Meeting Congo.

Today, I met Anthony Musafiri, the Head Of Hope In Action. He works closely with L’Hopital Keyshero, a local hospital, on a program for female victims of sexualized violence, and had promised me a tour of the facilities. I felt apprehensive and nervous driving along the bumpy and dusty roads of Goma. I would soon be face to face with the Africa of countless newscasts and documentaries. I was worried how I might react, and I was worried about how the women would react to me.
The hospital was a series of squat buildings in a dirty field on the outskirts of the city. Like the rest of the Goma, the hospital looked like it didn’t belong there, and didn’t want to be there.
After finishing a brief interview with the chief of medicine, I was invited to the wards for victims of rape. The wards were located a stones throw away from the main compound, and comprised of two derelict buildings surrounded by dirt.
It is hard to describe when something so completely matches your preconceived ideas but yet so utterly smashes them. The rooms were dirty, dark and stuffy. Cast-iron beds were scattered around the room, and the small windows allowed hardly any light to enter.
Sitting on the beds were women and girls of every age. Some seemed to be around 70, and other can’t have been older than 15.
As I came in they all looked at me with slightly unsettling, piercing eyes. I realized that there was no way I could relate to these women. There was an unbridgeable chasm between us, and there was no common ground.
Suddenly the women started clapping. I still do not know why, but as they did their stern faces opened in smiles, and all at once I felt indescribably sad and elated at the same time.
For an hour I sat with them and took pictures of them. Many of them had their children with them, and some were even there with their husbands. At times I forgot why they were all there. They seemed genuinely happy to me, and I wondered how such happiness could be possible in someone who has encountered such boundless evil.
Now, as I look through the pictures from earlier, I notice that not a single one of them is smiling. It is as if the pictures were taken by someone else at a different and sadder time.
From my balcony in my hotelroom I ca see a boat going back and forth with it's speakers blaring James Brown's "I Feel Good".

Hello, Africa. Tell me how you're doing.

My lost driver and new friend Gilbert suddenly materialized on my doorsted this morning, along with his brother Jojo.
I had spent a restless night battling nightmares and hallucinations, side effects of the malariadrugs about which I had been warned in advance. This went on until about 4 am, when I realized I had opted for the medicine without the aforementioned sideeffects. Having made this realization, I went to sleep soundly.
I was glad to see Gilbert alive and well, and I will assume that he was glad to see me too.
Together, the three of us embarked on a tour of the city of Kigali.
Kigali is indeed an amazing place. During the last few years, Rwanda has emerged as a leading economy and example of civic society in Africa.
Mr. Kagame. the president, is fiercly loved by every Rwandan I spoke to, and his policies are carried forward by a people determined, as a woman I spoke to put it, to become the best in the world at everything they set out to achieve.
This has not only resulted in an incredible process of healing and nationbuilding after the genocide that tore the nation apart 15 years ago, but also an impeccably clean and safe country.
As I mentioned earlier, plastic bags are banned in Rwanda, under penalty of uptil 6 months in prison, and every couple of months the entire population joins in a massive communal effort of cleaning the streets.
The result of this, is an eerily spotless capital. Nowhere is there trash to be found. Every inch of road, path and alley in Kigali is indeed spotless. It is a truly aweinspiring thing to see, and the results are such that even neighbouring countries such as Uganda are thinking about following suit.
I wanted to ask a woman I had dinner with about the less than democratic facets of Mr. Kagame’s rule, but I quickly gathered that this was a non-issue with most Rwandans. Most, if not all of Rwandans progress has been attributed to his policies, and to most Rwandans this counts for more than democratic technicalities. I must admit that having seenn Kigali, I find myself wanting to agree with them.
Having dropped off Jojo where he worked, I am not fully clear on what exactly he does, but he claimed he was a businessman and would make sure I enjoyed my stay immensely next time I passed through Rwanda, Gilbert and I headed west through the rolling foothills of Rwanda. The countryside is a spectacular sight, reminiscent of the hills of Northern California around Santa Cruz, with lush sloping hills and sweeping vistas.
I was amazed at how much of Rwandan land is used for crops. Almost every conceivable inch of space had been tilled and planted.
Gilbert and I spent and enjoyable 3 hours trying to close a language gap that was at times frustratingly narrow and at other times impossibly wide.
At the best of times we had seeds of conversation, each forgiving the other his linguistic shortcomings. At one point I’m fairly sure I asked Gilbert if he enjoyed swimming in bananajuice, to which he politely answered ”Yes.”.
Crossing the border into the DRC is a surreal experience. The last stretch of Rwanda is the shore of Lake Kivu, a gigantic body of water of which one cannot see the far shore. This is Rwandas riviera, and the shoreline is dotted by swanky hotels.
The DRC also shares this shoreline, but the hotels quickly end only to be replaced by the giant, sprawling wasteland that is Goma. Noone I asked could tell me exaclty how many people live in Goma, but the consensus seems to be somewhere in the vicinity of 3 million. This is hard to believe, as it is a stark contrast to the much smaller, but endlessly more metropolitan Kigali.
As if 10 years of brutal warfare has not been enough, Goma, in 2003, endured an eruption from the volcano at wich feet the city resides. Most of Goma was covered in lava and ashes, and with the DRCs decimated economy and lack of infrastructure, rebuilding has been slow going.
Dirt roads sided by shacks, tents and coverd wagons stretch endlessly into the distance, and one never gets the sense of actually being in a city. The streets are open wounds in the landscape, and what little infrastructure there is looks mercilessly forced into the soil. It is as if the city itself is in pain.
Interestingly, the city of Goma is host to no less than 4 large universities.
Tomorrow will be a day of exploration.
Now I shall end this rather extended blogspot with an apology to all those that are worried because of yesterdays shambolic performance on my part. It will never happen again.

Welcome to Rwanda. Give me all your plastic bags.

As we descended through the clouds over Kigali, I looked west towards the Congo, were I am heading tomorrow. Enormous clouds towered in the horizon, occasionally torn by violent bursts of forked lightning, as if concealing a terrifying industry below. An ominous sign, by any standard.
I was joined on the plane by my new friend Peter Van Straaten. Professor emeritus as a Candian university, and devoted fan of the use of phosphates in agriculture. It is leaps and bounds more interesting than it seems, allthough I must admit that is not saying much.
The reason I mention my new friend, is that he will soon play an important part in my introduction to this brand new world.
Getting off the plane I was immediately greeted by a rather large acasia (is this how you spell it?). It feel slightly contrived, in the same way as in movies one always has to be shown Big Ben or the Eiffel Tower in order to understand where one is. I wanted to tell the tree to stop trying so hard, but there was no time.
Kigli Airport is a brutish, looming building, built like a brutalistic Sovjet monument, but in the scale of the Spinal Tap Stonehenge. Impressive in the same way as a tall dwarf sometimes takes your breath away.
I had to get in line and pay for my Visa, and I of course, had brought no money. My trepidation was short lived, however, as Dr. Van Straaten provided me with a large bundle of dollars to get me through it.
After spending a good hour and Western Union, I was able to repay him in full.
My ride, an elusive gentleman by the name of Gilbert, was nowhere to be seen. He may have been there, but perhaps a sudden burst of shyness led him to bin his sign reading "Mr.Vegas" and hide behind a plant. I am hoping for the latter, and that he has since regained his nerve.
Once again, the good doctor had to sort me out, as he and his colleague, a smiling chap with more cyllables in his name than I have metaphores, took me to the glitzy, ritzy Chez Lando hotel.
A sprawling, modern structure filled to the rafters of new friends.
At this point, things became slightly frantic. Realizing that both my passport and creditcard were AWOL, I was quickly reduced to something a lot less than a man. Savagely I emptied my bag, wept a little, shook a stranger desperately and bargained incoherently witht the universe. My desperation was reaching new peaks. I would die here. How would I get home? Where was my mother? And why was this stranger letting me shake him for so long? Incidentally, Rwandans are really polite and will let you shake them for quite a long time.
A kindly young lady from the Kigali office of the UNDP took pity on me, and together we retraced my steps to the airport. Sobbingly, I knocked on the door of the Western Union where my paraphanelia had last been seen. Of course, all my documents were there, and for the second time in less than 30 minutes, I grossly invaded a Rwandans personal space. A sidenote: Rwandans will not let you hug them for as long as they will let you shake them, but for the limited amount of time they give you, they provide wonderful hugs.

If any of my parents read this: Please disregard the bit where I lose all my documents. I made it all up. Your son is fine. Go back to sleep.


PS! Plastic bags are illegal in Rwanda. I have enough in my suitcase to get life in the chair.