Western infiltration

To most Americans, mass transit is a novelty done only in places like NYC or DC or Europe. Piloting your own phaeton through the mayhem is a navigational nightmare to say the least. But in the boonies, a bus may be as suited to the terrain as I fit the qualifications for ambassador from the afterlife. Nimble, rugged, simple: all quintessential attributes to daily life here in Rwanda, and even Africa as a whole. Magnify the necessary capabilities four-fold to travel to my meager residence. Why this discourse on the African form of offroading? It all started yesterday morning. I was headed to Kibuye to catch the bus to Kigali. The drive to Kibuye bus station is about 30 km and a mere 1 km of that is surface with tarmac. The remainder bears a smorgasbord of toppings which change daily: wood (bridges), gravel, dirt, mud, boulders, goat scat, streams, and small oceans. To save money, I bummed a ride from the ambulance, as did about 8 other people. My bus was scheduled to leave at 11 (some friends had gone to town earlier and bought my ticket). Finally, about 9:50, the ambulance embarked on its delivery. About half way through, the driver assured me I would arrive in time. However, with 2 km to go, we deviated from the road more traveled because a bridge washed away (not entirely but our Land Cruiser was too wide; motorcycles could still cross, which my friends had ridden). Half way through the detour, we approached two large Isuzu delivery trucks firmly entrenched in the muck with no hope of quick rescue. We had to slither around and between them (they were staggered). 4-Low, lock the differentials, etc. Let's go! 10 meters later, we were stuck and burrowing ever deeper into the ground and despair. But the village people! With 4-wheel and 20-foot drive, we shook loose our bonds and stormed into Kibuye throwing mud everywhere. The bus driver had waited several minutes for me after a plethora of frantic calls. Finally, he resolved to forgo the delay and cut his losses. I was 500 meters away. At the bus station, we learn of our misfortune, but the driver couldn't accept defeat. We jumped back in the now quite dirty Land Cruiser and chased the bus all the way to the next town 15 km away. For added effect and to skirt police interest, lights flashed (it is an ambulance after all) like a laser light extravaganza. Long story in a short format: I both missed and caught the same bus.

I have previously mentioned L'Esperance, a haven to so many on so many levels. A few months ago, the orphanage couldn't have accepted Christmas as a financially feasible endeavor. But some of the first generation of "graduates" from the orphanage decided to change this. While not wealthy by any stretch, they paid for over half of the Christmas festivities, in which I participated. First, on Sabbath, the muzungus (one Philippino-German, 1 Brit, 2 Americans, 2 Ugandans, and the Guatemalan orphanage director) meandered down to Lake Kivu, a 2 mile walk that drops 1,000 feet. Dugout canoes (bailing was mandatory), lunch, relaxation, swimming, huddling in the hut during the rain: all part of the experience. Some kids eventually joined us, having been detained by a zealous evangelist. The real party began Sunday. Volleyball matches, feasts for 150 people, singing, dancing, speeches, gifts, and worship. Miriam, a volunteer from several years ago who returned for the holiday, personally matched gifts with over 100 children, keeping in mind each one's likes and dislikes. What I admired the most was that despite the celebratory nature of the day, they still retained their morning and evening worship services, lest they forget the source of their fortune.

In the course of one day, I see so much variety, especially when traveling between Kigali and Mugonero. Many people walk or bike while people whiz by in Mercedez and Land Rovers. Houses without electricity have fiber-optic internet cables running through the front yard. More than these disparities in living conditions is the level to which Europe and America have imprinted the minds. Who chased a bus 15 km when another bus was leaving in a 2 hours and costs $4? Who sacrificed so much for their "little siblings" at the orphanage? Who held to their most revered activity in the face of an overwhelmingly materialistic celebration? These people overlook the fact that I am so much like the people in Kigali and treat me like one of their own. Knowing the West hasn't brainwashed every aspect of local life brings a smile to my mind, and watching their fascination with my arm hair brings one to my face.

(Pictures are on Facebook, the internet is too slow to upload them here too)

Holiday Cheer

Flickering lights. Greenery. People bustling about. It’s all part of something so familiar to us Western society dwellers. Here in Rwanda, we have all the lights, greenery, and people, but it’s not the same. The lights flicker because the fluorescent bulbs are burning the ballast (that could be your problem Cristy/Elisa), the greenery vaguely describes everything in sight, and people go about their daily business. You ask, “Is Christmas even a holiday in Rwanda?” It most certainly is. School no longer occupies the children. It’s a day of no work, well except in a hospital.

To what do we attribute holiday cheer? What is the source of it? Elaborate feasts? Yuletide carols? Exquisite decorations? Family and friends? Uncharacteristic generosity? Brisk winter air with a hint of apple cider or hot cocoa? Nightmarish shopping sprees? When none of these present themselves, then what? For a Western culture, Christmas without these is like a rapper without his moocher thug posse or a Sigg without its dents; the identity has been lost. Only those who have been there all along to witness all the highs and lows can really understand. I find that despite my best efforts, Christmas has simply not come to town because the typical characteristics are, well, somewhere else, somewhere colder.

What am I doing to get in the holiday spirit? First of all, I created an extensive Christmas playlist on my iPod and have been through it countless times. While many of you are enjoying (or loathing) the snow, daily thunderstorms mesmerize me. I have even been drinking the local version of hot chocolate, laced with sugar to cope with its shortcomings. But more than any of these, I have been thinking about those who support me all over the world. Whether it’s people mocking Karsten and me from the islands, spiritual challenges and reflections from Central America, random 30-second stories from Asia, catching up on the latest news from Southern Africa, or the skype calls from America, you are all helping to bring the season of cheer to me, the Holiday Cheermeister, "...the soul at Christmas who needs it most..."

When the term holiday cheer is separated, I can better relate. On holiday, what happens (stereotypically)? You go to some tropical country where you don’t speak the local language, food is way overpriced because you’re a tourist and it’s “ethnic”, and living more simply is desirable? And that’s a grandiose vacation? After a week of this, you return to your dull American life but have very fond memories of some far away land. That’s the cheer from your holiday. You can imagine me in a hammock, listening to the Beach Boys, eating fresh pineapple, and watching the sunset because that’s the plan after work tomorrow. That’s some good holiday cheer! But this isn't vacation, this is daily work and life.

FDR and his New Deal, Obama’s flurry of everything, George W. Bush and his dictionary of new words – all began in the first 100 days of stepping up to the plate. Today marks the 100th day of my arrival in Africa. What have I done and how has it been? Four countries, four projects, forlorn efforts to learn foreign languages, forfeited luxuries, forays into business and cultural politics, foreseeable improvement, forever changing circumstances, fortifying of my belief I’m doing what God wants, forged friendships. Forgettable? I should say not. Forty-percent done (technically 40.8%), but the forthcoming bit will be the most formidable.

Here are a few pictures. There is one of a memorial to the Rwandan Genocide that happened almost 17 years ago. It's less than 100 meters from my house.

The city on a hill

I know it's been a while since I wrote, but in the mean time I have been lots of places (which will probably make for a long entry). It started in Gimbi, Ethiopia. Wes arrived in Gimbi about the 28th of November. We surveyed lots of the problems around the hospital, most of which had never been brought to my attention, and developed courses of action. The concrete filters were poured with help and direction from some PUC area folk. The wiring for the new pump house was laid. On Sabbath morning, Taylor, Christina, Ben, Bill, and I set off for a hill to have a church service in nature. We meandered through valleys, tiptoed across creeks, and waded through crowds of children yelling "faranje!" (foreigner). Now I should mention that Gimbi Adventist Hospital is on the side of a hill, but is very close to the top. From our church perch 4 km away (the walking distance was about 6 km one way), we could still see the hospital complex staking its claim as the premier healthcare facility for the region. A song service preceded Ben's Bible study and contained his consistently incredible insight. Before we headed back, we wanted to check out the pits. From a distance, they appeared to be a colorful rock formation in a quarry. Closer inspection revealed that the "rocks" were actually clay and could easily be broken into pieces, revealing even more color beneath.

The following day, David, Wes, Christina, and myself headed to Addis in a minibus all to ourselves. Olivia and Sarah joined us for the Guder-to-Addis stint. Over the next couple days, we traversed the city looking for restaurants (we had Mexican food!), fabric for a project, and quite often each other. Wes and I finally flew out on Tuesday morning, with an early afternoon arrival in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. A driver from Mugonero Hospital greeted us, and we piled into the Hilux for the drive to the hosptial, which sits 1800 meters above sea level on the western edge of the country. (Hardly a place in the country is flat. Most of the time, the road is carved out of the hillside with the road climbing to over 2.25 km in elevation.) Looking out the windows, I saw gorgeous terrain, much of which was terraced to enhance the yield of the incredibly well-watered soil. And talk about green! Everything from the leaves to the mangoes to the bananas reflects green! Mugonero Hospital sits on top of a hill overlooking Lake Kivu. The best view greeted me the next morning from my porch, Lake Kivu stretched before us, laying a couple kilometers away and several hundred meters below. A beast to be sure, but not of burden. Instead, a source of life for millions.

After having trudged through this and that in the assessment process, Wes and I began looking for a place to potentially drill a well and place a tank for a backup water supply for the hospital. A site on an adjacent hill looked promising, especially once we went to investigate. Exactly where we wanted to locate a water tank sat the cradle for another water tank from years ago. It once supplied the area with a valuable source of water and may soon provide backup water to the hospital.

On Friday, we made our way to the L'Esperance orphanage (not operated by the SDA church). It sits atop an adjacent ridge about 1.5 km away. Run by a Guatemalan, it receives significant funding and many volunteers from international organizations representing Belgium, Germany, and America to name a few. With 127 children in his care, Victor (the headmaster) has quite a handful and yet gives so selflessly and openly to everyone (indeed, he was more welcoming to me than even my own hospital, for whom I will be working free of charge).

The next Sunday, December 12, Wes and I once again were on the road. At a mere 5 hours, this was the least traveling Wes had done on a Sunday in nearly a month. We returned to Kigali primarily so he could catch his flight back to Malawi. However, we had time to do some other business in the capital. Being new to the country, I needed to find some potential suppliers. We needed to know the extent of the hospital property so we could be certain any drilled wells were on hospital property. And Wes wanted to look at a low-cost ceramic filter technology. Kigali is built on a series of hills, with each hill containing a couple boroughs. The place we stayed had a name which I have already forgotten, but it was essentially embassy row and was located along the spine of one of the hills. South Africa, Egypt, the USA, as well as many others were all on our street. And yet, at the bottom of the hill is a local business making silver ion-laced ceramic filters, which help to kill organisms in the water and require no power. The plan is to sell them to the people living in the less developed portions of the country who don't have access to clean water.

And so, it seems that no matter where I go, there is always some beacon on a hill, an institution standing above the rest. Sometimes, the more prominent building with advanced technology considers itself to be respected because of power and might. Other times, the beacon is considered such because of the years of service provided to the community. These buildings mean so much more than what they have to give. Those who visit them, whether for a day or a year, know that the blessing gained by being there is far greater than any services offered.