crash French courses and learning more about Kinshasa

this is Darlene.  I find myself wishing I had a camera or even a voice recorder pretty often here in Kinshasa.  It tells you that, despite its drawbacks, it's quite a fascinating place.

One way I'm learning about Kinshasa is through my driver, who picks me up and drops me off from the hotel each day.  "T" doesn't really speak much English (although a bit more than my French).  So sometimes we sit quietly.  At other times, T plays music for us on his 1990s-style walkman tape deck.  His tapes are pretty worn out from overuse, so the music can get a little warbly, but it's actually nice to hear classical tunes and sometimes African music to counter the noisy, pothole-filled roads and the loud crowds in traffic-filled areas.  It's soothing.

That said, I decided when I arrived this time that I was going to do my best to immerse myself a bit more in French language so that I could pick up more vocabulary and improve my speaking ability.  T is the perfect person to practice with, because I have to get creative in order to communicate.  Saying the English word may or may not work.  I call T "ma professor Francais."  (note, I'm not going to try to do any of the crazy accents and c-squiggles on this post.  My grammar is atrocious.  If you are an actual French speaker and are offended, get over it.  Just kidding! :)   A lot of times, I sit there saying..."je...je..." trying to come up with the verb/word I'm looking for, or something that will approximate it.  Other times, I use opposites--vocabulary I have learned to figure out a different word I don't.  T is a patient teacher.

This morning's "lesson"/conversation started with a discussion of how the government blocks the roads near the president's house.  Avec plates diplomatique, la voiture peut entrer, (but) une voiture normale ne entre pas. (Roughly, with diplomatic plates, the car can enter, but a normal car can't enter).  And definitely not this car below).  

We then started talking about the street vendors and others being evicted forcefully by police in recent days.  I asked him, in broken French, about those people with disabilities who were protesting several days ago after police very forcefully pushed them out of an area close to the port.  I missed a lot of what T said during this point, because he was talking faster and with vocab words I hadn't learned yet.  But I could tell this--he was saying, all the police needed to do was come in, and calmly, calmly say "stay calm, stay calm.  You need to move out of this area--you can go to this other area."  Instead, the police came with a strong hand--tres fort--and "boom, boom, boom."  (This I understood unfortunately all too well, as I heard that several people in wheelchairs were severely beaten by police a few days ago near the port).  He said that, along with the physically disabled, there are mentally disabled and disturbed (derange) people in the same area.  So, when the police comes down--"boom, boom, boom"--they respond the same -- "boom, boom, boom."  The situation just gets worse.  Sadly for some individuals, the government's heavy handedness is a fact and way of life.  

Even though I know I only caught a bit of what T was saying, and he had to use the international sign language of "boom, boom, boom" and punching his fist into his hand to help me understand, it feels good to have conversations in which I'm able, somehow, to participate and understand a bit more about this place I've spent several weeks this year.  These things that I'm learning don't make the news.   

While learning a new language itself is really interesting and fun, it's also so much more humanizing for my interactions with people here.  I am thankful for the few words I'm able to speak to thank people, to hear about T's children, to ask about how someone's evening was.  I hope to learn more in the few days I have remaining--a different attitude than when I arrived, thankfully.

View Place of Origin- DRC, Rwanda, Burundi in a larger map

The map says it all. One does not need to know anything about the conflict in DRC in order to conclude that something is not right in its eastern portions. The red pins represent provinces in DRC, and the blue ones represent villages, places identified by JRS Congolese refugees as the locations of the homes from which they fled. A pin here and a pin there in the central portions, a vertitable wall in the east. Zoom in, zoom out, and play around with the map; if I linked it correctly you should also be able to read the names of provinces and villages as well as the estimated number of refugees from that particular area. [The green bubbles represent places that Rwandan clients come from and the yellow bubbles represent those from Burundi.] Keep all that in your mind and let me come back to this momentarily.

Today in Kitengela, a neighborhood on the outskirts of Nairobi, we conducted a needs assessment of JRS clients in the parish. This is a yearly task for JRS, an attempt to determine how the issues have changed over the past year, a snapshot of the current situation, and a way for the organization to plan its services for the coming year. We had had multiple meetings about the methods that would be used to collect the information, what the questions would be, and who would do what, when, and where.

A team of six, myself included, arrived in Kitengela and were greeted by a sizable group of JRS clients (around 30 or so men and women). Three split off to interview the men, and three of us split off to interview the women. One thing that we quickly discovered was that every single one of the women (and I believe the same was true for the men) was Congolese, and not just Congolese, but Banyamulenge, a minority tribe in DRC, but the largest tribe of Congolese refugees on the JRS caseload. Most of them come from Minembwe (there is a red pin for this area) and towns and villages within its borders. This was a problem, because JRS has clients from other tribes in DRC in Kitengela. We were only going to get one viewpoint in this particular needs assessment. Not ideal, but we moved forward with the interviews to collect what we could.

When we arrived at the questions about conflict, the women at first denied there was any conflict. We asked why there were only Banyamulenge present and this led to a wave of anger and bitterness. The tribes that hunt Banyamulenge in DRC have come here to Kenya to continue their attacks. We will never forgive them. We don't want seminars on peace. We cannot talk to them. We are afraid. These were responses that were translated to me, but judging from the length at which they spoke there were likely many more. It became clear that there most certainly was conflict in Kitengela and that its roots were in DRC.

Look at the map again. The people that fled from those villages are not all Banyamulenge, yet they are all refugees. While I cannot confirm or deny the women's claim that rival tribes have entered Kenya for the sole purpose of killing Banyamulenge, I cannot agree that a chance for peace between the various groups is impossible. Through translation I tell the women that an NGO known as TUSA has held peace seminars where those from rival tribes have sat down and productively talked about their history, their pain, and a way forward. We have never heard of that happening.

But it is true. A man named "Simon" has, over the course of the last two months, slowly told me more about himself at each food distribution. Last week he shared his experience. I came to Kenya in 2008. When I arrived I saw people from the same tribe that was fighting with mine. But even more, I saw a man in Nairobi that I had seen during the actual attack on my village. I burned. TUSA had a peace seminar and the man and I eventually spoke and with the help of TUSA we sat down. This was in 2010. [I think this was the date he said but I know it was a couple years after his 2008 arrival.] He talked about how that day he had been forced by a militia to either attack my village or lose his family. He didn't want to do it. The truth is...I have done the same thing as he did. I have participated in attacks on other villages because of threats. I don't know where my parents are, I don't know where my family is. But today that man is my best friend.

Difficult beyond measure? Absolutely. Impossible? Hard to believe, but no. It is not impossible. I am remembering what As We Forgive emphasizes in Rwanda, Forgiveness is not human.

"Come now, let us reason together," says the Lord. "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool." Isaiah 1:18

this is Darlene.  I'm in DR Congo for a bit filling in for a colleague.  Things are pretty heated way on the other side of the country, but pretty much calm here in Kinshasa (save some small-scale protests against police actions to clear street vendors--more on that in another post).  

While Kinshasa is definitely not my favorite place to be posted in the world, it has a few things going for it:

1. A five-star hotel - The Grand Hotel - where I'm staying.  It's a bit of a mish-mash, this one.  My room is 1960s style, musty, with an ash tray on the bedside table and a bathroom sink that isn't level, so water accumulates behind the faucet.  But it has a lovely view of the Congo River and the pool.  The elevators have that fancy card technology where you have to swipe your card to punch in your floor number.  It works about 75 percent of the time.  The lobby is very beautiful, if perpetually overpopulated with men in suits sitting or standing, waiting for something or another.  And it certainly seems the place for high-class Congolese folks dressed to the nines to see and be seen.  I perpetually feel underdressed, especially at breakfast. 

2.  High fashion/couture - As mentioned above, Kinshasa and its sister city across the river have a reputation for fashion.  And not just any fashion, but seriously expensive duds.  The article I've linked is only about men, but women are definitely in on the couture as well, and I don't know if I've ever been around such a concentration of 5-inch heels, fishnets, and short skirts among the young ones, and long, flowing, beautiful drapes in every color imaginable among the more sensible, older crowd.

3.  The Congo River - a beautiful, slow-moving river separating Democratic Republic of the Congo from the Republic of the Congo.  Don't ask me how they decided which one got dibs on the adjective "democratic." (I've often wondered if using the word "democratic" in your country title actually is a cover for just the opposite).  In any case, I had some adventures on the river last time I was here, including our motorboat becoming a paddleboat for a considerable amount of time after running out of gas.  Wish I had pictures to share.  

4.  Expensive restaurants - Okay, this isn't necessarily a positive thing (unless the food is deserving of the expense).  But it is quite remarkable.  I can easily drop $45 for a single meal, just for me, here, without any special drinks or dessert.  Wowza.  

5.  Live music - I think one of the things I'm paying for during all these meals is the piano player, singer, and/or live band providing entertainment while I cut into my fish or whatever.  There is a lovely culture of live music here, which I really appreciate.  Last night, I went with co-workers to see Papa Wemba in concert -- he's quite an icon here in DRC, and I feel privileged to have been able to hear (and see) him in concert.  Papa Wemba is very influential in soukous music, or Congolese rumba, and he's also quite a performer--in his sixties, he was still dancing .  There were two bands playing before he graced us with us with his presence, and by the time he did (11:15 p.m.) we were pretty tired, but it was worth it.

Of course, Kinshasa also faces a number of serious challenges.  I will try to write about those another time.  For now, let yourself bask in the fantastic-ness of this crazy high fashion:

I miss

Who went here

I distract myself with

and

and

Which I should not be eating because today my stomach has

Which prevented me from seeing

Time for

Would anyone like to buy this pot? It's 1000 shillings (about 12 USD) and is handmade by a small income generating project in Nairobi. The group that organized this business is not official or anything, but the people involved seek to help people who were formerly in conflict and help them find peace through working in a business together.  This business makes pots.

Already they have their wares sold in one supermarket nearby. Supposedly, a larger grocery chain called Tuskys is interested in ordering 9000 (or was it 900) of these. Unfortunately, since the current method of forging the pots takes multiple painstaking steps (they create the mold by hand), and since the final product is not always worthy of being sold (see holes in photo below), the business cannot fill such a large order.

However, if they could get a mold they could make pots much faster. The lead on this project even says that with one mold they could fill an order from Tuskys. They say that one mold would cost around 100,000 shillings (about 1204 USD).

All of the pots are made from aluminum that the workers (currently a total of 3) find on the side of the road. They smelt the aluminum over a charcoal fire that is intensified by an air blower at the base of the coals. Once the aluminum melts they pour the liquid metal into the handmade molds, after just a short while they are able to pull out a newly formed pot.

Seeing the project was simultaneously uplifting and disheartening. Their process is quite clever, all the way from reusing discarded metal to the handmade molds to the way they polish the rough pots that come from the mold. But it is disheartening all the same, as the people strongly desire to have a profitable business to feed their kids, pull themselves from poverty, and to gain the feeling of confidence one has when steadily employed. Yet the business is to make pots, and once you have a pot in their neighborhood you have a pot and probably aren't going to buy another any time soon. And even if they got a mold, they did not seem to have a ton of scrap aluminum on hand. Would they be able to find enough to make 9000 (900?) pots for Tuskys?

There are pros and cons to the idea, of course. And I hope it works. The people were certainly putting their whole effort into the business. If you have any suggestions for them let me know. Or, if you want a pot, you can choose from the ones below and place your order with me.

The Nile River, Jinja, Uganda

Guest Post: The Taste that Stays with Me

Travis Barnwell, a dear friend, Christian brother, and former roommate, has been in Kenya with us from day one. Like me, he has been working for JRS, though in a different neighborhood. It is a real blessing to be able to talk through things we are seeing and experiencing on the ground, encouraging each other spiritually, and brainstorming programmatic steps together.

Shortly before the actual World Refugee Day, Travis was explaining his thoughts on hearing a Bishop speak about how we are all refugees, trying to find our way back home. Travis' words were engrossing and made us wish for more thoughts on the subject. We asked him to write a guest post on our blog and what followed were weeks of cajoling, prompting, and begging, though never demanding. Eventually, we lost hope. Yet it turned out that people from Travis' small group from church were also cajoling, prompting, begging, and I think demanding.

So here, without further ado, is a guest post from Travis, where he explains in further detail the conclusions he is drawing from his experiences with JRS:

The first thing that comes to mind is the idea of helplessness. It’s a trait I get to learn more about from the folks I hang around in Eastleigh who are apt to wear it like a declarative adolescent t-shirt such as “Bite me!” or  “You suck!”, but it’s also a trait I am discovering more and more to appreciate sharing with them. The group of minority tribe Somali men that I meet with once a week seems to have every right to broadcast their feelings of helplessness. They get targeted by majority tribe Somali aristocrats to be kidnapped and shipped to Somalia to fight for Al Shabaab, or else tortured and killed. After rushing to the hospital multiple times to have stab wounds patched up in the wake of narrowly escaping an attempted kidnapping, they should be displaying their feelings of helplessness. When they have to move their families from house to house to throw their attackers off their trail and cannot work for fear of being recognized, it is very appropriate that they proclaim their helplessness. Then finding that making multiple police reports and requests for investigations end in demands for a bribe they cannot afford to pay to get the protection they and their families desperately need – yep, helpless. 

My friend Nadine talks about how the value of being in a state of helplessness is that it can glaringly reveal the work that Jesus Christ is doing. I find that being around the helplessness of others reveals this, along with my own helplessness and vulnerability. This revelation not only makes the presence of Christ all the more glaring, but all the more tangible and desirable. I am daily convinced that any personal characteristic or skill that I possess to meet any of the needs I encounter is afforded me by a miraculously well placed birth, a more nutrient laden social environment than not, and a growing faith that has all been entirely gifted.

Despite owning all of this and feeling very well-outfitted for life this side of eternity, I am still just as helplessly vulnerable as the refugee who struggles to survive in Eastleigh. As one of the Kenya bishops recently pointed out at a World Refugee Day mass, we are all refugees if we consider our homeland to be in eternally, perpetual, and fully exposed proximity with the God who created us. Even our current access to this homeland through Christ is incomplete, a mere shadow, glimpse, and low quality pirated DVD picture of the land he will restore.  How very difficult it can be for someone like me to recognize this refugee status that I hold – and to be truly grateful for this daily bread of glimpsing the gospel message restore and re-create. I find that the contrast restoration and re-creation holds next to the desolation that surrounds me is provided by a position of exposure. Only the miraculous precedent of a present and living God allows me to experience this exposure with any transformative truth. Otherwise it is simply exposure.

To make a very long, drawn out thought into something inefficiently short: I find that Jesus Christ turns real ruin into real worship. And I’m really glad he does. I don’t like ruin and I can’t fake worship. Since I’m strangely drawn to ruin through social work and am discovering more about my own ruining, I’m easily filled with hurt and rage. Transformation is the most sustainable, most desirable treatment for these ailments in me, my “clients”, and the world that we share. I believe ruin draws me because where it is, transformation can be also.

the mighty Nile

What a weekend!  We had a blast rafting the Nile and enjoyed our relaxing time in Jinja.  I (Darlene) am getting ready to travel to Congo for a bit and so this post will be short.  But we thought you might enjoy pictures of the crazy waves we were surfing (and swimming) in.  

Here we are heading for a big set of rapids:

And here we are about to go for a swim a bit later in the day (David is fully in the water in the front of the boat.  You can barely see the top of my paddle and I'm pretty much in the water, too).  

We couldn't believe how long we were swimming -- the Nile is nothing like what we rafted before in West Virginia -- but the volume of water means that it was even safer (fewer big rocks to hit/get trapped by).  Fun times. :)  

I asked the taxi driver from Entebbe to Kampala what he thought of Ugandan politics.  He mentioned how the economy is bad and how the president is not helping. I asked him if things were better now than they were under Amin in the past. His answer? Oh no, Amin did many good things. He built roads, he built hospitals, many things that are still good today came from the Amin era. I asked him if he had seen the movie "The Last King of Scotland."  I told him that I think that movie made everyone in the West see the rule of Amin as the rule of a madman. He just laughed and talked of how some Ugandans would welcome Amin over the current president of Yoweri Museveni. Personally, I do not know what is what in this situation. I could not look at the taxi driver and counter-argue him by saying, What!?!? Didn't you see what Forest Whitaker did in scene 7?

We hear one thing and someone else hears and sees another. It makes me want to get in a dugout canoe and go fishing to rest my brain, like these folks on the Nile River where we stayed in Jinja.

This sign also made us want to rest our brains.

We're off until July 23rd, when we return from Uganda. Enjoy this picture that Darlene took on a safari the last time she was here.

And read the news of Kenya. 

In 2009 I met the woman on the right while white water rafting the Gauley river in West Virginia. I'm the guy with the pointy hat who, depending on your perspective, is either giving a cool hand gesture or picking his nose.  It's actually both.

We are heading to Uganda this weekend to do some more rafting, this time on the Nile, at the place it begins.   The last time I saw the Nile it looked calm and serene as it made its way through Cairo to the Mediterranean.  Here is a photo someone put on google of their rafting trip.  The Nile is somewhat different here. We are going with the same company as these folks did, though it is hard to tell since the raft is flipping.

But rafting is not the only reason for our trip, it's really just an activity. We're celebrating our one year anniversary this weekend (Monday the 23rd is the actual date). One year.  I'll be posting my thoughts on one year of marriage when we return. I feel blessed.

(In other news, could the people who are finding this blog from www.aptratings.com, tr.netlog.com, and www.cultek.com please write a comment on the blog? We don't think you're real. You too people from Russia. If you are real, we are so glad you are reading along. If you aren't real, we want you to go away...if that makes sense.)

Here is a blast from the past. The first weekend we arrived we headed downtown and wandered aimlessly. We read in a guidebook that the Jamia Mosque was something to see so we hunted it down and soon found it. Having studied in the Middle East Studies Program (MESP) when it was based in Cairo, I had enjoyed sitting in some extremely ornate, magnificent mosques. I was really wanting to go in this one and see what I could learn about Islam in East Africa versus Islam in the Middle East.

The guards were a bit confused by my excitement I think. Darlene pointed out that Muslims in Kenya are the minority and that with all the frustration surrounding al-Shabab they were perhaps understandably wary of outsiders. Travis decided not to go in, but I was able to negotiate with the guards to allow Darlene to come in with me (the two you can see were a bit hesitant at first). I promised them Darlene would cover her hair and it was good she was wearing her spring jacket that day as it had a hood. We must have made a strange pair in their eyes.

At first they were not going to let us go further than peeking in the front door. But then, when we were at the entrance, they suddenly asked if we wanted to go in and tour the entire mosque, even though women were not supposed to be able to see all parts of it. Though feeling like we totally should, I also felt that maybe it was time to go. People were starting to stare and we did not want to offend anyone too terribly (I was willing to risk some "grrrs..." for a chance to peek inside). For info purposes, the inside was typical of my memories of mosques. A green carpet covered the floor of a very large, airy, open space with men scattered about praying underneath chandelier-like lights dangling from the ceiling (I think I remember lights dangling, I could be mixing memories now).

So out we went thanking the guards for their time. We walked to the other side of the mosque and took a photo.

The man sitting to the left of the photo among the cars gave me permission to take the photo (I asked before taking). He seemed very happy to have someone take a photo of his place of worship. Unfortunately, right after taking this shot, the man in the white galibeyeh exiting the mosque asked me not to take photos. He was confused as to why I would want to and appeared a bit perturbed. As he walked away the man by the cars told me to ignore him and that it was no problem. So I took one more.

I figure it probably is okay since google has plenty of photos of the mosque. Plus, I think the guy was more concerned that he was in the photo which I apologized for (we parted with smiles). For those interested in historical facts about the mosque, I cannot offer too many as we were not given any facts. But I did find this quote here:

The Jamia Mosque is the largest Mosque in Nairobi and one of Kenya’s most prominent religious structures. The building is well-known due to its iconic twin minarets and 3 silver domes. It retains a classic Arabic Muslim architectural style with extensive use of marble and inscriptions from the Quran. Visitors to the site who are non-Muslim may not be admitted entry to view the inside of the building.

Totally did. Stay culturally sensitive my friends.

friends new and old

It has been very fun to have visitors come through Nairobi since we've been here (and we welcome more! we have an extra bedroom....)  This past weekend, we were blessed with visits from two friends from different parts of our lives in DC--Deborah and Kristen--and then two new friends from Ethiopia who are friends of Kristen.  News from home, talking through our thoughts about life in Nairobi, sharing meals together--these are life-giving times.

It's pretty late here, so I (Darlene) am not going to write a long post--only to say that I think I needed the break from our DC social scene that keeps us so busy all the time, but that these visits remind me of the amazing community that we have and makes me so thankful that DC has become home.  

I leave you with a piece of 1998 (or whenever phones first started to have built-in cameras) and this awesome, grainy photo (taken by my high-tech, smarter than smartphone tonight after dinner) of friends making the gesture we attribute to taxi drivers here--the "hey! what the..." gesture that they all seem to make when being cut off by another car. Good stuff.

Women in Kasarani, Nairobi protest two months of water shortage. Everyone, please, google that headline and tell me if you can find an article. Because what I saw was newsworthy and yet I cannot find a story about it anywhere, except for 5 seconds at the top of one of the news outlets websites. But unlike other stories momentarily listed at the top, no link to an actual story is provided.

I was in Kasarani today, a neighborhood in southeast Nairobi to meet with a missionary who has a legal clinic for poor Kenyans. (Paul and I are looking to build partnerships with legal experts for our peacebuilding program, a story for another time.)  A former trial lawyer from New York, the missionary was tough, direct, and kindhearted. A story for another time.

After the initial meeting Paul and I were talking in a field by the church and began to smell something strange. It was almost as if a car engine had been revved way too many times and the engine was stinking. It was annoying but I thought nothing of it as the wind was strong enough to not allow it to overpower us.

But then I began to notice all of the workers in the fields around us and in the hospital parking lot (the missionary works in a Franciscan compound full of services) covering their faces and ceasing what they were doing. Then one of the sisters near Paul and I said, "Oh my, that's tear gas."  Then I could hear yelling and screaming from a street on the other side of some rows of houses and heard a muffled sound of Thud Thud Thud and puffs of smoke gradually rose in three distinct areas.  I could see people on rooftops who had been looking away from me at something on the street suddenly turn around and run into their homes. More screams, more yells, sirens now, and more Thud Thud Thuds. The smell became stronger as the tear gas wafted with the wind through the compound. I can only guess that the reason the only effect on me was a slight feeling of nasusea was due to the fact that the gas was less concentrated than when first fired.

The yelling and sirens eventually died down and a short time later a police helicopter flew over the area but did not stay long. Sisters and clients there for services told me that there had been no water in Kasarani for three months now, yet the city council there was still charging for water services. Some told me that members of the city council were also the ones selling emergency water rations to the citizens of Kasarani at exorbitant prices. The women had come to express their dissatisfaction with the unfairness of the situation.

I do not know the facts exactly as far as how long the water has been off (the headline said two months), what the women were or were not doing that may have provoked the police, or how things started. But I do know that tear gas was fired multiple times, that there was a protest, and that people watching on the roofs ran for cover. And I believe there has been a water shortage and from my previous experiences with police in Kenya it is not hard for me to assume they are at fault.

If someone does google the headline and find an article, please, please let me know.

In the months when Darlene and I started dating back in early 2010, Snowmaggedon days, I remember seeing photos of her at a place called the Giraffe Center in Nairobi. During one of her USAID trips she had some time to go and commune with the animals. And from the photos it seemed that she had this natural ability to connect with them. They wanted to be around her:  

She was like the horse whisperer, but with giraffe.

Anyway, when the opportunity arose to visit a place my lovely wife had been years before, to walk where she walked before she met me, I was excited to experience the place. And the knowledge that she understood these animals assured me that I, too, might be able to get close to them.

Things turned out a bit different. For one, the animals seemed to have become a bit ornery judging from the signage.

And the beasts were not as willing to cuddle as they were in the past. In fact, they did not even seem to remember Darlene. They spurned not only her love, but even her food offerings. This video shows our attempts to even get them to come close.

While the giraffe never put their heads on our shoulders, or ate from both of our hands at the same time, they did come close and one licked me a few times. Or maybe he is sticking his tongue out at me.

This is me and a piece of shit. Now calm down, this post is not going to be inappropriate. The painting you see is seriously shit. No, you misunderstand. Darlene and I really like this painting. We purchased it in Rwanda at the Caplaki market. The price for this artistic crap started at 8,000 shillings but I got it for 3500 shillings. Bargain baby.

Anyway, it's of a colorful bird and the woman who said she made it said it was "this year's design." It doesn't matter that every other stall at the market sold something similar, nor does it matter that the Kigali airport sold these as well (but only "last years design" which was zebra striped). So you see, it's a beautiful, must have, one of a kind, lovely, picture of shit.

I can see this is offending people. The bird painting is made of cow dung. Someone took a pile of cow poo, molded into the shape of a bird, let it dry, and then painted it. I wasn't too excited about this item when I saw it at first since it's just a picture of a bird. But when I found out it was a picture of a bird made of poop? Then I went to the negotiating mat to get a fine price for the thing.

You may notice that my nose is perched right at the top of the painting. Yes, you can smell the dung. Not from far away (rest assured future visitors to our DC apartment), but up close like the photo and wow, you can only take so much. At first I was nervous that the painting could chip easily, but the poop hardens.  Darlene and Travis reminded me that some people in Africa have houses with walls made of cow dung. If hardened cow dung is tough enough to withstand wind and weather, I'm sure it can stand the pressures of coming home in my suitcase.

Many jokes have been made already about the piece. For example, me to Travis in Kigali when he asked to see the painting, "Don't touch my shit." Darlene and I in conversation about having the painting on our wall at home, "Hey, we've got shit on our wall!" Me wondering where we should put it for the time being in our apartment here in Nairobi, "Where should we put this shit?"

Juvenile? Perhaps. But we soon will be one of the few people to be able to claim that when someone molded cow poop into the form of a bird and painted it, that we proudly put it on our wall at home. One of the few indeed, unless someone reading this wants painted shit of their own. Let me know!

I think there is going to be a moment when I get back to DC that I am going to feel restless for Kenya and the day to day life here. Something will annoy me; I'll go to class and work and feel useless; I'll read an article about something overseas; or maybe I'll just start daydreaming. And then suddenly I'll tell myself that my life would be more adventurous, more meaningful if I was back in Kayole doing peacebuilding, or that I would find myself in a better mood if I was flying to Rwanda.

What a joke. I thought I left feelings of restlessness and "if only I was back in such and such a place" behind me years ago. But it turns out I haven't. While in Kenya I have often felt the pull of being home. If only we could ride our bikes in Rock Creek Park. If only we could picnic on the Potomac. If only we could go to our church. Unless God has some unforeseen journey ahead of us, in one month and a half we will do these things.  And yet, already, I'm thinking that there will be a time riding through the park when I will start thinking, gee it would be awesome to walk through Kayole again.

Maybe I am over thinking this. I do not think there is anything wrong with other places crossing the mind and remembering good times, but perhaps there is an issue if one is often wishing for somewhere else in the moment. It would be good to be present and rest in the knowledge that God brought us here. To get that, for now, we are not supposed to be riding bikes in rock creek; that we are not supposed to be picnicking on the Potomac; and for this time God does not want us at Advent.

He wants us here. In Kenya. And when he wants us back in DC we will be back in DC. I should remember this even when we go home. When the if only I was in Kenya thoughts begin. Because then I will be where I should be. And if God wanted Darlene and I elsewhere, we would be elsewhere.

oops (my embarrassing mzungu story)

This evening after work, I came home and changed, put some shillings and my credit card in my wallet and headed to a nearby mall to buy some more Theraflu-style meds for David.

The pharmacy in the mall was already closed, so I headed to the value-priced grocery store (Uchumi in Kiswahili means "economy/economical") to see if they had anything approaching a cold medicine.  Not so much.  Having struck out again at Uchumi in terms of finding medicine, I figured I'd buy a few groceries while I was there and then head back.  I also needed a top-up (more airtime) for my phone.

When I got to the counter, I realized from experience that they were not going to take my credit card because I didn't bring my ID with me.  So, I had to pay in cash.  Not thinking much of it, I used most of the cash I had brought, with about 600 shillings left for a taxi home. This is where it all went wrong.

You see, I'm so used to having enough money with me or a credit card that can be used anywhere if I don't have cash, that I went upstairs to the food court and bought some flame grilled chicken, enough for the two of us for dinner.  As I waited for them to prepare it, I called the taxi driver and asked him if we could go to a late-night pharmacy.  I was feeling proud of myself that I'd be able to come home with medicine and dinner, all at a reasonable hour.

And then, once it was all prepared, they gave me the bill.  I was short at least 600 more shillings.  Yikes.  I told the guy that I had left something downstairs, that I would be right back, and ran down to Uchumi with my groceries.

I took out two non-essential, non-perishable items and my receipt and went to the customer service desk to ask for a refund on the items.  After looking at me blankly for a few seconds (I don't think he's had many mzungus approach him trying to return groceries for money), the fellow told me that once a bill has been settled, they don't make adjustments.  They could give me store credit?  I told him, mostly truthfully, that because I couldn't use my credit card, I used all my cash, and now I wouldn't be able to get home.  (The part about getting home was only partially true, I suppose--I know my taxi driver well enough to ask him to drive me home and then wait for me while I ran in and grabbed the cab fare.  But I couldn't see going home without paying the restaurant for the food I had ordered, made fresh for me).  "It is the only way!" I kept repeating, insistently but hopefully kindly.

So, after telling four other staff members my sad story of not being able to pay cab fare to get home and needing to return my coffee and tea, the fellow finally relented, and gave me the 600 shillings.  I thanked him and immediately ran upstairs to the food stall.  I was ready to pay and get the heck out of there.  I ended up being 60 shillings short.  Wow.  By this time, I was feeling pretty silly.  One of the staff figured out my plight as I looked through my pockets and sifted through the Rwandan change in my wallet.  We took out one of the sodas and I was able to leave the mall, with exactly zero shillings in my pocket.

I didn't get the medicine.  I didn't have any money to buy it on my way home.  But at least the chicken was tasty...

a picture is worth a thousand words...

 ...but being there is so much better.

I'm back from Rwanda - and this photo (that's me in the left corner!) does not do justice to the beauty of the Rwandan countryside.  We traveled due south of Kigali to visit a refugee camp newly set up in the poorest district in Rwanda.  The camp is set in the hills--but as I learned from my 3-hour drive, much of Rwanda is hills!

I'll write more about the camp experience another time.  For now, imagine with me the valley that you can't see in this picture.  In some areas, they were cropping rice in the valleys; in other areas all kinds of vegetables (cabbages, kale, peas, beans, etc.); banana trees/groves were in some areas; and in some, coffee.  We saw a whole shade-grown coffee cooperative in action on our way, but we were moving too fast for me to take a picture.  The land in the valleys was so verdant and green.  Too bad this photo is so blurry and grey!

I wish this was how the Lord's Prayer was always prayed. It's called Baba Yetu, meaning "Our Father." They were performing in a competition that Paul performed in. His group did not win, but these guys were his favorite. Somehow they did not win either.

the strangers and sojourners

this is Darlene.  David and Travis have gone back to Nairobi, and I'm still here in Rwanda for a brief work trip.  I'm really glad we came here early and had at least a short time to see more of Rwanda (especially Kigali) and meet up with some brothers and sisters here with whom we were connected through church or various organizations.

I am going tomorrow with colleagues to a site where refugees from DRC have congregated.  Many of these families/individuals have some sort of Rwandaphone background.  It appears that they intend to stay for a long while.

For some of the individuals who have recently crossed into the country, they are leaving the familiar for the equally familiar.  Their family has owned land on both sides of the artificial, Western-created border, and they have family members on both sides as well.  It doesn't make it easy to be a refugee in this context, but at least it's a bit more familiar.  But others are leaving the only life they knew and a culture and language they understand to be met with a completely new language, culture, etc.  Making a life here will be a constant relearning and reorienting, and therefore, a constant struggle.  No wonder that God, among hundreds of commands in the Law, directs his people to consider the stranger and sojourner.  He starts by commanding them not to oppress the sojourner, but goes further to direct them to leave a bit of grain ungleaned and fruit unharvested in order to leave some for the strangers among them.  I think he knew that our natural state would be to take all that we "own" for ourselves and not consider anyone else.

Although it's under very obviously different circumstances, I've been thinking about what it means to be a stranger or a sojourner, away from home, as David and I spend time away from what has increasingly felt like home to us in DC.  We feel very keenly the temporary nature of our stay and are thankful to be away only temporarily.  Yet we also feel very blessed by kindnesses and physical comforts and know how fortunate we are to be so well taken care of in this strange place.  We are thankful for the small (and large!) evidences of God's kindness and him showing us hospitality through others.  Our welcome into a Kinyarwandan expression of worship yesterday was evidence of this - I hope we have some pictures/video we can post tomorrow to be able to express it in some small way. And most importantly, he shows us hospitality in that we are no longer strangers to God, but friends and sons and daughters.  That is good news.  

There are many things on the mind. "Forgiveness is not human"; "God does not change"; "Rwanda was on another planet"; "We bring perpetrators and victims together."  A structure is being built with which to communicate them, like this building in Kigali.

Caplaki market provided a welcome break from heavy thoughts. 

I totally bought this t-shirt.

Check this article out. Three Kenyan musicians were charged with hate speech as their songs are said to promote violence against other ethnic communities. From the lyrics of some of their songs the charges appear to be true. After visiting the Genocide museum here in Kigali it is reassuring to see that the Kenyans are having a zero tolerance policy for lyrics that suggest it is good to kill your opponents. 

That is all for tonight. We walked all over the city today. Daudi (my name in Swahili) needs his lala (sleep).

In the book Season of Blood: A Rwandan Journey, Fergal Keane recounts how a fellow journalist called the madness "soul murder." In the documentary about his experiences as the head of the UN peacekeeping force in Rwanda in 1994, Shake Hands with the Devil, Romeo Dallaire reminisces how even years later he can still walk up to specific buildings in Kigali and see the dead bodies. He remarks that for him it is not that he is remembering that they were there...he can still see them. 800,000 people dead in 100 days.


As we land in Kigali you realize that you are flying the same flight path as doomed President Juvenal Habyarimana, shot down over the city during the same approach.  His death began the blood bath.  You land and can see the national stadium from the plane. There, 18 years ago, a small contingent of UN peacekeepers protected thousands of Tutsis and moderate Hutus from certain extinction.  The driver of the taxi asks you, while stopped at a stoplight, if you have seen Hotel Rwanda. Yes, I have. He points at the compound to your left and says, That is Hotel Rwanda. On the ride back from dinner another driver goes by the same hotel, Hotel Des Mille Collines, this time driving by the entrance. It is really there. UN guards stood right by that gate, right there, and stood nervously as interahamwe militiamen drove by with threats and the desire to kill the Tutsis inside. 


And then I realize this Hotel Des Mille Collines, this Hotel Rwanda, is just around the corner from where we are staying. And then I realize that during the Genocide here there were bodies everywhere and we have been driving on streets with ghosts. I do feel shaken because this only happened 18 years ago and I remember hearing news reports about the massacres. This is not in my Grandparents' generation. I was alive. There's the hotel. There's the stadium. You see a man walking around with no arm who appears to be in his forties. You are not crazy for wondering if his arm was hacked off. 


And now I am here and I feel as I imagine I would at Auschwitz, or in Sarajevo and Darfur. Yet this happened throughout the entirety of this tiny nation.  Soul Murder. And I am here and I can feel the weight of memory and I want to understand but at the same time I know that I never will.  I was not here and cannot grasp what I did not see.  I am only feeling the weight of collective memory. 


I am wondering how in these few short days in Rwanda, this Friday to Monday morning, I can be a responsible human here. Forgive me if this sounds overly dramatic. But I want to tread respectfully in this place just as one would do at a concentration camp site, or near a mass grave. I do not want to ignore the vast array of other ways to describe Rwanda, such as the fact that Kigali is the most beautiful  African city I have ever seen, and that it seems there really are a thousand hills. But nor do I want to ignore history. I want to honor the memory of what happened. To say I recognize this occurred in my lifetime.  Maybe there will be a fountain to throw a coin in, or a book in which to put my name. Or maybe I will arrive to a spot and realize that this, this is the place for my prayer:


Oh Dear Jesus, Lord and Savior, help me. For I know that the evil that did this is an evil more powerful than I. Save me Lord. Kill my pride and my contempt and my beliefs that say I am better than any others for any reason. Heal me. Forgive me.  Oh "Repairer of Broken walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings," heal us. May we never go down this road again. Amiin

Welcome! Please come in! Sit anywhere you like we have just opened a month ago. Pick any seats you would like, it is just you two and the other two mzungus over there. Yes, we are currently the only business in this brand new office building. So glad you found us. Oh you read a blog post and now you are here! Wonderful!

Our menu is superb so please allow us to give just one menu between you and your friend. That way you can read it and then he can read it and then you can read it again and then he can read it again and then you can what would you like to drink?

Okay, so here is a beer for your friend and your margarita. What? You do not taste alcohol? That's because the main ingredient is strawberry corn syrup. What? You do not taste alcohol? Ha ha ha, very good my friend.

What would you like to eat? Fajitas for you and enchiladas for your friend. Excellent! I will be right back.

Okay, I am back and have just put in your orders for dinner. May I interest you in any dessert? Oh you want to wait until you have eaten your fajitas and enchiladas. Aha, okay. May I get you something else to drink my friend? Did you enjoy your margarita? You could not taste any alcohol? Ha ha ha, very good my friend.

Well here is your beer and the glass with ice. What? No the beer is not warm but also not baridi. It is neither. Oh, you want a cold one? Okay, a Tusker? Okay my friend.

Here is your tusker. Can I get you guys anything? Okay!

And here are your enchilidas and fajitas. I am standing between you both and have just given your friend his meal but I will now walk to the other side of you and give you yours. Waiting is key. It is also dramatic. What do you want? What? Please say that again you want what? Tortilas? Tortayas? Oh Tortillas!! Why? In America? Really? With fajitas? Ha ha ha, very good my friend! Yes, the chef has said he can bring you some tortillas.

Here are your tortillas. I will now watch you eat.

Can I get you anything? No?

Can I get you anything? No?

Can I get you anything? No?

Can I get you anything? No?

I will give you the dessert menu so that you can order dessert because you should. NO! You should. Oh we have a variety of desserts from the Mexican cuisine. Like our blueberry cheesecake, or our pumpkin pie with strawberry ice cream.  Okay! The pumpkin pie and blueberry cheesecake it is! The chef's special is the cheesecake. He is 23 years old, named Omar, and is from Mexico. He is the head chef! Very early in life yes. And he enjoys what he does and that he has no competition. Oh? You prefer vanilla ice cream with your pumpkin pie? Aha, okay.

Here is your dessert but first please allow me to clean the crumbs that have fallen from your trap. It is very important that I get them all so please keep your conversation going. My you are a pig. I will now wipe your friend's side of the table as well, but only as a courtesy to you. I cannot find a single crumb on his side. Wow, how did you do that?

Here are your desserts. I really do wish you had gotten the strawberry ice cream. Very Mexican. Can I get you anything? Another beer? Are you done with that last bite of fajita? No? You desire to take a last bite or two? Okay, I'll take it then.

Can I get you anything? Oh, you want to use your spoon? That's clever. Can I get you anything? The bill? Of course, here it is.

Thank you so much. Please tell everyone about us.