I left my phone, and my heart, in Uganda

(This has been sitting in my computer since the 31st, when i got back. I've just been waiting for a good enough connection to upload all the photos with. hence, the delay)

Floss in Beirut, phone in Uganda, and all of my Nice Clothes in Palestine, my territorial pissings
are becoming a bit of a costly habit. What will I wear tonight?

Back in foggy, humid, almost-rainy Kigali, I already miss Uganda. My only souvenirs: exactly 28 mosquito bites on one leg, and a whopping 35 on the other (thus a skirt is out of the question). That said, Uganda is AMAZING – I’d make it my homeland any day.

So here’s the report of my trip that many of you have been asking for – I’ll stop when I get tired!

I finally made it despite getting turned back at the border the first time, having brought the wrong passport (the one with the Israeli stamps, but I entered Rwanda on the one with the Lebanese stamps. I blame the Occupation, of course). Getting back to Kigali after getting turned around was extra fun - as I hadn’t booked a ticket I hitched a ride with the really cheap taxis and rode with chickens and sat in between two fat men who were speaking to each other the whole ride, spitting on me, for two and a half hours.

The drive up was absolutely gorgeous - both on the Rwandan and Ugandan sides – through a landscape of lush green mountains, tea and banana plantations, and lots of tiny villages. I got to catch one of the greatest scenes on my way in on the 24th as families were butchering cows, goats and chickens in preparation for the next day’s festivities. So it was a green landscape, spotted with red spreads on banana-leaves for as far as I could see. And lots of people huddled around them in hungry anticipation.

To put my destination in perspective: Annette's family's village was a 4 hour drive from Mbarara, the nearest town. 2 of those hours are on a bumpy, holey, overlooked-by-Japan dirt road. There was absolutely no turning back.
Arrived at the village I was greeted by the surprised hosts (Annette didn’t tell them I was foreign, “white”!), given an orange Fanta (a luxury), and taken straight to the kitchen - Christmas was the next day and there was some serious cooking to do.

This is where we spent most of days, where most socializing was done, along with the cooking. And we’re not talking counters/sinks/refrigerator kitchens. See for yourself:

Lighting a fire took about half an hour and needed constant firewood which we had to fetch every day. Thus, the “kitchen” is where the women spent the majority of their days – and the one day I stuck it out with them, keeping watch on an enormous vat of boiling cow, I couldn’t sleep because of all the smoke inhaled by my eyes. And there were flies *everywhere* and it was useless trying to avoid them - that’s what happens when you live so close to your cattle. Food we were eating was covered in flies, we were covered in flies, and the out-house where we had to do all of our business was also filled with flies.

This brings me to the recurring theme of the week. As Annette put it: African women have got it bad. I've never felt like such a spoiled brat, having always thought of myself as fairly capable around the house. But I was physically unable to keep up. They were up before me and went to bed after me, taking very few breaks. They start by getting the fire going at 5 am in order to start heating the bath-water for everybody. Then boil that morning’s milk to make “tea”, and roasted corn and cassava for breakfast. While people (men, guests), are eating breakfast they're starting lunch. Ditto for dinner.

Xmas morning, lying on my concave mattress, I was terrified of facing the entire village at Church in less than an hour. Very few white people make it to these parts and even the family I was staying with were amused at my presence. I must have posed for at least 20 pictures with various people who wanted souvenirs, had my hair petted and examined numerous times and managed to cause general amusement every time I attempted to do something around the house (Hey! Come see, the white girl is doing the dishes! Or Haha! The white girl wants to help pluck the chicken!) before politely being shoved aside by a 12 year old girl who could do it better, faster, and the Right Way.

But I did go to Church on Christmas day for the first time ever, and subsequently interrupted the service by my mere presence. The preacher stopped preaching, the entire congregation turned their heads around to have a look and there was this terrifying murmur – the sound of “townspeople” in the movies. I decided to do God a favor and did a 180 (But they made me go back the next day).

But now for the meaty part: FOOD.

Never thought i'd say this, but i don't want to look at meat for another week at least.

Did you know that fat could congeal on your lips and hands, and that it was virtually impossible to remove? Our first dinner they hadn’t brought the generator in yet so it was dark and I had absolutely no idea what I was eating. It took me some time to realize that that funny feeling on my lips was actually an entire layer of animal fat. This layer of fat would maintain its presence throughout the week.

I had brought this Crabtree & Evelyn (thanks Laura!) bar of lavender soap with me, which I used to try and scrub off the fat – but the two smells (lavender, dead animal) sort of became one. As I did my sniffing tests I could no longer tell whether what I was smelling was soap, or fat. Or both. The smell of lavender beauty products will forever remind me of boiled fat.

The 50 kilos of rice I brought weren’t enough. When Africans say “family” it includes cousins, second cousins, great aunts and uncles, adopted orphans (from friends or dead relatives), and anyone else who decides to show up.

Other than the rice, nothing was purchased. You eat what is available: so that's a lot of meat, plenty of bananas and plantains, millet-based mush (kind of like foufou), corn, cassava and these tiny onions that look like garlic and are hell to peel. Every day the menu is some combination of the above.

(One of the dishes that makes Palestinian mansaf look like peanuts in terms of fattiness is actually a snack I was forced to eat without flinching numerous times: chunks of (fatty) meat dipped in cow ghee.)

Other good things happened: I milked cows, held a goat’s legs still while it was being slaughtered, carried it’s insides to the kitchen, (tried to) pluck a chicken, gathered banana leaves for wrapping food in and at one point was left alone with about 20 bulls to watch– you know, in case something went wrong. I was never told what to do in case something *did* go wrong.

But all of this, I expected. What I didn’t expect was that in the midst of all of this, come sunset, the Man of the House (Annette’s uncle and sort of adopted father, the more affluent of all the uncles) would adjourn from the table where he eats to the couch where he sits to take his tea (heavy-creamed boiled milk with some tea-leaves and lots of sugar) and chew on some crunchy fried kidneys that his wife obediently brought for him. His attentions are turned towards his prized possession: A CD player/ stereo system, playing “Jim Reeves’ Special Christmas Collection.” He showed off the treasured CD case as I was asked to partake in this nightly ceremony by sitting down with him and also looking at the stereo - in complete silence.

Even in Africa, they Dream of a White Christmas.

The rest is in pictures:

(The house)

Now some of the big party they had on the 27th to honor a family member that was coming back from 7 years in the US - perhaps symbolically, huge crates of COKE were brought in)

(boiling the tea for 60+ guests)

In the evening, in someone from the neighboring village's bedroom/living room/store, sipping on some really strong sugarcane liquor, which came in plastic sachets. This is right before we got a flat tire *and* ran out of gas on the way back, in the middle of nowhere, and had to walk for 2 hours at 2 am back to the house, among the sugar cane and banana plantations. We stopped at a local store turned-watering hole to ask for a lift but everyone was too drunk. So we just bought some more liquor and kept walking. The next one is Annette and I sitting on the side of the "road" waiting for the flat to be fixed, before we decided to just walk.

Herzl was right on

(More on the title and my time at the village later)

But a quick note from "backpackers" - a backpacker's lodge that the Lonely Planet steered me towards as I realized i would be stranded in Kampala :

Creed, the Flaming Lips and some heavy metal are on repeat at the reception/bar of this rather sketchy place, and a bunch of white hippies who just bought some tam-tams in Uganda (all made in Kenya, of course, but what do they care?) are attempting to acquire Rhythm, too. It's loud, obnoxious, and quite off.

This is my first run in with an all-white place since i've arrived in Africa and i'm realizing that 90% of travellers (American, European, Aussie, and Israeli) are not looking to interact with Africans, at all. Only their crafts and their natural resources. They arrive on these big truck-like buses that look like something developed by the Israeli army but only colored in brighter, safari colors. They spend 5 months travelling around, doing about 5 days in a country.

When my friend's friend - who is Ugandan - came to meet me here, we actually got *stared at*.

time's up. I'll be in KGL on saturday night inshallah, check in again on sunday.

Uganda

I'm going to be spending x-mas in a village in Uganda, leaving on Saturday morning. I probably won't have internet access (in fact, i'm *sure* i won't) until I get back, around the 29th. So here's my Merry Christmas to all of you faithful and non-faithful readers.

I will be spending it with Annette's family of over 50 people - milking cows, shooing away mosquitos and getting by on candle-light (no running water and no electricity, altho i hear that a cousin has a plan to find a generator). Most of all, I will be missing most of you a ton and would love to hear from you. This place gets a little lonely.

Now I'm going out to buy the largest bag of rice my back can carry - I was told that this would be an appropriate gift for my hosts.

Teta, i'm going to make you proud!

Good times at the Village

Yesterday (was a beautiful day), I went back to the Village (get with the lingo) for their anniversary celebrations. Again, more than 300 of the women were there and there was much merriment. This time, they fed us cassava and beans - which stays like a brick in your stomach - and Rwandan meatballs. The women had a great time watching me drink "Itchigage" - a sorghum-based wine/ beer which they made themselves. It was actually strong, and I had to say "enough" many times - a couple of rounds later, they understood... (Maybe i wasn't being assertive enough?).


There were more perofrmances: Some moralizing, educational plays with messages you couldn't miss, even in a foreign language ("Don't go home with the man who picks you up in the street, even if he offers you cell-phones"). And of course, more traditional dance, which i've asked the pharmacist downstairs to teach me. All were put on by the kids at the village:

There was also a bit of ceremony - the women from the village were thanking RWN - and since i was sitting at the table of honor with the office, I was formally introduced to the crowd along with the rest of the staff . I don' t know what exactly Peter was saying, but it was a fairly long introduction in which I heard the words "Palestine" and "Israel", with plenty of gesticulation, the mock drawing of a "chart" in the air depicting divisions, perhaps even occupation? The women were all looking at me, nodding, and giving their approving, soft "eeeeeehs."

Right. Well, my work here is done.

Cheers ;-)

So here's my problem, and i can't really tell any Rwandans:

It's difficult not to constantly have 'genocide' on my mind as I walk around. The images and stories that have become so familiar from books and media coverage during the genocide are now my only references as I discover this place - and i can't help but feel like I’m being unfair to Rwanda, that's trying so hard to move on.

Every time I see the pickups with men piled in the back as they go to/from work, I remember the images of truck loads of Interahamwe that would patrol the streets. The same thing happens every time i see a machete, which is quite frequent as this is an agricultural society (machetes were the main weapons used during the 1994 genocide). Today I confessed this to Elizabeth and she told me it happened to her too.

Perhaps the thing that strikes me the most are the gangs of prisoners doing public works - cutting grass, trimming trees or doing construction work under the watchful eyes of the guards. The prisoners are dressed in bright pink and sort of paraded around. The consensus is that the majority of them are people who took part in the killing. It's strange being so close to them in your day-to-day routines.

I wonder whether Rwandans have this problem too - or is it something you get used to? The genocide wasn't restricted to any one place that you could avoid today - there were bodies everywhere, checkpoints at every corner. I'm told there was a checkpoint right at the bottom of my office’s hill, where I get off every day. Most of the sites of the big massacres - churches, stadiums, schools and universities - are still open. To get into town I drive by the church of the St. Famille, where 18000 refugees were massacred as the priests looked on. The church - the same building - is still open and Rwandans continue to worship there.

Maybe this is why it's hard to find any overt references to the genocide - you have to go out of your way to see the memorials, there are no monuments in the center of town, and Rwandans certainly don't talk about it.

And here I am - like those voyeuristic misery tours people I always get so annoyed with that visit the Occupied Territories and get disappointed when they see that refugees are no longer living in tents - expecting to be constantly confronted by the Genocide. And I can't help it.

So there you have it, my confession.

If you e-mailed me your mailing address,

I'll mail you one of these greeting cards

Made by these women.


You'll be helping these kids (living with HIV/AIDS)

You'll get my news that's not fit to blog,
And i'll have another reason to go to the Post Office in town, the highlight of my week.

rain, lethargia.

last night, i fell asleep at 6 pm on the couch. woke up , ate, fell asleep again, despite having made plans to go out. Woke up this morning at 9 am and i'm still tired. I've been exhausted all week, too.

diagnose this, please.

It's also pouring outside and i stepped in a puddle up to my knees on my way over to the internet cafe. that may be why i have no desire to move.

Ode to Japan

I learned that the Japanese have earmarked millions of dollars to pave the main road in Kicukiro, which leads up to my office.
Today on my way back from town I also boarded a nice, spacious, and clean bus. For the same price and running along the same route as the regular buses, this one didn't cram us in like sardines, actually allowed me to sit both my butt cheeks down and didn’t require me to squash my face against the window or put my arms around the people on either side of me.

This bus was also a gift from the people of Japan.

At this time I should note that in Palestine the Japanese also pave our roads (while the French provide us with traffic lights), and build enormous concert halls.

So here is my round of applause to Japan for knowing the true meaning of Freedom.

A Haiku:

Thank you for Sushi
You fight terror of pot-holes
Make life less dusty

Village of Hope

So yesterday we had the big bash at the "Village of Hope" (VoH), and i'm compelled to write at least a little something about the place before moving on.

The VoH was started by my organization but has taken on a life of its own. It began as an off-shoot of the Polyclinic of Hope that provided services to victims of rape during the genocide, widows, and women living with HIV/AIDS (many of which were intentionally infected during the genocide) to provide more comprehensive assistance. 20 women and their families actually live there and constitute the core group - and they themselves have become mobilizers in their community and reach out to approximately 4000 "beneficiaries" (I promise that the NGO-speak will soon end). They do everything from vocational training to food distribution to farming to home-care visits for women who can't reach the center.

It's pretty impressive. I'll admit that at first I was skeptical, having had trouble putting all the pieces together as the relationship with RWN is still ambiguous (the VoH has been slowly moving towards its independence); the lack of proper documentation of how they work makes it all look like one big fat mess; and i was never able to pin down any sort of routine - of course, not speaking kinyarwanda didn't help.
But all this is mostly because it's rather flexible and the women respond to their own needs as they may arise. They have organized themselves into committees and each one will be in charge of a different task (agriculture, education, drama, taking care of orphans, and so on...), and there's no real formal hierarchy of approval for these decision.

The nicest part about the VoH is that it provides a space for all these women to get together. It gives them an an excuse to leave the house, a reason to shower and put on their nice clothes. In fact the main organizer was telling me how they had to assign different days for different groups to meet because the women were coming too often.

But back to the fiesta. It was officially held to celebrate the Red Ribbon Award which the VoH received, so all the big shots were invited. When the RWN staff arrived, however, the women had already been getting their party on for some time, despite the horrible rain. This included the consumption of enormous vats of "urgwawu" (sp?) - a homemade wheat based alcohol. Being the first one to jump out of the van in our matching dresses in front of the hundred or so women that were waiting to receive their guests, I prompted a round of applause and laughter - and turned visibly red. But I took it in stride, being accustomed to being a source of amusement.

Overall, the day went well - plenty of people showed up, the rain eventually stopped, we sold greeting cards and the speeches weren't too long. And now, some pictures.

Me and some of the women I work with. Mary, my boss, is on the far left.

Trying to maneuver my way out of a situation - "But you have my e-mail, you don't need my number!" How do you say that in kinyarwanda?

as promised!

Big day at the office.

They just slapped a Rwandan dress on me, it's enormous and i look like a barrel. But we're all wearing matching ones today for the Village's celebration - which we've spent the past few weeks working hard organizing.
I will of course post pictures of this for your entertainment as soon as I get them - but note that i'm not too fond of the Rwandan dress (worn mostly on occasions, day to day is more of the colorful cotton dresses that you find across Africa, and I do like those).
The reason is mostly because of its genesis which is inseperable from colonialism's "civilizing mission": it consists of a large, loose and rather curtain-like wrap-around skirt and a matching fabric tied over one shoulder, toga-style. The reason? When the first missionaries arrived and found everybody running around naked or topless, they tied enormous sheets on them. This then evolved into the "national dress" as the sheet was substituted for more colorful fabrics, mostly imported from India.

Well. you be the judges, I promise pictures by tomorrow morning (my time)

Pictures!

I know I promised pictures, but it's not as easy as you'd think. I carry my camera around a fair amount, but taking pictures - of people and of sites - is not always well received. So when i do unload my enormous camera i try to be quick/ discreet about it. The results are mediocre at best.

But I do have the "basics":

Starting with my bare, enormous bedroom. I'm still working on decorating, but i'm digging the life-saving mosquito net -

The view from our kitchen balcony:

the road to my office - taken from the gate:

The Gisozi Genocide Memorial's garden, right above the mass graves. I haven't written about these because i've yet to form an opinion...

More to come, inshallah.

Weekend

Friday nights in Rwanda are a big deal - I didn't get the memo about dressing up to the office (heels, tube tops, full makeup) as most begin their night very soon after getting off work.
My old jeans and "Yale Feminist" t-shirt provoked a few comments...

My night began at 8 PM and ended prematurely, as I insisted on going to bed at 5AM amid jeers of "you’re lame", and "come on, it's only 5AM" (Brenda tells me this morning that she got home at 7...). Ugandan "Uragu", which they call a liqueur but really I don't think it qualifies, makes you TIRED more than anything. We first spent a long time at the bar at the MTN center drinking Uragu, and "Guiness-Coke" (and that's exactly what that is... i apologize to the Irish, and to my stomach). I learned a couple of important lessons regarding social maneuvering in Rwanda:

1) Avoid mixing groups - I had met this woman who worked at the Genocide Memorial and she seemed nice, and eager to hang out, so i invited her to join Liz and I and some (Rwandan, female) friends for drinks. Prior to her arrival I was quizzed incessantly about who she is, where she's from, and "I think I know her, she's no good". When she arrived she was subjected to an elaborate, abrupt grilling session by the other women, who knew of her from high school and made a point of emphasizing her single-mother status and her lack of a college degree (she had to take care of her siblings and took on a modeling career). I got the impression that I was witnessing a sort of a routine. Elizabeth had been warned about the cliquiness of women here, but i refused to believe it, and it broke my heart to see. What happened to feminism, solidarity?
... I suppose there are benefits of being such an obvious outsider here.

2) Just as I had to get used to assuming people's parents weren't always married in the US, I have to stop asking people about their families in Rwanda, period. THREE times this weekend I’ve asked about someone's parents only to get an abrupt "I don't have any, I'm an orphan"; and about a young woman's husband to hear that "he died". Most of these deaths aren't genocide-related, I do know that, but I'm not asking any further questions - somebody please stuff a shoe in my mouth.

Saturday nights here are surprisingly quiet, as everyone is recovering from Friday and getting ready for church the next morning - everybody goes to church. I didn't go this weekend, having overdosed last week as curiosity led us to the Temple of Zion (who could resist that?) - an enormous warehouse of a church that fit about a thousand people. They were kind enough to provide Elizabeth and I with our personal translators as the service was in kinyarwanda. The service went on for FOUR HOURS. The choir alone was larger than any congregation I’ve seen (granted I haven't seen that many?), and the music was the best part, the hall was ecstatic as everybody danced, clapped, and praised. But still... FOUR HOURS?

In Remera (my neighborhood), I was at an internet cafe planning our x-mas vacation (which will include Uganda, Kenya, and possible Tanzania if I can afford the plane ticket back. Come on, you know you want to join). Suddenly, I hear an obnoxiously loud, familiar sound - as I look over to the two backpackers right next to me who are speaking very loudly in Hebrew, on skype to Israel. Out of all the districts, all the sectors and all the cells in Kigali, out of all the internet cafes... !!!!
Being rather well-versed in Israeli stereotypes and rather quick to judge, I concluded that these guys must be on their "post-IDF-backpacking-around-the-world-to-forget-all-the-abuse-i've-subjected-Palestinians-to." In the event that I was right, I wasn't going to allow that to happen, and decided to stage a mini-disruption as I alternated my computer screen between Electornic Intifada and provocative Ha'aretz headlines. We then engaged in a stare-down contest, they left, and I celebrated my victory.

If only there could be a bored Palestinian with so much time on her hands at every internet café...

cockroaches...

I've killed 6 of them already, in about 10 days. According to my mother, this doesn't amount to a "cockroach problem" and i should quit complaining.
But they take forever to die, and the worst part is picking them up and throwing them out. Elizabeth always knows when that's happening because i'm shrieking uncontrollably as they dangle from their antennae.

The giant grasshoppers stopped coming to my room, i miss waking up to them in the morning, now that i've seen their uglier friends.

left in the dust...

Getting around here is a bit of an adventure.

Most roads aren’t paved, and you spend a good amount of your day walking up and down hills. This place is an off-roader’s dream land, and the easily nauseated's nightmare. Everybody owns a 4x4, and yesterday i was put in the back of a pickup and driven on a very bumpy road on my way back from the Village (more on that later). This Umuzungu provided quite some entertainment...

Buses mostly go on the main, paved roads. But to get anywhere off these, it’s much easier to take the “motos” (motorcycle taxis) and they’re very cheap (about 40 cents to get to work).
The road to my office is a fairly long trek uphill, on a bumpy dirt road. Sometimes, when I have energy, I’ll get off at the bottom and climb the hill. But as most of you've probably guessed this rarely happens and I just take a moto all the way through.
I like to think of riding the motos as a work-out in itself. As I carry a ton of bricks (my laptop) on my back and lean back to hold on to the handle behind me, my abs get an amazing workout.

The downs: You get terrible dusty and showering in the mornings is increasingly sounding like a stupid idea. If it’s not the dust from the dirt road, you’re stuck behind a giant truck’s exhaust pipe and breathing it all in. This morning I put on some lip gloss. By the time I reached the office, my lips felt gross - So I wiped it off with a cloth and saw that the once clear gloss was now black and brown.

So: Never again will I complain about the Jerusalem municipality’s racism for not paving our roads in East Jerusalem. The dirt-road by my house in Beit Hanina seems to me like a freeway in hindsight.

Speaking of which – motos would never work as a popular form of transport in the Middle East, which is a shame because they do have their benefits. But straddling a strange man from behind and squeezing your legs to tell him to stop when you’ve reached Kalandya checkpoint wouldn’t be too Halal.

UMUZUNGU

I expected this, but I didn’t realize how annoying it would be: In Rwanda, I’m white. I might as well be Swedish, it doesn’t matter.

The first word I learned in kinyarwanda was Umuzungu – “White person”!

I hear it dozens of times a day walking the streets: sometimes as taunts, or from merchants trying to get my attention, from curious kids who’ve never been so close to one, they’ll run to shake my hand, touch my leg or clothes.

Clearly, something had to be done. So the second and third words I learned, over drinks with some Rwandan friends on Friday night: Oya, Umyarabu! - No, an Arab person!

Laugh as you will, being an Arab comes with enough burdens elsewhere. I don’t need to add a colonial legacy to it all.

Next step:

“No, Palestinian person!” ….. How do you say “Occupation”?

My birthday "party" at Chez Lando, a hotel near my apartment with very slow service but a good selection of beers and brochettes, the Rwandan version of kabab (goat, mostly). I thought i did a decent job for night #2.

Left to right: Elizabeth, Clare and Brenda - Brenda works at my NGO.

Week One

It’s been exactly one week since I stumbled into Kigali airport disoriented, overwhelmed and with a mild headache. In a week Beirut has gone from mass pro-March 14th coalition protests following Gemayel’s assassination to mass anti-March 14th coalition protests, sit-ins, and sleep-ins. In that same week, I’ve changed continents (while maintaining my time zone), and gone from completely disoriented to only mildly disoriented in Kigali.

My first couple of days here I didn’t dare leave the house without clinging to Elizabeth (my former classmate and now roommate) as my guide. Getting around was especially frustrating because it was so cloudy and rainy that I couldn’t locate the sun to tell East from West. I’m not joking, this was an actual source of anxiety. What an old world concern - It turns out it’s simply not that important! Clearly, I have moved on: Goodbye Jerusalem, goodbye Beirut, goodbye green lines! Hello green hills!
Granted, an entirely different set of divisions await my discovery in this tiny country that is not exactly united – but I will leave that for later.

I Left my floss in Beirut

What an unforseeably disastrous oversight, goat meat gets stuck in your teeth like no other.