the ground but have no idea. My stomach is a bit nervous, not sure if it is because I am in a plane trying to land in a snow storm amidst towering mountains, or if it is because I am (hopefully) landing in a country at war. Or some mix of both. Needless to say, I am a bit more on edge than usual during this landing. We start the decent again. All of a sudden I see the runway right below us, our wheels touchdown, and the cabin breaks into tentative applause. I breathe a sigh of relief.
The airport is like most airports I’ve been to in developing nations. Sparse. Though with a few more guns. All of the ladies dawn their head scarves as we step off the plane, and we rush to get through passport control. The luggage pickup is an old school conveyer belt surrounded by numerous Afghans asking if I need assistance (for a price of course). But I, being the master packer that I am, have it under control. Someone asks me if I am with [my organization] and tells me my vehicle is waiting, but I do not recognize him so I blow him off. Not about to begin this foray into Afghanistan with a kidnapping. The power shuts down. We all stand around the luggage roundabout in the dark until the generator kicks in. Eventually my luggage comes around and I make my way through customs (just another series of queues) to my escort. He verbally welcomes me (men and women do not shake hands here, let alone hug) and we exit the airport.
It is a quiet evening, dampened by the falling snow. Everything is that glowy blue that comes about on a snowy evening just as the sun finishes setting. Due to airport security protocols, there are numerous abandoned walled-in lots surrounding the airport where no vehicles are allowed. As we make our way across this empty snow field I find myself hoping that I did actual recognize this man, and it wasn’t just the 2 days of travel talking. He starts to talk to me about my project and about the weather in California and I feel a bit better. We pass through what appears to be a crack in a barrier wall, and find ourselves in a parking lot filled with landcruzers with UN painted on the sides and, somewhat more discrete, armored vehicles. Eventually we walk up to one such unremarkable armored vehicle and a Scottish man steps out and says, “You must be Rachel”. He introduces himself and loads my stuff into the back. I hop in to find two other expat men in the back seat already. The security man climbs into the front seat, turns around and says in his thick Scottish accent, “We are on yellow; there have not been any instances in the last two days. First-aid packs are here and here (pointing to packs on the backs of the driver and passenger seats), I have weapons up here with me, and the rest are in a trunk in the back of the vehicle (beneath all my shit). If anything happens, just lie on the floor and follow my directions. We have about 10 minutes till we reach HQ”. He then gets on the radio to inform HQ that pick-up is complete and we are en-route. By this point my head is swirling; So many possibilities and so little instruction. Nothing has happened in the last 2 days - in what kind of world is that satisfactory? I imagine that if anything were to happen, it would be pretty difficult to hear any instructions from my security escort. But, I take a breath and try to steady my heart rate. “Here we go” I think to myself.
By this point it is dark in Kabul, but traffic is still plenty. The driver speeds in and out of traffic, sometimes against the flow, but rarely ever stops. People step out in front of our vehicle to cross the street, and I hold my breath. As we make it through police checkpoints, the security radios it into headquarters. Shortly we pull up to a gate that magically opens and we enter a garage.
Everyone piles out into the building, and I do a three-sixty, not sure where to go. I poke my head around and find my way into the security control room - abuzz with radio communication, the walls covered in maps and trackers. The guy in charge eventually asks me if he can help me, and, after learning I am new, promptly launches into a rant on how they run the security operation and how they track every movement of every member of the team. He explains the callsigns to me, and tells me I am now known as Charlie Eight-Two-Zero. “Charlie 820, Charlie 820” I repeat in my head, but my mind hasn’t quieted from the car ride, and this new influx of information is just making my mind swirl at a faster rate. Eventually the guy who runs the overall security operations of LGCD comes and takes me up to his office. At this point, it is 7pm on a Saturday, so everyone just wants to go home. He offers me water and sits me down in front of a big screen. Though I would prefer a cigarette, the water and the darkness calm me a bit. Then he tells me in his Irish accent, “This presentation is not meant to scare you, just to give you a realistic idea of the situation on the ground”. Great, I think to myself, again, not finding the forewarning reassuring.
We proceed to spend the next hour and a half going over every major hit that has taken place against our project in the last few years. We discuss the fact that because we are closely tied to GoIRA’s (Government of Islamic Republic of Afghanistan) and the US governments counter insurgent program, we are a considerably higher priority target than NGO’s and even other private contractors. I begin to piece together the nature of my program, working with the PRT’s to clear areas (of insurgents) and then work to build infrastructure and livelihoods on behalf of GoIRA, in an attempt to create a relationship between civilians in these remote places and their government. It starts to make sense that we would be a target, but definitely not something that had dawned on me before this debrief. He details houses and projects that have been hit. At some point I interject, “I know this may be a bigger question than you are prepared to answer, but have you sat down and identified the threshold at which the loss of project and security personnel outweighs the benefits of our work?” He gives me a wishy-washy answer with the underlying emotion being that no one thinks we are there yet. He then runs down all of the security protocol and pushes me off to HR to sign papers and get my body armor and cell phone.
Being that it is nearing 9pm, the HR rep just hands over my body armor and tells me to meet her Sunday at 8:30 to go over everything. I am thankful for this reprieve, as all I desire is a warm shower and a bed. She calls for a vehicle to pick us and take us to my new home. We climb in, and the security escort up front immediately asks us for our callsigns. I stumble and dig for the paper in my bag where I had written it down. “Charlie Eight-Two-Zero”. Again we are bumping our way through the walled, pot-holed streets of Kabul with the crackle of radio traffic in the background. We arrive at my new house, and security gets on the radio and requests for them to open the gate. Men in body armor and AK’s come out and open the gates. Inside are shooters in various strategic positions aimed at the gate, and my vehicle. I am not in Kansas anymore…I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge. I ask for assistance, and the security escort opens it from the outside with no problem. It dawns on me that this is an armored vehicle, and the doors are like that of a vault. Gotta put your back into it.
I climb out and once again drag my shit through the mud and snow, and look up. It is a multi story house with old southern architecture. We step into the marble foyer with sweeping grand stairwells. My escort hands me over to the head of security of the house, and he gives me a tour of the house and runs over what to do in event of earthquake, mortar shells or compound attack. He says, “You will know if we are under attack because you will hear a big boom and then the tak tak tak of gun fire”. Sweet. I ask him if we should fit my body armor and put together my grab bag, but due to the late hour, he too puts it off until tomorrow. Left alone to myself, I shower and try to wrap my head around things. I head down to the kitchen to see what’s to eat. I chat a bit with the few people snacking at 10pm and head back to my room. I am dead beat, and look at my queen bed longingly. My mind is racing, but I am drained and allow myself to climb in. It doesn’t take 10 minutes for me to be up and packing my grab bag. Basically a grab bag is bag you grab in the event of attack that has all of the essentials (warm clothes as it is winter here at 5,000 feet, food, water, first aid, meds, cash, passport, phone). I place it next to the door with my body armor. I get back into bed and fall asleep as I mentally run over the actions of what to do if we are attacked (some people count sheep). At 4pm California time (3:30 am Kabul time) I wake up. With every little noise, I pause to assess its significance. I go over and over everything that I have been told in the last 12 hours, and try to piece together the likelihood of a hit on this house, this night. I feel inadequately prepared for anything and everything. I try to will myself back to sleep, but at 6:00am, I give up and go down to the gym.
A new day awaits. The sunlight is somehow reassuring. I call for a car to take me to the office, climb in and give them my callsign. Charlie Eight-Two-Zero.
NOTE: I have been intentionally vague about names, places and protocal. If you have questions feel free to email.
Friday, February 11, 2011
If the Fire Doesn’t Get You, the Fall Will
Dated 29 July 2010. (four days after The Great Fire)
I woke up early this morning to go over my speech for the opening ceremony. Today we are finally celebrating the completion of a project that we have been carrying out for the last 3 months, building an Artisan Community Center. This is a project that aims to provide a dry space for our artisans and their community to use as a meeting house during the rainy season. It is a moment of pride for our women who, because of their hard work and commitment to our organization, have brought a beautiful, pristine and high quality structure to their very remote village. This project has been funded for years by the US Embassy in Dar es Salaam, however due to the remote nature of our project, they have never visited us. After many emails and a meeting in Dar with our contact, I finally convinced the embassy representative to come visit for the opening ceremony. The team was ecstatic! Big day!
After a surprisingly short delay, the team, in our smartest outfits, piles into our landcruzer and we go speeding off into the bush to make sure things are ready. The mood is familial and celebratory in the car, everyone is singing and swaying as we bounce over bumps. The team is together and we get to show off our amazing project!
I should mention, that the embassy representative decided to bundle his trip out to our village with a few other project visits since it is incredibly unusual for them to get out our direction. Because of this, I plan to meet him on the main road at 2pm so that he can follow our vehicle out to the site. But we wanted to get there early and make sure everything was ready to start on time.
When we peak over the hill that slopes into the valley where our site is, I can hardly recognize the site I have been overseeing for the last few months. There is a canopy made out of local fabrics tied together and there are already hundreds of people swarming around (and it is only 11am!). We pull up and the artisans and other women from the neighboring village surround the car in song and dance. We climb out and dance our way to the ceremony site. Eventually things quite down, and I just start snapping pictures. After it is clear that everything is in order, I decide to walk around and get some more photos around the site ( I have been trying to make a better effort to take more photos).
It is important to know that I am wearing really flat sandals with no support and a very tight skirt that goes to my knee.
So I walk around to the dirt road in front of the site and click away. I hear more singing and decide to go back to the festivities. I try to go around the opposite way I came, which requires me to walk over a small dirt ditch, but half way down I realize that the opposite side is much higher and too steep to climb up in the skirt I am wearing. So I pivot to go back the way I came. SNAP. Something rips in my ankle and I immediately hit the ground (remarkably without dropping my SLR which I am too cool to wear around my neck). I am in blinding amounts pain, grabbing my ankle and focusing on breathing. I faintly hear the two guys on the road laughing at me, the mzungu that fell. But mainly my mind is swirling with the most pain I have ever experienced. Eventually the laughing guys realize I am really in pain and not getting up. One decides to come over and help me to my feet (kind of in the manner one would help a screaming child that just fell, “its okay baby,” (lifts child to feet) “Now go run along and play. “). Obviously, it is not that simple in my case, but in my pain, I do not have the Kiswa skills to tell them that something snapped and I am seriously injured. I was even in doubt as to how seriously injured I was. Afterall, all I had done was turn around. All I knew was that I was in serious pain. Between gasps, I muster up the words “lete rafiki yangu” (bring my friends). Naturally, they go into the ceremony and say “an mzungu has fallen”. All 300 people turn around and head to the road to see the spectacle.
So now, not only am I am more pain than childlabor could possibly be, but I have an audience of 300 rural Tanzanians. Sweet. My boss arrives and takes charge in her perfect kiswa. She asks me with a chuckle, “what, you wanted to get the entertainment started early?” I reply that I just thought that more attention should be on Me. So, I don’t really know how they decided that a stooped 70 year old woman and a short man were the best fit in the crowd of 300 to help me get up and hobble up the hill, but they did. Once up, another grandma starts swatting at my ass. Because, apparently, it is bad enough that an mzungu has fallen, but to have her nice outfit soiled by red dirt is just too much. Heidi (my boss) later tells me how funny I looked as a 6’ tall women hunched with these short people on either side. Eventually they get me in the car, where I finally allow myself to look at my ankle. Already it is purple and blue and swollen to a soft ball size. F***. This was not how the day was planned to go.
After much consultation amongst the crowd and my team, it becomes clear that the X ray is broken at the local hospital and no one can decide what to do with me. My head starts to clear and I step in. A month earlier, an Australian ER doctor arrived to our village to start her 3 year mission service. I tell my driver to take me to her, as she will know what to do. And he does exactly that. My ankle stabs each time we bounce over a bump, but at least fresh air is blowing at my face through the window, keeping me from passing out. My driver drives us straight up onto her lawn, right up to her door.
“Roooooose,” I yell in the door. At that, Dr. Rose and her 2 daughters come
running out the door. Everyone is shocked. After some assessment, Rose decides it is either a really bad sprain or a break. She splints it lightly, tells me to elevate it and not to put any weight on it, gives me some light pain killers and says she will check in on me.
My driver then drives me home, where he and our guard carry me into my house. He then takes off to find the embassy representatives. Jessica (who you remember from the Day of the Great Fire), immediately sets out to start cleaning my feet. It hurt to the touch, but she was gentle. About an hour later, my guard comes in with a tree that he has widdled down for me to use as a walking crutch. I smile at the gesture (and as it turns out, it really saved me those first few days).
Anyhow, long story shorter, after 3 days, Dr. Rose is called into the hospital for an emergency where she is shown a chest x-ray. She inquires about this, and they tell her that the x-ray machine is in fact working, but only for special people (people who can pay the 10 USD). So she gets me in for an x-ray. It is clearly broken, but what is not clear (due to the poor quality of the machine) is if there are other breaks that compromise the joint. Everyone decides that I will need to go to a better hospital to get clarifying x-rays, and potentially surgery.
Meanwhile, I am uninsured, so my mom is in a frenzy in the US trying to figure out what to do, and how to get it covered. She tries everything (even the US embassy in Dar). She doesn’t sleep for a week.
I pick up the phone and call flying docs, my med-evac insurance. We make arrangements for a pick-up on Monday at 11am. At this point, my team starts running around to make sure I have everything I need to go to Kenya and then on to the US and that they have everything they need for the next few months.
On Monday, Edson drives me out to a dirt airstrip, I say goodbye to everyone, and I board an ambulance/plane. The irony is not lost on me that the last time I left Kenya, I was evaxuated due to political unrest, and here I was flying into Kenya (being medically evacuated from Tanzania) on the eve of their contemptuous constitutional referendum. Luckily,it was peaceful. Even more lucky, an American surgeon was on the flight and stayed with me through it all to make sure I received adequate medical attention in Nairobi. In Nairobi the x-rays showed that it was in fact broken in 3 places and the orthopedist said that surgery was necessary. This meant that the joint was incredibly unstable and I was going home to the US for surgery. I stayed the night in the hospital and then stayed with my new doctor friend while I waited for my flight in 24 hours time. Unfortunately, my doctor got called off to a medical emergency in Sudan, and had to take off suddenly. This meant that I had to give myself a shot (blood thinner so that I did not get a clot and die on the plane) and find my way to the airport.
I call a taxi and we head to the airport. Because I have a duffle, and am on crutches and countless pain meds, I ask him to park and escort me in. When we get to the check-in counter, the woman tells me that she regrets to inform me that my flight has been cancelled for 24 hours and that all other flights are booked. My mind starts swirling, my eyes well up, and I start spewing verbal diarrhea about how I have to get home for surgery and I do not have enough meds to delay yada yada yada. She smiles and says they are happy to put me up in a hotel room for the night and shuttle me to and fro the airport. I clean my tears up, and go into scary Rachel mode inorder to express in no uncertain terms that a delay was not an option, and that she needed to do whatever was necessary to get me on a flight. I even suggested they bump someone else off another airline, most tourists would be happy for the extra 24 hours in Nairobi. I was not a tourist. Eventually, she tells me she will try to get me on standby on Swiss air and instructs me to sit on a metal bench and wait for 2 hours until she will know. My sweet sweet taxi driver tries to insist on staying with me until I find out, but I send him home. He goes out and gets me food so that I can take my meds and continues to call and txt to see if I have made the flight. A church group comes along and prays for me not to be lonely in this time of need…
In the end I made the flight. But of course, my baggage was lost at customs (with the x-rays)and I was squished into an isle seat with a huge cast on my leg. Eventually, I made it back to the US and to medical coverage and after 3 months of a cast and no weight bearing, and 3 months of physical therapy, I am recovering well. It seems all of my previously good travel luck came in to call.
I woke up early this morning to go over my speech for the opening ceremony. Today we are finally celebrating the completion of a project that we have been carrying out for the last 3 months, building an Artisan Community Center. This is a project that aims to provide a dry space for our artisans and their community to use as a meeting house during the rainy season. It is a moment of pride for our women who, because of their hard work and commitment to our organization, have brought a beautiful, pristine and high quality structure to their very remote village. This project has been funded for years by the US Embassy in Dar es Salaam, however due to the remote nature of our project, they have never visited us. After many emails and a meeting in Dar with our contact, I finally convinced the embassy representative to come visit for the opening ceremony. The team was ecstatic! Big day!
After a surprisingly short delay, the team, in our smartest outfits, piles into our landcruzer and we go speeding off into the bush to make sure things are ready. The mood is familial and celebratory in the car, everyone is singing and swaying as we bounce over bumps. The team is together and we get to show off our amazing project!
I should mention, that the embassy representative decided to bundle his trip out to our village with a few other project visits since it is incredibly unusual for them to get out our direction. Because of this, I plan to meet him on the main road at 2pm so that he can follow our vehicle out to the site. But we wanted to get there early and make sure everything was ready to start on time.
When we peak over the hill that slopes into the valley where our site is, I can hardly recognize the site I have been overseeing for the last few months. There is a canopy made out of local fabrics tied together and there are already hundreds of people swarming around (and it is only 11am!). We pull up and the artisans and other women from the neighboring village surround the car in song and dance. We climb out and dance our way to the ceremony site. Eventually things quite down, and I just start snapping pictures. After it is clear that everything is in order, I decide to walk around and get some more photos around the site ( I have been trying to make a better effort to take more photos).
It is important to know that I am wearing really flat sandals with no support and a very tight skirt that goes to my knee.
So I walk around to the dirt road in front of the site and click away. I hear more singing and decide to go back to the festivities. I try to go around the opposite way I came, which requires me to walk over a small dirt ditch, but half way down I realize that the opposite side is much higher and too steep to climb up in the skirt I am wearing. So I pivot to go back the way I came. SNAP. Something rips in my ankle and I immediately hit the ground (remarkably without dropping my SLR which I am too cool to wear around my neck). I am in blinding amounts pain, grabbing my ankle and focusing on breathing. I faintly hear the two guys on the road laughing at me, the mzungu that fell. But mainly my mind is swirling with the most pain I have ever experienced. Eventually the laughing guys realize I am really in pain and not getting up. One decides to come over and help me to my feet (kind of in the manner one would help a screaming child that just fell, “its okay baby,” (lifts child to feet) “Now go run along and play. “). Obviously, it is not that simple in my case, but in my pain, I do not have the Kiswa skills to tell them that something snapped and I am seriously injured. I was even in doubt as to how seriously injured I was. Afterall, all I had done was turn around. All I knew was that I was in serious pain. Between gasps, I muster up the words “lete rafiki yangu” (bring my friends). Naturally, they go into the ceremony and say “an mzungu has fallen”. All 300 people turn around and head to the road to see the spectacle.
So now, not only am I am more pain than childlabor could possibly be, but I have an audience of 300 rural Tanzanians. Sweet. My boss arrives and takes charge in her perfect kiswa. She asks me with a chuckle, “what, you wanted to get the entertainment started early?” I reply that I just thought that more attention should be on Me. So, I don’t really know how they decided that a stooped 70 year old woman and a short man were the best fit in the crowd of 300 to help me get up and hobble up the hill, but they did. Once up, another grandma starts swatting at my ass. Because, apparently, it is bad enough that an mzungu has fallen, but to have her nice outfit soiled by red dirt is just too much. Heidi (my boss) later tells me how funny I looked as a 6’ tall women hunched with these short people on either side. Eventually they get me in the car, where I finally allow myself to look at my ankle. Already it is purple and blue and swollen to a soft ball size. F***. This was not how the day was planned to go.
After much consultation amongst the crowd and my team, it becomes clear that the X ray is broken at the local hospital and no one can decide what to do with me. My head starts to clear and I step in. A month earlier, an Australian ER doctor arrived to our village to start her 3 year mission service. I tell my driver to take me to her, as she will know what to do. And he does exactly that. My ankle stabs each time we bounce over a bump, but at least fresh air is blowing at my face through the window, keeping me from passing out. My driver drives us straight up onto her lawn, right up to her door.
“Roooooose,” I yell in the door. At that, Dr. Rose and her 2 daughters come
running out the door. Everyone is shocked. After some assessment, Rose decides it is either a really bad sprain or a break. She splints it lightly, tells me to elevate it and not to put any weight on it, gives me some light pain killers and says she will check in on me.
My driver then drives me home, where he and our guard carry me into my house. He then takes off to find the embassy representatives. Jessica (who you remember from the Day of the Great Fire), immediately sets out to start cleaning my feet. It hurt to the touch, but she was gentle. About an hour later, my guard comes in with a tree that he has widdled down for me to use as a walking crutch. I smile at the gesture (and as it turns out, it really saved me those first few days).
Anyhow, long story shorter, after 3 days, Dr. Rose is called into the hospital for an emergency where she is shown a chest x-ray. She inquires about this, and they tell her that the x-ray machine is in fact working, but only for special people (people who can pay the 10 USD). So she gets me in for an x-ray. It is clearly broken, but what is not clear (due to the poor quality of the machine) is if there are other breaks that compromise the joint. Everyone decides that I will need to go to a better hospital to get clarifying x-rays, and potentially surgery.
Meanwhile, I am uninsured, so my mom is in a frenzy in the US trying to figure out what to do, and how to get it covered. She tries everything (even the US embassy in Dar). She doesn’t sleep for a week.
I pick up the phone and call flying docs, my med-evac insurance. We make arrangements for a pick-up on Monday at 11am. At this point, my team starts running around to make sure I have everything I need to go to Kenya and then on to the US and that they have everything they need for the next few months.
On Monday, Edson drives me out to a dirt airstrip, I say goodbye to everyone, and I board an ambulance/plane. The irony is not lost on me that the last time I left Kenya, I was evaxuated due to political unrest, and here I was flying into Kenya (being medically evacuated from Tanzania) on the eve of their contemptuous constitutional referendum. Luckily,it was peaceful. Even more lucky, an American surgeon was on the flight and stayed with me through it all to make sure I received adequate medical attention in Nairobi. In Nairobi the x-rays showed that it was in fact broken in 3 places and the orthopedist said that surgery was necessary. This meant that the joint was incredibly unstable and I was going home to the US for surgery. I stayed the night in the hospital and then stayed with my new doctor friend while I waited for my flight in 24 hours time. Unfortunately, my doctor got called off to a medical emergency in Sudan, and had to take off suddenly. This meant that I had to give myself a shot (blood thinner so that I did not get a clot and die on the plane) and find my way to the airport.
I call a taxi and we head to the airport. Because I have a duffle, and am on crutches and countless pain meds, I ask him to park and escort me in. When we get to the check-in counter, the woman tells me that she regrets to inform me that my flight has been cancelled for 24 hours and that all other flights are booked. My mind starts swirling, my eyes well up, and I start spewing verbal diarrhea about how I have to get home for surgery and I do not have enough meds to delay yada yada yada. She smiles and says they are happy to put me up in a hotel room for the night and shuttle me to and fro the airport. I clean my tears up, and go into scary Rachel mode inorder to express in no uncertain terms that a delay was not an option, and that she needed to do whatever was necessary to get me on a flight. I even suggested they bump someone else off another airline, most tourists would be happy for the extra 24 hours in Nairobi. I was not a tourist. Eventually, she tells me she will try to get me on standby on Swiss air and instructs me to sit on a metal bench and wait for 2 hours until she will know. My sweet sweet taxi driver tries to insist on staying with me until I find out, but I send him home. He goes out and gets me food so that I can take my meds and continues to call and txt to see if I have made the flight. A church group comes along and prays for me not to be lonely in this time of need…
In the end I made the flight. But of course, my baggage was lost at customs (with the x-rays)and I was squished into an isle seat with a huge cast on my leg. Eventually, I made it back to the US and to medical coverage and after 3 months of a cast and no weight bearing, and 3 months of physical therapy, I am recovering well. It seems all of my previously good travel luck came in to call.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Just Another Sunday in Ngara
25. July. 2010
I feel like I should start this post with “I once had a farm in Africa”.
It looks to be a busy Sunday with a pile of work that needs to get done before this hectic week starts, so I wake up early and do an hour of Yoga. Laying in Shivasina I give thanks to my higher power, my creative consciousness, my spiritual light. I thank my teachers – those that have inspired me, brought me to my knees, kissed me on my lips. I give thanks for the challenges that I have surmounted and grown from. This morning, I was lucky enough to reach that great balance of inner peace and physical exertion.
After my shower, but still in my post yoga calm, I chop up a half a pineapple, some papaya, a few bananas and squeeze some passion and citrus juice over the top. I fix my Sunday morning instant mocha (instant coffee, instant milk, instant chocolate, sugar, cinnamon and hot water). I take my breakfast and a relatively recent Economist that old visitors had left at the house and sit out on the porch to catch up on the worldly events and enjoy the morning light.
After reading about the election in Rwanda, blood diamonds in Zimbabwe, and about halfway through the article on American democrats’ ineptitude to lead in wartime, I start to hear the crackling of fire. It is a pretty common background noise, hardly registering in my brain. It gets a little stronger and I assume that it must be one of the guards cooking some breakfast in the fire pit near my house. When I finish the article, I decide to look down the rocky hill that falls off quickly about 4 yards from where I am sitting. During the dry season, the valley is on fire, the hills shrouded in smoke. People believe (falsely) that burning fields is good for the soil. They also believe that the longer your fire burns, the longer you will live. Or that the ability to light a fire is the hand of God acting through yours (but really, if we are going to get detailed here, isn’t it God’s hand typing with mine right now?). Anyhow, I decide I should at least just check and see if there is a fire getting close to the compound. I walk out to the edge and look over. There is a strong fire, and it is nearly at the foot path about three yards down hill. “Jessicaaaa,” I call to our house keeper “njoo tafadalhi! Haraka!” (come please! Hurry!) she peeks her head out the back door, wearing her apron over her nice church clothes “moto inakuju. Ina karibu!” (fire, it comes. It is close!). She looks over, “Hamnashida” (there is no problem) she says matter-of-factly, totally unfazed. She slowly saunters down the hill to walk along the footpath and examine just how far it goes and to make sure no children are in harm’s way. She pauses occasionally to unhook her skirt from the thistles of the bush. I take the moment to snap a few pictures.
This would be a good time to describe the surroundings. Our compound of three houses and the office is well maintained with the grass cut short. But just past our boundary, which is really just delineated by where short grass meets long grass or sometimes a bush line, is wild, overgrown and dry bush. At the best it is grass to my knee, at worse it is grass to the shoulders and brambly bush.
Jessica returns after her leisurely walk and tells us everything is fine, that it has slowed, and will stop at the footpath. She brushes it off and goes back inside to her work. I am not so easily persuaded. Maybe it is because I am from California where wild fires have claimed my favorite camping spot and nearly taken my family’s homes. When the fire gets this close, we evacuate. But here, in rural Tanzania, there is no fire department to call in to protect your home. Here, if you leave, you lose your home. And so, you fight. I start to think of all of the what-ifs. Of the millions of shillings of highly flammable product we have in our store room. The home that I have grown to love. The 400 artisans that depend on our poorly financed NGO. My livelihood. I decide to knock on the door of Heidi, the founder of my org, who is in town for the month and just ask her what she thinks. Worst case scenario, she laughs at me for being unseasoned, nervous about such a commonplace occurrence. Best case scenario, we save our compound from being burned to a crisp.
“Hodi” I call into her house. “Is that Rachel? I am in the bath” she replies. “Oh… okay… I was just wondering what you do if the fire gets too close…”, “is it near”, “well I think so”, “I’ll be out in a few minutes”. Ruth and I run back to the hill near my house. The fire has moved quite a lot, and the wind is picking up and it is moving close, it is definitely too close for comfort. “Jessicaaaa! Ina karibu SANA!” (it is VERY near). She runs out, looks down the hill, and without saying anything, runs to the nearest green leafy tree and with one swift movement rips off a young stem with a lot of leaves on the end. I do the same, though, it being a green tree and me being new to this, I struggle a little more. I say an apology to the tree for taking its life. But, I guess the fire would have gotten it anyway. A small sacrifice. She runs towards the bottom of the fire and start swatting it out with the green leaves. Hardcore. Mind you, she is a plump lady still wearing her apron over her Sunday bests. Definitely a sight. I stay top-ward and start mimicking her. It is definitely working! But the fire is faster than my incessant swatting. My mind is thinking, there has got to be a better way, but my survival instinct just keeps swatting. Eventually my leaves wilt off and I am not making much headway with the remaining tree stump and branches, and I realize I am backed against a rock face. I decide to get out and run up to the house to start fighting with buckets of water. About this time, Heidi walks up with her two kids, 3 and 5. We send the kids up to the balcony, yelling at them to stay put. I pass off the bucket and rip down a new green tree to start swatting again. Heidi decides to call for backup, because us four women are having a difficult time keeping the fire at bay. It has now reached the rim where I stood to look down at the fire – about 4 yards from the house, with nothing but dry grass in between. There is even a nice pile of dry trees sitting conveniently near the shack housing our generator and fuel…smart. I am running all over, swatting, calling for water when I hit rough spots, occasionally burning my feet (I am wearing chaco thongs. Didn’t have time to put on proper foot wear…). The smoke is intense. I am trying to breathe out while looking at the fire and breathe in facing away. Not much help. I am short of breath but keep swatting. Eventually we get this part of the fire at bay and head off to the end of the compound to check on it. Ruth stays back with the kids, and Heidi, Jessica and I walk to the end. The flames are big and hot, and moving fast. At this point, facing massive flames and heavy smoke, coughing, I flash back to a Grey’s Anatomy smoke inhalation patient and suggest wetting bandanas to cover our mouths. Manase, our back up arrives, and he and Jessica run off with their trees. Heidi and I don’t think we have enough time to swat out the fire before it gets to the house. I suggest we start digging (firefighters dig trenches right?). She doesn’t think there is time. So we start creating a water boundary. Eventually we call some other people in, and we swat it out, but it is now heading up the hill to the church compound. Heidi calls our friends up the hill to warn them. We keep swatting. Eventually we get it out. Kids come out and marvel at the mzungu female firefighters. We are a sight. We breathe a sigh of relief and head back to the first house to have some water, breathe semi clean air and assess our battle wounds. Thinking that we are safe now that the house is nearly encircled by charred earth, we relax. We take a celebratory picture of the firefighting team. Manase even heads home. We break out some roasted ground nuts and enjoy some homemade coffee icecream I made the night before. We joke around and drink gallons of water.
In about 30 minutes, Jessica bursts in and in frantic kiswa tells us the fire is back, strong, near the last house. Heidi and I, again, leave Ruth with the kids and take off at a run. Immediately we hear the crackling of the fire. Before we see it, we already know we are in trouble. As I run, I think about how my house could have burned down while we were eating icecream congratulating ourselves. When we get nearer, it is in an L encroaching on the house. It has jumped the ground burned earlier and is nearly on top of the house. It is more than we can handle. We call for backup and yell at the people up hill from us to grab a bucket and do something. We are about to lose my house. I run through bush and charred earth, burning my toes and hoping that all snakes have evacuated the area earlier. I swat like I have never swatted before. The fire is intense. The smoke is white-out conditions. Eyes are burning. I have to run out to get some air. We are not keeping up. My foot falls through a hole between two rocks. I keep swatting and hope nothing bites me. They yell at me to stop and reposition at the top. We finally get the big flames out, but it is a double front. It’s relentless! (yes, I actually yelled that) Half of us stay to finish putting out the first fire, and the rest of us go to the other half of the fire. I repeatedly curse these foolish people who light fires. Now that I am closer, I can hear the organ of the church uphill, playing like nothing is happening below. We have now put out the main fires and walk around, slowly, heaving for air, with buckets of water cooling off smoking embers. This time we are really done. Though, there are no news reporters updating the thousands watching on TV. There are no celebrating crowds. Just the calm of knowing we are safe, the pride of having done it with our own hands and the ache of our muscles and the smell of smoke that lingers on our clothes to remind us that it was, in fact us who did it.
Now that the fire is out, I can clearly hear the music from the church. The beat goes on. I joke about how the pious should be thankful for those unholy among them who don’t go to church. We just saved their asses.
Heidi and I don’t waste much time getting to the work we had planned for the afternoon: planning meetings and filling out our application for the World Fair Trade Organization. In a few hours, I am still light headed and just exhausted, so I head home. On my way home, Manase shows me a large snake hanging in a tree that he just killed near where my foot fell through the hole. I ask if it was poisonous. Very, he says. A shudder runs throughout my body that I can’t shake. What an insane life I lead.
I feel like I should start this post with “I once had a farm in Africa”.
It looks to be a busy Sunday with a pile of work that needs to get done before this hectic week starts, so I wake up early and do an hour of Yoga. Laying in Shivasina I give thanks to my higher power, my creative consciousness, my spiritual light. I thank my teachers – those that have inspired me, brought me to my knees, kissed me on my lips. I give thanks for the challenges that I have surmounted and grown from. This morning, I was lucky enough to reach that great balance of inner peace and physical exertion.
After my shower, but still in my post yoga calm, I chop up a half a pineapple, some papaya, a few bananas and squeeze some passion and citrus juice over the top. I fix my Sunday morning instant mocha (instant coffee, instant milk, instant chocolate, sugar, cinnamon and hot water). I take my breakfast and a relatively recent Economist that old visitors had left at the house and sit out on the porch to catch up on the worldly events and enjoy the morning light.
After reading about the election in Rwanda, blood diamonds in Zimbabwe, and about halfway through the article on American democrats’ ineptitude to lead in wartime, I start to hear the crackling of fire. It is a pretty common background noise, hardly registering in my brain. It gets a little stronger and I assume that it must be one of the guards cooking some breakfast in the fire pit near my house. When I finish the article, I decide to look down the rocky hill that falls off quickly about 4 yards from where I am sitting. During the dry season, the valley is on fire, the hills shrouded in smoke. People believe (falsely) that burning fields is good for the soil. They also believe that the longer your fire burns, the longer you will live. Or that the ability to light a fire is the hand of God acting through yours (but really, if we are going to get detailed here, isn’t it God’s hand typing with mine right now?). Anyhow, I decide I should at least just check and see if there is a fire getting close to the compound. I walk out to the edge and look over. There is a strong fire, and it is nearly at the foot path about three yards down hill. “Jessicaaaa,” I call to our house keeper “njoo tafadalhi! Haraka!” (come please! Hurry!) she peeks her head out the back door, wearing her apron over her nice church clothes “moto inakuju. Ina karibu!” (fire, it comes. It is close!). She looks over, “Hamnashida” (there is no problem) she says matter-of-factly, totally unfazed. She slowly saunters down the hill to walk along the footpath and examine just how far it goes and to make sure no children are in harm’s way. She pauses occasionally to unhook her skirt from the thistles of the bush. I take the moment to snap a few pictures.
This would be a good time to describe the surroundings. Our compound of three houses and the office is well maintained with the grass cut short. But just past our boundary, which is really just delineated by where short grass meets long grass or sometimes a bush line, is wild, overgrown and dry bush. At the best it is grass to my knee, at worse it is grass to the shoulders and brambly bush.
Jessica returns after her leisurely walk and tells us everything is fine, that it has slowed, and will stop at the footpath. She brushes it off and goes back inside to her work. I am not so easily persuaded. Maybe it is because I am from California where wild fires have claimed my favorite camping spot and nearly taken my family’s homes. When the fire gets this close, we evacuate. But here, in rural Tanzania, there is no fire department to call in to protect your home. Here, if you leave, you lose your home. And so, you fight. I start to think of all of the what-ifs. Of the millions of shillings of highly flammable product we have in our store room. The home that I have grown to love. The 400 artisans that depend on our poorly financed NGO. My livelihood. I decide to knock on the door of Heidi, the founder of my org, who is in town for the month and just ask her what she thinks. Worst case scenario, she laughs at me for being unseasoned, nervous about such a commonplace occurrence. Best case scenario, we save our compound from being burned to a crisp.
“Hodi” I call into her house. “Is that Rachel? I am in the bath” she replies. “Oh… okay… I was just wondering what you do if the fire gets too close…”, “is it near”, “well I think so”, “I’ll be out in a few minutes”. Ruth and I run back to the hill near my house. The fire has moved quite a lot, and the wind is picking up and it is moving close, it is definitely too close for comfort. “Jessicaaaa! Ina karibu SANA!” (it is VERY near). She runs out, looks down the hill, and without saying anything, runs to the nearest green leafy tree and with one swift movement rips off a young stem with a lot of leaves on the end. I do the same, though, it being a green tree and me being new to this, I struggle a little more. I say an apology to the tree for taking its life. But, I guess the fire would have gotten it anyway. A small sacrifice. She runs towards the bottom of the fire and start swatting it out with the green leaves. Hardcore. Mind you, she is a plump lady still wearing her apron over her Sunday bests. Definitely a sight. I stay top-ward and start mimicking her. It is definitely working! But the fire is faster than my incessant swatting. My mind is thinking, there has got to be a better way, but my survival instinct just keeps swatting. Eventually my leaves wilt off and I am not making much headway with the remaining tree stump and branches, and I realize I am backed against a rock face. I decide to get out and run up to the house to start fighting with buckets of water. About this time, Heidi walks up with her two kids, 3 and 5. We send the kids up to the balcony, yelling at them to stay put. I pass off the bucket and rip down a new green tree to start swatting again. Heidi decides to call for backup, because us four women are having a difficult time keeping the fire at bay. It has now reached the rim where I stood to look down at the fire – about 4 yards from the house, with nothing but dry grass in between. There is even a nice pile of dry trees sitting conveniently near the shack housing our generator and fuel…smart. I am running all over, swatting, calling for water when I hit rough spots, occasionally burning my feet (I am wearing chaco thongs. Didn’t have time to put on proper foot wear…). The smoke is intense. I am trying to breathe out while looking at the fire and breathe in facing away. Not much help. I am short of breath but keep swatting. Eventually we get this part of the fire at bay and head off to the end of the compound to check on it. Ruth stays back with the kids, and Heidi, Jessica and I walk to the end. The flames are big and hot, and moving fast. At this point, facing massive flames and heavy smoke, coughing, I flash back to a Grey’s Anatomy smoke inhalation patient and suggest wetting bandanas to cover our mouths. Manase, our back up arrives, and he and Jessica run off with their trees. Heidi and I don’t think we have enough time to swat out the fire before it gets to the house. I suggest we start digging (firefighters dig trenches right?). She doesn’t think there is time. So we start creating a water boundary. Eventually we call some other people in, and we swat it out, but it is now heading up the hill to the church compound. Heidi calls our friends up the hill to warn them. We keep swatting. Eventually we get it out. Kids come out and marvel at the mzungu female firefighters. We are a sight. We breathe a sigh of relief and head back to the first house to have some water, breathe semi clean air and assess our battle wounds. Thinking that we are safe now that the house is nearly encircled by charred earth, we relax. We take a celebratory picture of the firefighting team. Manase even heads home. We break out some roasted ground nuts and enjoy some homemade coffee icecream I made the night before. We joke around and drink gallons of water.
In about 30 minutes, Jessica bursts in and in frantic kiswa tells us the fire is back, strong, near the last house. Heidi and I, again, leave Ruth with the kids and take off at a run. Immediately we hear the crackling of the fire. Before we see it, we already know we are in trouble. As I run, I think about how my house could have burned down while we were eating icecream congratulating ourselves. When we get nearer, it is in an L encroaching on the house. It has jumped the ground burned earlier and is nearly on top of the house. It is more than we can handle. We call for backup and yell at the people up hill from us to grab a bucket and do something. We are about to lose my house. I run through bush and charred earth, burning my toes and hoping that all snakes have evacuated the area earlier. I swat like I have never swatted before. The fire is intense. The smoke is white-out conditions. Eyes are burning. I have to run out to get some air. We are not keeping up. My foot falls through a hole between two rocks. I keep swatting and hope nothing bites me. They yell at me to stop and reposition at the top. We finally get the big flames out, but it is a double front. It’s relentless! (yes, I actually yelled that) Half of us stay to finish putting out the first fire, and the rest of us go to the other half of the fire. I repeatedly curse these foolish people who light fires. Now that I am closer, I can hear the organ of the church uphill, playing like nothing is happening below. We have now put out the main fires and walk around, slowly, heaving for air, with buckets of water cooling off smoking embers. This time we are really done. Though, there are no news reporters updating the thousands watching on TV. There are no celebrating crowds. Just the calm of knowing we are safe, the pride of having done it with our own hands and the ache of our muscles and the smell of smoke that lingers on our clothes to remind us that it was, in fact us who did it.
Now that the fire is out, I can clearly hear the music from the church. The beat goes on. I joke about how the pious should be thankful for those unholy among them who don’t go to church. We just saved their asses.
Heidi and I don’t waste much time getting to the work we had planned for the afternoon: planning meetings and filling out our application for the World Fair Trade Organization. In a few hours, I am still light headed and just exhausted, so I head home. On my way home, Manase shows me a large snake hanging in a tree that he just killed near where my foot fell through the hole. I ask if it was poisonous. Very, he says. A shudder runs throughout my body that I can’t shake. What an insane life I lead.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Africa's Cup
Lunch today was much more spirited than usual. My neighbor Thomas came into the office, I have not seen him in two weeks, but I greet him with, “Yeah for World Cup starting today!” and a high five. This gets the whole team talking and arguing. Mainly about Brazil or Portugal. This cup, they are in the same group, which promises an intense head to head (June 25th). People here love Brazil, but they also love Ronaldo (Portugal’s star footballer), so there is a bit of a tension. I of course am loyal to Portugal (Santos family heritage). We all battle it out a bit, and then make plans for the opening game this evening. It is a rather uninspiring match up, South Africa v Mexico, but most of us support South Africa for patriotic reasons. All but Thomas. He says he loves football too much to support a team for patriotic reasons. I try to paint the picture of the hope and excitement the cup brings to this continent, and of how devastated we will all be if South Africa looses the first game of Africa’s World Cup. He will hear none of it.
4:30 rolls around and the 8 people going to town to watch the match from Murgwanza converge at the church compound to hitch a ride with the vehicle. There are some new faces, and I begin to ask “Portugal or Br…” they cut me off, “Brazil, of course.” I am most definitely out numbered. I feel myself getting more excited for the games to come.
We pull up to the Sky Giraffe, one of the two bars in town. By bar I mean a fenced in yard, with thatch roof covering a corner. Thomas has been promising me that they have a HUGE screen, biggest in Ngara. From my previous visits, I only remember a tiny little TV with horrible sound. We enter, and under the thatch structure is a big TV, about the size of most standard American household TVs, and rows and rows of men sitting in plastic chairs. We get some of the last chairs in the back. As it turns out, the one thing Tanzanians will be on time for is World Cup. The waiter in his usual dingy “kiss me I’m Irish” shirt comes around to collect our 300 shilling ($0.25) entrance fee and get us some sodas.
In the US, we would use the World Cup as a great excuse to start drinking beer at 10am. Here it is 5pm on a Friday, and not a single man has ordered a beer. Fantas and Cokes all around. Is this game too serious to drink? I find myself wondering. Being that I am sick and sitting next to the Vicar General of the (dry) Anglican Church, I follow suite and order a Fanta orange. The tension is mounting as we watch the national anthem. My heart is racing along is everyone in the room. The World Cup is officially open. I clap. Alone. It felt strangely anticlimactic. I wanted to yell, this is the World Cup people! Africa’s World Cup!
When we came in, it was clear that I was the only mzungu in the place, but as I looked around, I am also the only woman. So I guess I deserve all of the strange looks I was getting.
For the first ten minutes, Mexico dominates the field with a number of shots on goal. Thomas looks at me gloatingly and asks if I am in his camp yet. I go on about standing by your team, but the guy to my left starts wavering. Everyone seems really reserved. I expected much more excitement and involvement for the first game of this cup, Africa’s Cup. It turns out that I am louder, and perhaps more foul mouthed than everyone in there (I was trying to keep it under control, but it is second nature when the opposition is passing the ball through your defense towards the goal). Mexico scores and we all go silent (or more silent). I bury my head in my scarf and miss the ref’s offsides call, nulling the point. That gets a little rise from the crowd.
Half time rolls around, it is still 0-0. South Africa is on the offense a bit more, but still, nothing too promising. Everyone gets up, and it seems, decided that at this point in the game it is time to drink, they return with beer in hand. Thomas asks again if I am now voting (his word) for Mexico. South Africa has upped their game, I am not making any pronouncements, but it might be a draw.
About 10 minutes into the 2nd half, South Africa is aggressively sprinting down the field with the ball, the ball is expertly passed to the wing, and he shoots up and over the goalie landing with a swish in the upper corner of net. A Qwik Goal as my old coach would have said.
UPROAR!!!! We all shot to our feet, hands in the air, screaming and jumping. YEAH!!! People were literally hanging from the rafters. The joy I felt is difficult to capture. I think a lot of it was relief. It was important that South Africa got the first goal of the cup! We were now in the game for good. The tension was broken, I was no longer the only one yelling at the screen. Everyone was on the edge of their seat ready for them to do it again.
Mexico evens it out. We try to get a few more in, but they deflect off the goal posts. And, just like that, the game ends. Tied up, 1-1. Everyone gets up without saying much and leaves. In a hurry to get some food before the second game starts.
4:30 rolls around and the 8 people going to town to watch the match from Murgwanza converge at the church compound to hitch a ride with the vehicle. There are some new faces, and I begin to ask “Portugal or Br…” they cut me off, “Brazil, of course.” I am most definitely out numbered. I feel myself getting more excited for the games to come.
We pull up to the Sky Giraffe, one of the two bars in town. By bar I mean a fenced in yard, with thatch roof covering a corner. Thomas has been promising me that they have a HUGE screen, biggest in Ngara. From my previous visits, I only remember a tiny little TV with horrible sound. We enter, and under the thatch structure is a big TV, about the size of most standard American household TVs, and rows and rows of men sitting in plastic chairs. We get some of the last chairs in the back. As it turns out, the one thing Tanzanians will be on time for is World Cup. The waiter in his usual dingy “kiss me I’m Irish” shirt comes around to collect our 300 shilling ($0.25) entrance fee and get us some sodas.
In the US, we would use the World Cup as a great excuse to start drinking beer at 10am. Here it is 5pm on a Friday, and not a single man has ordered a beer. Fantas and Cokes all around. Is this game too serious to drink? I find myself wondering. Being that I am sick and sitting next to the Vicar General of the (dry) Anglican Church, I follow suite and order a Fanta orange. The tension is mounting as we watch the national anthem. My heart is racing along is everyone in the room. The World Cup is officially open. I clap. Alone. It felt strangely anticlimactic. I wanted to yell, this is the World Cup people! Africa’s World Cup!
When we came in, it was clear that I was the only mzungu in the place, but as I looked around, I am also the only woman. So I guess I deserve all of the strange looks I was getting.
For the first ten minutes, Mexico dominates the field with a number of shots on goal. Thomas looks at me gloatingly and asks if I am in his camp yet. I go on about standing by your team, but the guy to my left starts wavering. Everyone seems really reserved. I expected much more excitement and involvement for the first game of this cup, Africa’s Cup. It turns out that I am louder, and perhaps more foul mouthed than everyone in there (I was trying to keep it under control, but it is second nature when the opposition is passing the ball through your defense towards the goal). Mexico scores and we all go silent (or more silent). I bury my head in my scarf and miss the ref’s offsides call, nulling the point. That gets a little rise from the crowd.
Half time rolls around, it is still 0-0. South Africa is on the offense a bit more, but still, nothing too promising. Everyone gets up, and it seems, decided that at this point in the game it is time to drink, they return with beer in hand. Thomas asks again if I am now voting (his word) for Mexico. South Africa has upped their game, I am not making any pronouncements, but it might be a draw.
About 10 minutes into the 2nd half, South Africa is aggressively sprinting down the field with the ball, the ball is expertly passed to the wing, and he shoots up and over the goalie landing with a swish in the upper corner of net. A Qwik Goal as my old coach would have said.
UPROAR!!!! We all shot to our feet, hands in the air, screaming and jumping. YEAH!!! People were literally hanging from the rafters. The joy I felt is difficult to capture. I think a lot of it was relief. It was important that South Africa got the first goal of the cup! We were now in the game for good. The tension was broken, I was no longer the only one yelling at the screen. Everyone was on the edge of their seat ready for them to do it again.
Mexico evens it out. We try to get a few more in, but they deflect off the goal posts. And, just like that, the game ends. Tied up, 1-1. Everyone gets up without saying much and leaves. In a hurry to get some food before the second game starts.
Monday, May 24, 2010
UNHCR Ghost Town
Today Pastor took me for a tour around Ngara town. Mainly it was really boring, shaking the hands of important officials and struggling to understand convos in Kiswahili.
As an aside, Pastor wanted to take me to a fancy hotel where important visitors stay, the Africana. It was previously run by UNHCR, it was the compound where all of the aid workers lived during the Rwanda and Burundi crises. It was built of old railroad containers, probably close to fifty little yellow bandas with thatched roofs. There is an open air cafeteria with a stunning view of the valley. The place is in shambles. Vines grow out of the fireplace that used to cast a warm glow over the expats having a drink after a long day at the camp. I can hear the hum of conversation and see the cigarette smoke.
The grounds are beautifully landscaped with equatorial flowers and trees – but everything is overgrown and dilapidated. The grass is two feet tall, the hedges are bushy, there are holes in the thatch roof. It is strangely sad to see that a place once so vibrant is now so dead.
We then go to visit one of the district commissioners whose office is housed in the old UN headquarters for the refugee crisis. The compound is sky blue and white, with white rocks lining the spots for ghost landcruzers. We walk over to see row after row of container offices, a small percent of which are actually being used. It amazes me to think about what was once here. What was once the biggest refugee operation in the world now amounts to a bunch of empty railroad containers.
I should be happy that things have improved enough that Rwandans and Burundians can return home, but I am sad. It feels like a ghost town. This place was built around tragic conflicts, but we have deemed everything good enough, packed up and gone home. Maybe what is so haunting about this, is this feeling that things are not ok. I keep hearing whispers from researchers and journalists, keep seeing buried headlines about the storm that is brewing in Rwanda. Unfortunately, it would fit with historical trends. The Hutus and the Tutsis tend to take turns ruling the country, separated by mass conflict. Some of us wondered if the ’94 genocide was brutal enough, that there was enough lives lost, to make everyone say enough is enough. But, seemingly, some things go deeper.
There is a part of me that resents everyone who left this tumultuous Great Lakes Region feeling like the job is finished. Maybe they didn’t feel that way, just the leadership of the organizations. There is still critical work to be done. Reconciliation is the most important aspect of a conflict and too frequently it receives the smallest amount of time and resources.
After visiting the UN compound, we visit the one remaining functioning project from the crisis. Radio Kwizera, Radio Hope. At the time of the genocide, Rwandese were spread all over the bush and there was no way of contacting them about available food, shelter and assistance. They started a radio station and distributed solar radios to strategic locations. In Rwanda during the genocide, the radio was used as a weapon of war. It was used to dehumanize the Tutsi’s , to notify attackers of Tutsi hiding places. After the radio had been used to further the genocide, Radio Kwizera wanted to show the compassionate side of the media. To make it cliché – to use the radio for good and not evil.
The refugees have returned home now, but Radio Kwizera has not closed its doors. The station is received in Burundi, Rwanda and Eastern DRC. They are using their radio waves to promote peace and reconciliation. The Great Lakes Region is heading into a period of elections in every country. It is critical that people are discussing wide spread participation, informed voting, legitimacy and transparency, peace and unity. There is hope in this radio station. The mere fact that they are still here is a start.
It feels a bit trite to be writing about something that was so devastating to everyone here, especially when I was not. But, I am here now.
As an aside, Pastor wanted to take me to a fancy hotel where important visitors stay, the Africana. It was previously run by UNHCR, it was the compound where all of the aid workers lived during the Rwanda and Burundi crises. It was built of old railroad containers, probably close to fifty little yellow bandas with thatched roofs. There is an open air cafeteria with a stunning view of the valley. The place is in shambles. Vines grow out of the fireplace that used to cast a warm glow over the expats having a drink after a long day at the camp. I can hear the hum of conversation and see the cigarette smoke.
The grounds are beautifully landscaped with equatorial flowers and trees – but everything is overgrown and dilapidated. The grass is two feet tall, the hedges are bushy, there are holes in the thatch roof. It is strangely sad to see that a place once so vibrant is now so dead.
We then go to visit one of the district commissioners whose office is housed in the old UN headquarters for the refugee crisis. The compound is sky blue and white, with white rocks lining the spots for ghost landcruzers. We walk over to see row after row of container offices, a small percent of which are actually being used. It amazes me to think about what was once here. What was once the biggest refugee operation in the world now amounts to a bunch of empty railroad containers.
I should be happy that things have improved enough that Rwandans and Burundians can return home, but I am sad. It feels like a ghost town. This place was built around tragic conflicts, but we have deemed everything good enough, packed up and gone home. Maybe what is so haunting about this, is this feeling that things are not ok. I keep hearing whispers from researchers and journalists, keep seeing buried headlines about the storm that is brewing in Rwanda. Unfortunately, it would fit with historical trends. The Hutus and the Tutsis tend to take turns ruling the country, separated by mass conflict. Some of us wondered if the ’94 genocide was brutal enough, that there was enough lives lost, to make everyone say enough is enough. But, seemingly, some things go deeper.
There is a part of me that resents everyone who left this tumultuous Great Lakes Region feeling like the job is finished. Maybe they didn’t feel that way, just the leadership of the organizations. There is still critical work to be done. Reconciliation is the most important aspect of a conflict and too frequently it receives the smallest amount of time and resources.
After visiting the UN compound, we visit the one remaining functioning project from the crisis. Radio Kwizera, Radio Hope. At the time of the genocide, Rwandese were spread all over the bush and there was no way of contacting them about available food, shelter and assistance. They started a radio station and distributed solar radios to strategic locations. In Rwanda during the genocide, the radio was used as a weapon of war. It was used to dehumanize the Tutsi’s , to notify attackers of Tutsi hiding places. After the radio had been used to further the genocide, Radio Kwizera wanted to show the compassionate side of the media. To make it cliché – to use the radio for good and not evil.
The refugees have returned home now, but Radio Kwizera has not closed its doors. The station is received in Burundi, Rwanda and Eastern DRC. They are using their radio waves to promote peace and reconciliation. The Great Lakes Region is heading into a period of elections in every country. It is critical that people are discussing wide spread participation, informed voting, legitimacy and transparency, peace and unity. There is hope in this radio station. The mere fact that they are still here is a start.
It feels a bit trite to be writing about something that was so devastating to everyone here, especially when I was not. But, I am here now.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
My Sanctuary
I am greeted at the Border with big hugs by three of my new staff members. We sit and have a drink overlooking the Rwandan hills and Tanzanian highlands. I am working hard to find a balance where I do not come off as too young, and where they do not feel threatened or tested. They slip in and out of Kiswahili. I can usually understand the gist of their conversation, but I am nowhere near where I was two years ago. My brain is constantly in problem solving mode, trying to bridge the gap over the words I do not know. Currently we are debating which staple food is better, matoke (mashed green bananas) or posho (maize meal). Unfortunately, I am in matoke country.
Before I know it, I have a 12 month multiple entry visa and we are in our Landcruzer whizzing down the tarmac towards my new home. The first short cut is impassable due to the high waters of the river. During low water levels, there is a pulley bridge. Basically a platform that you drive one car on to and the man at the other end pulls it on cables to the other side. So we take shortcut number two. We turn right off the tarmac onto a red dirt road. “If you ever need to get back here, just tell them to take you to the prison” Pastor informs me. I am immediately transported. I had spent the last 20 hours driving through cities and towns on main roads, now I was driving through serious bush. Occasionally we pass through towns. When I say towns, I am being generous. Really they are clusters of homes with the occasional church; they lack shops or trading centers. We crest over hills and get phenomenal views of the Tanzanian highland plains and dive down hills into the bush that is taller than the car. “Karibu Tanzania” says Mama Mpinizle. I breathe deep, not having the words to describe my enjoyment at that moment. Despite all of the beauty, there is a voice in the back of my head asking, “Ngara can’t actually be this small, right?” Eventually we hit another tarmac road and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
We climb, and with each minute, the view becomes more spectacular. The wind wafts the smell of eucalyptus through the window. This smell has always meant home to me. The road right off the freeway to my grandparent’s house is lined with Eucalyptus trees, so when I smelled them, I always knew we were close. Pastor points to a town on top of a hill and tells me that is Ngara. I had been told that my house has a porch with an amazing view, so I start imaging that one of the houses I see on the eastern side of the hill is mine, overlooking the amazing valley.
I am disappointed as we fork off down a small road, seemingly down into the valley. Pastor greets everyone we pass as they stare at the Mzungu in the front seat. In about 10 minutes we pull off into the compound. It is not the traditional compound in that it does not have a fence, but it is four houses spread out across the ridge of a hill. The last one in is my house.
From the outside, the house is very unsuspecting. It is a simple L shape with gray cement walls. The front view is a bit of a letdown. There is a huge water catchment with pipes and hardware, and a few windows. Nothing to write (or blog) home about. Pastor unlocks the door and welcomes me to my new home. The front room is empty, just red cement floors and an empty shelf. Disappointing, I thought the house was fully furnished. I slip off my shoes and walk down three stairs. My jaw drops. To my left is a full kitchen with dark wood cabinets and countertops, a full sink, full fridge and a gas stove and oven. And a sky light. In front of me and stretching out to my right is the dining room, office and living room, complete with a fire place. Windows line the walls. The furnishing is a mix of rustic and modern with African art, ceramics and woven crafts decorating the space. There is a small TV, DVD player and sound system accompanied by a vast DVD collection and a shelf full of books on Africa history, politics, and some top notch literature (maybe I didn’t need to bring those thirty some-odd books, but better safe than sorry!).
Between the office and living room there is a door that leads to my porch. I step outside to see sweeping views of the Rwandan hills and the river valley floor. I am in shock. I am giddy. I try to keep my cool while my coworkers help me bring my stuff inside, but I am bursting with excitement and disbelief. This is totally a house I would dream about living in. Oh, wait, I do!
The hallway is lined with skylights. My room is at the very end, the eastern wall is lined with wooden doors for closets and storage. The northern and western walls have 3 windows lighting the room beautifully. In the center is a double bed with a light down comforter, draped in a white mosquito net. There are many thoughts running through my head, but the most prominent is, man this sure beats my twin bunk bed that I could not sit up in and that was too short, forcing my feet to angle over the foot board and get tangled in my mosquito net.
There is a full bathroom, shower, hot water heater, the works.
There is a garden outside, that, in my future life I will visit with my kitchen knife, selecting romaine lettuce, French beans, cilantro and papaya for my dinner.
My coworkers are eager to get home, as it is 6:30pm on a Friday. We say goodbye and make plans to go to the weekly market that just so happens to be on Saturdays. As they drive off I let out a giddy scream, do a little dance and just revel in my new home.
This house just demands a nice glass of red wine. So I scour the kitchen, and what do I find…I bring my glass of cab and the letter from my predecessor and settle into the couch on my porch to watch the sunset. The light wind rustles the leaves of the faithful eucalyptus trees. The east is orange and the hills below blue in the fading light.
…
The founder of my organization is married to a UN worker who was here working in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide and the ongoing instability in Burundi. Currently they live in Thailand, but they keep this house as their home as it is where their kids were born, and it is heaven. They come home once a year for a month and allow the Director to stay in the house the rest of the year. I marvel at the idea that someone who keeps such a beautiful house would hire me to lead her organization and say a little thank you to the United Nations. I sip my wine.
Photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rksantos/HowDifferentLifeCanBeLifeInNgaraTZ#
Before I know it, I have a 12 month multiple entry visa and we are in our Landcruzer whizzing down the tarmac towards my new home. The first short cut is impassable due to the high waters of the river. During low water levels, there is a pulley bridge. Basically a platform that you drive one car on to and the man at the other end pulls it on cables to the other side. So we take shortcut number two. We turn right off the tarmac onto a red dirt road. “If you ever need to get back here, just tell them to take you to the prison” Pastor informs me. I am immediately transported. I had spent the last 20 hours driving through cities and towns on main roads, now I was driving through serious bush. Occasionally we pass through towns. When I say towns, I am being generous. Really they are clusters of homes with the occasional church; they lack shops or trading centers. We crest over hills and get phenomenal views of the Tanzanian highland plains and dive down hills into the bush that is taller than the car. “Karibu Tanzania” says Mama Mpinizle. I breathe deep, not having the words to describe my enjoyment at that moment. Despite all of the beauty, there is a voice in the back of my head asking, “Ngara can’t actually be this small, right?” Eventually we hit another tarmac road and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.
We climb, and with each minute, the view becomes more spectacular. The wind wafts the smell of eucalyptus through the window. This smell has always meant home to me. The road right off the freeway to my grandparent’s house is lined with Eucalyptus trees, so when I smelled them, I always knew we were close. Pastor points to a town on top of a hill and tells me that is Ngara. I had been told that my house has a porch with an amazing view, so I start imaging that one of the houses I see on the eastern side of the hill is mine, overlooking the amazing valley.
I am disappointed as we fork off down a small road, seemingly down into the valley. Pastor greets everyone we pass as they stare at the Mzungu in the front seat. In about 10 minutes we pull off into the compound. It is not the traditional compound in that it does not have a fence, but it is four houses spread out across the ridge of a hill. The last one in is my house.
From the outside, the house is very unsuspecting. It is a simple L shape with gray cement walls. The front view is a bit of a letdown. There is a huge water catchment with pipes and hardware, and a few windows. Nothing to write (or blog) home about. Pastor unlocks the door and welcomes me to my new home. The front room is empty, just red cement floors and an empty shelf. Disappointing, I thought the house was fully furnished. I slip off my shoes and walk down three stairs. My jaw drops. To my left is a full kitchen with dark wood cabinets and countertops, a full sink, full fridge and a gas stove and oven. And a sky light. In front of me and stretching out to my right is the dining room, office and living room, complete with a fire place. Windows line the walls. The furnishing is a mix of rustic and modern with African art, ceramics and woven crafts decorating the space. There is a small TV, DVD player and sound system accompanied by a vast DVD collection and a shelf full of books on Africa history, politics, and some top notch literature (maybe I didn’t need to bring those thirty some-odd books, but better safe than sorry!).
Between the office and living room there is a door that leads to my porch. I step outside to see sweeping views of the Rwandan hills and the river valley floor. I am in shock. I am giddy. I try to keep my cool while my coworkers help me bring my stuff inside, but I am bursting with excitement and disbelief. This is totally a house I would dream about living in. Oh, wait, I do!
The hallway is lined with skylights. My room is at the very end, the eastern wall is lined with wooden doors for closets and storage. The northern and western walls have 3 windows lighting the room beautifully. In the center is a double bed with a light down comforter, draped in a white mosquito net. There are many thoughts running through my head, but the most prominent is, man this sure beats my twin bunk bed that I could not sit up in and that was too short, forcing my feet to angle over the foot board and get tangled in my mosquito net.
There is a full bathroom, shower, hot water heater, the works.
There is a garden outside, that, in my future life I will visit with my kitchen knife, selecting romaine lettuce, French beans, cilantro and papaya for my dinner.
My coworkers are eager to get home, as it is 6:30pm on a Friday. We say goodbye and make plans to go to the weekly market that just so happens to be on Saturdays. As they drive off I let out a giddy scream, do a little dance and just revel in my new home.
This house just demands a nice glass of red wine. So I scour the kitchen, and what do I find…I bring my glass of cab and the letter from my predecessor and settle into the couch on my porch to watch the sunset. The light wind rustles the leaves of the faithful eucalyptus trees. The east is orange and the hills below blue in the fading light.
…
The founder of my organization is married to a UN worker who was here working in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide and the ongoing instability in Burundi. Currently they live in Thailand, but they keep this house as their home as it is where their kids were born, and it is heaven. They come home once a year for a month and allow the Director to stay in the house the rest of the year. I marvel at the idea that someone who keeps such a beautiful house would hire me to lead her organization and say a little thank you to the United Nations. I sip my wine.
Photos:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rksantos/HowDifferentLifeCanBeLifeInNgaraTZ#
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