Do you ever get the feeling that the day will be elegant and glorious? Today, my day was neither elegant nor glorious, but full of grace at every bend. It started before 6 when the guards outside my house took it upon themselves to wake the dead, namely me. Worse things have happened and I enjoyed the additional reading time. Shower, breakfast outside (an exquisitely beautiful moth joined me but wasn't too chatty), and then off to work. Along with the usual email checks and project notes, a trip to Kibuye for cement and some piping supplies constituted my labor, and I was happy to be driving again, despite the risk of a compressed spine and ruptured kidneys (these didn't happen, which seems amazing given the road condition). Some of the orphanage kids scored a lift from me on their way back to secondary school (like boarding academy). Despite the slow pace, they were happy to not be paying for the bus. Before lunch time, I was in Kibuye, loaded with 1000 kg of cement, and relieved of the $300 required to purchase it.
At this point, I looked toward the restaurant where Jean and I typically eat lunch during town trips. It was utterly decimated, along with the stores on either side of it. No problem, we just went to the next closest one and ate the same food as always. Post-lunch, our final shop stop was for some plumbing supplies. As expected, the store didn't have all the parts necessary for a simple solution. After half an hour of rummaging through all the shelves to form an unwieldy solution, we had our booty. I returned to the truck and took it out for a drink, which wasn't cheap. However, that's when things started to go more awry than usual. I couldn't get the truck into gear, which aroused far too much attention. After much straining, we turned for home.
The first few km passed as mundanely as always, that is until we met a bus on a road barely wide enough for one of us. Talk about close! I was piloting the hospital delivery truck, which is right-hand drive. But Rwanda is a left-hand drive country, which made judging distance more difficult. After avoiding the bus with literally centimeters to spare (I looked out the back window to check the separation and must have gone pale), a rather pungent odor filled the cockpit. We both thought it was exhaust from the bus, at least until we noticed a small plume of smoke emanating from the gear shift (the engine is below the cab). After coaxing the rancid vehicle to the top of the hill, I was able to cool the engine on the downhill. My driving became ever more cautious, constantly watching the temperature gauge and never sure if it even worked (most of the gauges don't). On virtually all the major remaining uphills, the truck stalled at least twice.
Finally, almost to Gishyita (the last town before home) and the police tell me to stop for a routine check. I show them my license and they ask for some vehicle papers, which I don't have and have never seen. I direct them to the insurance sticker. Little did I know it was expired. They then asked for some proof of a technical inspection of the vehicle, an inspection the hospital has never undertaken for this vehicle. Because they speak very little English, I call Dr. Mfizi (a hospital administrator) and hand the phone to the police. They chat/argue for several minutes, then return my phone. I'm informed that not all the violations can be forgiven but run out of airtime before Dr. Mfizi finishes. And he won't call me back! Now, Jean won't get back in the truck. He continues chatting with the officers and ignoring me. Finally, after several minutes, he pops back, hands me my license (which the police have had the entire time), and tells me we are free to go. He has convinced the police to let me off the hook! Great! Except that they stopped us on an incline and I can't get the truck into gear. After arousing even more interest (from the police this time), we finally pull away and breathe a heavy sigh of relief. But all is not finished. To save strain on the engine, we head to the orphanage for delivery #1. Our arrival concludes sans mishap and Victor even gives me some cake, which made my day. However, as we depart, the clutch pedal goes straight to the floor. Courtesy of the topography, we are able to make our retreat. Once we get out of the gate, I can't engage any gears since the clutch is annihilated. After a push from some people, I slip it into first and keep it there. The remaining two km pass dreadfully slowly and changing gear is out of the question since everything is steep uphill. Despite numerous children chasing us (most easily kept pace), we stumbled to the maintenance building to part with our burden. Never before have I been so thrilled to unload a ton of cement!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Peace
This morning, I woke to the sound of silence, when the flittering of a moth could overpower a wildebeest stampede. Indeed, even now, the hum of a computer fan incessantly pounds my senses. Most mornings, the administration building hums with the daily tedium of accounting, printing, signing, and deciding. So why is today so serene? It's not entirely due to the soldiers I passed on my way to the hospital this morning. You may ask why soldiers armed with assault rifles patrol the streets on a national day of mourning. The answer to that query lies in the nature of our sadness. Today, we remember the genocide, and the soldiers stand their ground to ensure peace remains.
Two groups of people, the Hutus and the Tutsis, had vied for power for decades. After a civil war between the Tutsi-led RPF and the Hutu regime, the government decided to eliminate the Tutsis (who comprised of about 15% of the populous) and therefore eradicate the opposition. The atrocities began with the elimination of the Hutu president by his fellow Hutus. The assassins felt the president was trying to make peace with the Tutsis and couldn't accept this. Almost immediately extremist Hutus began to execute their plan, execute their countrymen. Many moderate Hutus were given a choice, kill their Tutsi neighbors or suffer the same fate. Finally, after three months, the tides turned and relative peace once again reigned.
Although this happened 17 years ago, the reminders still resonate today. Every day, I see a memorial to locals who lost their lives. Every time I travel to Kigali, I pass at least five monuments to the same tragedy. Like many Westerners, I still struggle to understand how hatred could motivate such actions. I fail to comprehend how those of us who claim to preserve life could have abandoned them and our peacekeeping mission. But I also see the efforts to overcome evil. The current president, Paul Kagame, has promoted peace despite being one of the tribe the Hutus tried to annihilate. I see integration of all people in all aspects of life. I see the respect everyone exhibits for the memorials commemorating those lost.
No longer are labels of Hutu or Tutsi applied. Whether tall or short, rich or poor, light-skinned or dark, we are Rwandans. Today, the towers of pine, mango, and eucalyptus bow their crowns in remembrance of the evils they witnessed yet utter not a word. The thunder roars and wails for its absent audience. The clouds weep their tears for the children who never jumped in the puddles. The rain washes away the auburn stains of the clay. Although we grieve tremendous loss, we can look forward. Why? Because today is a day of forgiveness.
Two groups of people, the Hutus and the Tutsis, had vied for power for decades. After a civil war between the Tutsi-led RPF and the Hutu regime, the government decided to eliminate the Tutsis (who comprised of about 15% of the populous) and therefore eradicate the opposition. The atrocities began with the elimination of the Hutu president by his fellow Hutus. The assassins felt the president was trying to make peace with the Tutsis and couldn't accept this. Almost immediately extremist Hutus began to execute their plan, execute their countrymen. Many moderate Hutus were given a choice, kill their Tutsi neighbors or suffer the same fate. Finally, after three months, the tides turned and relative peace once again reigned.
Although this happened 17 years ago, the reminders still resonate today. Every day, I see a memorial to locals who lost their lives. Every time I travel to Kigali, I pass at least five monuments to the same tragedy. Like many Westerners, I still struggle to understand how hatred could motivate such actions. I fail to comprehend how those of us who claim to preserve life could have abandoned them and our peacekeeping mission. But I also see the efforts to overcome evil. The current president, Paul Kagame, has promoted peace despite being one of the tribe the Hutus tried to annihilate. I see integration of all people in all aspects of life. I see the respect everyone exhibits for the memorials commemorating those lost.
No longer are labels of Hutu or Tutsi applied. Whether tall or short, rich or poor, light-skinned or dark, we are Rwandans. Today, the towers of pine, mango, and eucalyptus bow their crowns in remembrance of the evils they witnessed yet utter not a word. The thunder roars and wails for its absent audience. The clouds weep their tears for the children who never jumped in the puddles. The rain washes away the auburn stains of the clay. Although we grieve tremendous loss, we can look forward. Why? Because today is a day of forgiveness.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Living off the grid
Have you ever tried to live off the grid? Cooking, bathing, and working off grid? If "living off the grid" meant anything like "living off the land", you would deduce that almost everyone lives off the grid because almost everyone depends upon it for their daily activities. This being the English language, logic isn't applicable. In addition to my regular job, which I discussed last time, I have an array of side projects, which primarily work off the grid. Electricity heats my shower and boils my rice, and the hospital has power for my computer. But notice that washing clothes failed to make that list. Yep, washing clothes takes more than a toss into the machine and a turn of the dials, it's by the brawn of your biceps and the wringing of your radii. That goes for both myself and the hospital. You can imagine the amount of work required for an 80-bed hospital. The current laundry facilities are stretched to capacity and need some refurbishment. That's where I pop into the picture. Even though construction really isn't my cup of tea, as the most technical person around these parts, it falls to my lot. What's the design? It's a simple building with slightly more space and better planning. Washing, drying, folding; two rooms and a courtyard for the primary steps of laundry. This week, we hope to solicit some bids. In perhaps two or three weeks, we may have a contractor and yet another construction project happening here at Mugonero.
For all you parents out there, what is the biggest cost associated with children? Buying clothes? Food? School (if you sent them to private school)? What if you had over 100 kids? You understand the need for a significant source of income, but relying on donations is foolish because of unpredictability. At the orphanage, Victor is creating industries with the profits helping to pay for clothes, food, and education to reduce the dependency upon charity (no, the children are not working in the industries). The government is working with Victor to develop a nursery to sell fruit trees to the locals. During the dry season, these saplings will need water, which is why Victor likes having me at his disposal. Behind the orphanage is a ravine with a creek snaking it's way along the bottom. A couple years ago, a German built a dam and a pump house to pump water up to the orphanage. The pumps are driven by water wheels and require no electricity. However, due of poor design both by the German and the Brazilian pump manufacturer, I have a task - get them working, ideally before the end of the wet season. This water is too dirty to be used for drinking and would clog any filter. However, a little soil with the water is just fine for the plants.
Another cost associated with children is the electricity bill. The orphanage's electricity bill comprises of bottles of distilled water. They have solar panels and a battery bank (courtesy of the German government) to power Victor's computer, the UV water purifier, and two lights so the kids can do their homework after dark. You would think that living so close to the equator would mean plentiful sunshine. But clouds seriously diminish the sunshine available, particularly in the rainy season. Any true Washingtonian can appreciate rain, primarily because it supplies the majority of their electricity. Likewise, my final project is to complete a design that would modify the pump house to include a hydroelectric generator. Thus, whenever the rain renders the solar system incapable of meeting demand, the rain itself will provide electricity. This is certainly the most difficult and complex project, even more so than my actual job, but this is also the most interesting and my favorite.
What do I like doing here in Africa? I like doing what I am most capable of accomplishing. Pilots, doctors, and even translators are all needed in the far reaches of the world. Evangelists and preachers have their calling. But someone decided not to bestow such abilities upon me. Instead, He created me to tackle those non-functional water pumps, a dog-chewed piano dehumidifier, those haphazard sketches of hospital buildings, a leak-prone hospital water system, and numerous other imperfect creations of man. With a passion for such, how can I say no?
For all you parents out there, what is the biggest cost associated with children? Buying clothes? Food? School (if you sent them to private school)? What if you had over 100 kids? You understand the need for a significant source of income, but relying on donations is foolish because of unpredictability. At the orphanage, Victor is creating industries with the profits helping to pay for clothes, food, and education to reduce the dependency upon charity (no, the children are not working in the industries). The government is working with Victor to develop a nursery to sell fruit trees to the locals. During the dry season, these saplings will need water, which is why Victor likes having me at his disposal. Behind the orphanage is a ravine with a creek snaking it's way along the bottom. A couple years ago, a German built a dam and a pump house to pump water up to the orphanage. The pumps are driven by water wheels and require no electricity. However, due of poor design both by the German and the Brazilian pump manufacturer, I have a task - get them working, ideally before the end of the wet season. This water is too dirty to be used for drinking and would clog any filter. However, a little soil with the water is just fine for the plants.
Another cost associated with children is the electricity bill. The orphanage's electricity bill comprises of bottles of distilled water. They have solar panels and a battery bank (courtesy of the German government) to power Victor's computer, the UV water purifier, and two lights so the kids can do their homework after dark. You would think that living so close to the equator would mean plentiful sunshine. But clouds seriously diminish the sunshine available, particularly in the rainy season. Any true Washingtonian can appreciate rain, primarily because it supplies the majority of their electricity. Likewise, my final project is to complete a design that would modify the pump house to include a hydroelectric generator. Thus, whenever the rain renders the solar system incapable of meeting demand, the rain itself will provide electricity. This is certainly the most difficult and complex project, even more so than my actual job, but this is also the most interesting and my favorite.
What do I like doing here in Africa? I like doing what I am most capable of accomplishing. Pilots, doctors, and even translators are all needed in the far reaches of the world. Evangelists and preachers have their calling. But someone decided not to bestow such abilities upon me. Instead, He created me to tackle those non-functional water pumps, a dog-chewed piano dehumidifier, those haphazard sketches of hospital buildings, a leak-prone hospital water system, and numerous other imperfect creations of man. With a passion for such, how can I say no?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Heisenberg
I realized this morning that the primary aim of my being here has never really been disclosed. I have talked so much about of life's aspects with one minute exception, work. Hopefully, this will shed some light on it.
"What do you do?" A rather pertinent inquiry, and one I am frequently asked. Let's first differentiate between the implied meanings of the question by asking more specific questions such as "What is your job title?", "What is your job description?", "In what field of expertise are you trained and proficient?", "What is the plan for your project?", and "What on earth do you actually accomplish?". Now let's divulge some answers. I actually have no idea what my job title is. My equally indeterminate job description might read something like this if it existed: "attempt to create something something capable of surviving a thermonuclear fusion reaction and fix everything that has already succumbed to much less." Area of expertise? If trained and proficient must both apply, then nothing. But I am a trained engineer who is almost proficient in the American dialect. When taken together, these skills are valuable as an ice cube maker in an Antarctic kitchen freezer. Why? Because I don't speak French or Kinyarwanda and almost nobody speaks English.
The remaining questions require lengthier answers, and all attempts will be make to keep it simple. My primary job entails designing and installing a water storage and distribution system for Mugonero Hospital. This includes purchasing all the parts, arranging transport, paying the laborers, and ensuring everything is built properly. The plan involves building a stone structure to elevate water tanks, laying new pipes to the hospital buildings, and simplifying the system in the process. But what actually gets done? On many days, the evidence suggests I accomplish absolutely nothing. What evidence? First of all, the hospital is occasionally without water (and it always happens when talking to a specific individual). Secondly, a quick comparison of the hospital grounds before I arrived and now would reveal only two differences. The first is a large hole in the ground and the second is a large pile of rocks waiting to fill that hole (and the 3 meters of air above it). By now, you must think I am the laziest person alive. But here's why. I usually discover the water is broken on my own, which occurs about 8-12 hours after it actually broke. By this time, it's too dark to find the problem, much less fix it. The slow construction is because of communication, or rather lack of it. Before I left for Malawi, I instructed the foreman to build the foundation in my absence. This lasted all of one day. The people who know where the current pipes are located didn't tell the foreman that he was about to unearth a concrete valve box. The foreman couldn't call me for a new plan because I was out of the country. The hospital administration didn't contact me until 4 days later, at which point I couldn't understand what they were saying (they are doctors and businessmen) and told them to stop the work (which had happened several days prior). I returned to Rwanda in time to prepare for a geophysical survey team. The team neglected to tell me they had delayed their arrival from Sunday to Thursday. That threw a wrench in the plan after I had dedicated Monday and Tuesday to working with them.
One last question might be "How do you function?". Several answers come to mind. Inefficiently (with little communication, at least three side projects, and a need for social interaction, is this surprising?) seems to best suit the question. Stressed is a common state because my flight leaves in two months and the project looks about 5% done. I have been rather frustrated because I don't like change and the plan has been constantly changing. One thing more terrifying than change is uncertainty. Uncertainty about how long this project will take, how long this system will last, how effective my time here will be, how the donors will want to redirect the project, what I will do when I leave here, where I will go. You know, Werner Heisenberg was dead on with his uncertainty principle. I know my location in life, but don't know my momentum (especially direction, and this is needed because momentum is a vector). Or conversely, I know my project's momentum, but don't fully understand the position in which I find myself. Yes, an igloo in Nunavut sounds fantastic right now. But burying my head in the snow and ignoring all the roadblocks isn't an option. Delay trumps abandonment because delay, unlike neglect, means progress is possible.
"What do you do?" A rather pertinent inquiry, and one I am frequently asked. Let's first differentiate between the implied meanings of the question by asking more specific questions such as "What is your job title?", "What is your job description?", "In what field of expertise are you trained and proficient?", "What is the plan for your project?", and "What on earth do you actually accomplish?". Now let's divulge some answers. I actually have no idea what my job title is. My equally indeterminate job description might read something like this if it existed: "attempt to create something something capable of surviving a thermonuclear fusion reaction and fix everything that has already succumbed to much less." Area of expertise? If trained and proficient must both apply, then nothing. But I am a trained engineer who is almost proficient in the American dialect. When taken together, these skills are valuable as an ice cube maker in an Antarctic kitchen freezer. Why? Because I don't speak French or Kinyarwanda and almost nobody speaks English.
The remaining questions require lengthier answers, and all attempts will be make to keep it simple. My primary job entails designing and installing a water storage and distribution system for Mugonero Hospital. This includes purchasing all the parts, arranging transport, paying the laborers, and ensuring everything is built properly. The plan involves building a stone structure to elevate water tanks, laying new pipes to the hospital buildings, and simplifying the system in the process. But what actually gets done? On many days, the evidence suggests I accomplish absolutely nothing. What evidence? First of all, the hospital is occasionally without water (and it always happens when talking to a specific individual). Secondly, a quick comparison of the hospital grounds before I arrived and now would reveal only two differences. The first is a large hole in the ground and the second is a large pile of rocks waiting to fill that hole (and the 3 meters of air above it). By now, you must think I am the laziest person alive. But here's why. I usually discover the water is broken on my own, which occurs about 8-12 hours after it actually broke. By this time, it's too dark to find the problem, much less fix it. The slow construction is because of communication, or rather lack of it. Before I left for Malawi, I instructed the foreman to build the foundation in my absence. This lasted all of one day. The people who know where the current pipes are located didn't tell the foreman that he was about to unearth a concrete valve box. The foreman couldn't call me for a new plan because I was out of the country. The hospital administration didn't contact me until 4 days later, at which point I couldn't understand what they were saying (they are doctors and businessmen) and told them to stop the work (which had happened several days prior). I returned to Rwanda in time to prepare for a geophysical survey team. The team neglected to tell me they had delayed their arrival from Sunday to Thursday. That threw a wrench in the plan after I had dedicated Monday and Tuesday to working with them.
One last question might be "How do you function?". Several answers come to mind. Inefficiently (with little communication, at least three side projects, and a need for social interaction, is this surprising?) seems to best suit the question. Stressed is a common state because my flight leaves in two months and the project looks about 5% done. I have been rather frustrated because I don't like change and the plan has been constantly changing. One thing more terrifying than change is uncertainty. Uncertainty about how long this project will take, how long this system will last, how effective my time here will be, how the donors will want to redirect the project, what I will do when I leave here, where I will go. You know, Werner Heisenberg was dead on with his uncertainty principle. I know my location in life, but don't know my momentum (especially direction, and this is needed because momentum is a vector). Or conversely, I know my project's momentum, but don't fully understand the position in which I find myself. Yes, an igloo in Nunavut sounds fantastic right now. But burying my head in the snow and ignoring all the roadblocks isn't an option. Delay trumps abandonment because delay, unlike neglect, means progress is possible.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Paradise
You have heard me rave about the glories of Rwanda. The green that permeates everything, the frequent rain, the mild climate, pineapples whenever you so desire, a bus schedule, and people willing to help. If you visited and I inquired where you were, one of your first thoughts would be paradise. All of this land is grand and dandy, but what really is a paradise? I have been contemplating what a utopian snapshot of life is. What makes it so idyllic, so perfect? If you are a wee munchkin, it might be a summer day at the park with your mates and a monstrous birthday cake. A engineering student would agree that a day with sleep and without homework ranks at the top of the list. Me? I would like a day with people, people who speak English, people with whom a conversation is more than a formality, people who live and think the way I do.
Last week, I got my wish. On March 1st, I boarded a plane bound for Lilongwe, Malawi. Another purchase shipped me to Blantyre. Despite planning and attempts to contact friends, they were completely unaware as to where I was and I was oblivious to their cluelessness. Needless to say, my second arrival in Malawi was as disorganized as my first. But I stumbled through the door just in time for a glass of water, a stocked fridge, ten smiling faces, and open arms. I also arrived just in time to not join a conference call about my own project, but after 6 hours of sleep over the previous 60 hours, I didn't care.
Wednesday and Thursday, it was back to work, albeit volunteering at Malamulo. With a dam inspection, a roofing project, some sink faucet issues, CAD projects, and a water board account assessment, who had time for Snickers bars in Elisa's office or a trip to the movies? Friday morning dawned, earlier for some of us than others. Cristy, Elisa, Diane, and I jumped into the car and headed to Blantyre for some food, petrol, and Jonathan. With the car filled on all three accounts, we departed for Lake Malawi. The weekend plan? Read, swim, eat, sleep, repeat. And we stuck to it! Our only deviation was a kayak trip with snorkeling on Sunday. This slideshow doesn't even begin to convey the extent of our good times. (Facebook has some more pictures)
What did I take away from this excursion? It reminded me of the importance of people. People with whom you can share a cup of tea, a memory, and a laugh. People with whom you can keep a secret, divulge a struggle, and embrace after a rough day. You say that I can call you any time on any day, which is true. But your digitally reconstructed voice won't allow me to chop onions for your soup, it can't rub lotion on sunburns, nor will it let me take your mug to the kitchen. A phone call won't let me sit on your sofa, read a book, and be glad you joined me. I had impatiently waited months for interaction like this, but have now returned to live in a different paradise.
Last week, I got my wish. On March 1st, I boarded a plane bound for Lilongwe, Malawi. Another purchase shipped me to Blantyre. Despite planning and attempts to contact friends, they were completely unaware as to where I was and I was oblivious to their cluelessness. Needless to say, my second arrival in Malawi was as disorganized as my first. But I stumbled through the door just in time for a glass of water, a stocked fridge, ten smiling faces, and open arms. I also arrived just in time to not join a conference call about my own project, but after 6 hours of sleep over the previous 60 hours, I didn't care.
Wednesday and Thursday, it was back to work, albeit volunteering at Malamulo. With a dam inspection, a roofing project, some sink faucet issues, CAD projects, and a water board account assessment, who had time for Snickers bars in Elisa's office or a trip to the movies? Friday morning dawned, earlier for some of us than others. Cristy, Elisa, Diane, and I jumped into the car and headed to Blantyre for some food, petrol, and Jonathan. With the car filled on all three accounts, we departed for Lake Malawi. The weekend plan? Read, swim, eat, sleep, repeat. And we stuck to it! Our only deviation was a kayak trip with snorkeling on Sunday. This slideshow doesn't even begin to convey the extent of our good times. (Facebook has some more pictures)
What did I take away from this excursion? It reminded me of the importance of people. People with whom you can share a cup of tea, a memory, and a laugh. People with whom you can keep a secret, divulge a struggle, and embrace after a rough day. You say that I can call you any time on any day, which is true. But your digitally reconstructed voice won't allow me to chop onions for your soup, it can't rub lotion on sunburns, nor will it let me take your mug to the kitchen. A phone call won't let me sit on your sofa, read a book, and be glad you joined me. I had impatiently waited months for interaction like this, but have now returned to live in a different paradise.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Phenomenal Weather
What do you consider perfect weather? Clear skies with a light breeze and temperature warm enough to forgo a jacket but cool enough not to perspire? A night so still and soft that the weathermen declare an air stagnation warning (they actually do happen, it warns that the air over a location may be so calm that pollution doesn't even blow away)? A midsummer evening's sunset with crickets and cicadas dueling for the loudest-critter-on-your-back-porch contest?
Those of you who know me know that I typically prefer the aberrant behavior of weather, when Mother Nature has a bad day and unleashes her fury upon us mortals. Yes, I can appreciate the occasional sunny day, crisp morning, and full moon. Though, if given the option, send a blizzard any day (especially in August). Both a light drizzle and an inundating downpour serve the same purpose, but the occasional torrent just feels more special. It's like asking if you would prefer ten packets of mayo from Burger King or an all expenses paid trip to the Hard Rock Cafe in London. At the end of it all, you ingested one of two equally unhealthy meals, but one ruined your day and the other highlighted it.
Due to my duty as engineer of the project, I get to oversee construction. When I say oversee, I actually mean ensure it happens and to a satisfactory standard. Thankfully, I have someone who hires, directs, and pays the laborers. But I still monitor progress and certainly notice when nothing happens. And here is where the dilemma begins. Either I get a day with weather that I love and hate or I get a day with weather that I adore and loathe. Allow me to explain. When the clouds vanish and the sun blazes down upon us, the project progresses because the men can dig and the internet functions. But if the heavens attempt to quench the Dante's Inferno, then emails cease as quickly as the construction. It's a daily, or sometimes hourly, battle between gratifying my wishes. Finish the project soon or appreciate the atmospheric phenomena.
Yesterday was a day of fantastic meteorological conditions, by any account or standard. For starters, the sun shone brilliantly, even endowing me with my first major African sunburn. Last night, Victor and I watched the western horizon drift from yellow to orange to red to black. But the final shift occurred after dark. I strode home at 8 pm under a crystal-clear, moonless night with only lightning to guide my way. Strange, no? The numerous hills had trapped a thunderstorm over the lake but the lightning continued to illuminate my way. And thus my sabbath began.
This photo is a jab at all you "Pollution Pansies" who don't appreciate side effects of adulterating our atmosphere.
Those of you who know me know that I typically prefer the aberrant behavior of weather, when Mother Nature has a bad day and unleashes her fury upon us mortals. Yes, I can appreciate the occasional sunny day, crisp morning, and full moon. Though, if given the option, send a blizzard any day (especially in August). Both a light drizzle and an inundating downpour serve the same purpose, but the occasional torrent just feels more special. It's like asking if you would prefer ten packets of mayo from Burger King or an all expenses paid trip to the Hard Rock Cafe in London. At the end of it all, you ingested one of two equally unhealthy meals, but one ruined your day and the other highlighted it.
Due to my duty as engineer of the project, I get to oversee construction. When I say oversee, I actually mean ensure it happens and to a satisfactory standard. Thankfully, I have someone who hires, directs, and pays the laborers. But I still monitor progress and certainly notice when nothing happens. And here is where the dilemma begins. Either I get a day with weather that I love and hate or I get a day with weather that I adore and loathe. Allow me to explain. When the clouds vanish and the sun blazes down upon us, the project progresses because the men can dig and the internet functions. But if the heavens attempt to quench the Dante's Inferno, then emails cease as quickly as the construction. It's a daily, or sometimes hourly, battle between gratifying my wishes. Finish the project soon or appreciate the atmospheric phenomena.
Yesterday was a day of fantastic meteorological conditions, by any account or standard. For starters, the sun shone brilliantly, even endowing me with my first major African sunburn. Last night, Victor and I watched the western horizon drift from yellow to orange to red to black. But the final shift occurred after dark. I strode home at 8 pm under a crystal-clear, moonless night with only lightning to guide my way. Strange, no? The numerous hills had trapped a thunderstorm over the lake but the lightning continued to illuminate my way. And thus my sabbath began.
This photo is a jab at all you "Pollution Pansies" who don't appreciate side effects of adulterating our atmosphere.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Road Safety
Fluids. They provide us all with the life we have. Water is essential for us and and our food to grow. Oil furnishes the food with unnecessary calories, negates any benefits it once had, and can propel our Land Cruisers when fuel is unavailable. Petrol, radiator fluid, transmission fluid, etc. ensure our steel steeds do more than replace flamingos as garden ornaments. It's on these I would like to make a note. In America, when one of the low fluid level warning lights illuminates, or any other alarm for that matter, the typical driver becomes perturbed because of the forthcoming expense. Here, I occupy a passenger seat, but warning lights bring joy to my day. Why? It means nearly everything works. When I see a light, the issue is recent or rare enough that the bulb hasn't burned out. Similarly, the sensor might still work and hasn't been bypassed to save the annoyance. And so, what you consider a nuisance provides me relief.
Last week, I hurried to Kigali, which proved to be a frivolous endeavor. But I did notice something regarding the motorcycle taxis from the hospital to Kibuye and the return trip the next day. The distance is 30 km and one requires an hour to traverse. Computing the average speed is trivial and straightforward. Instantaneous speed is something I always wondered. Both motorcycles had working speedometers, the first two I had seen on bikes in all of Rwanda! However, both gauges were readily dispensable, but for different reasons. On the way into town on Thursday, the taxi arrived promptly at 8, and we departed. The driver gingerly attacked the road (if you can even call it that). Although missing the bus hardly worried me (indeed I still arrived 45 minutes early), the driver's cautious nature probably rendered the device useless because no laws (if there were any governing the path) were broken. Conversely, on the return trip, the driver made haste and mincemeat of the road. The gauge was of as little interest to the chauffeur as daytime soap operas to an employed person.
And now a story from a few months ago. Some may recall that in late November, about a dozen of the Gimbi-ites ran the Great Ethiopian Run. The night prior, most of us indulged in some (ok, a bit more than some) delicious Indian food. Feeling the need for exercise, we decided to walk back to our lodging, perhaps 3 km away. All was going well. Despite being foreigners in downtown after dark on the eve of a major event, we had safety in numbers. About halfway back, a police cruiser (which was a Land Cruiser) stopped and told us to get in. Odd! He was alone, asked our destination, and offered us a lift. Hesitantly, we accepted, but in no time at all, our compound welcomed us.
Finally, a much more recent narrative. In light of last week's failed Kigali excursion, I departed once again for Kigali on Thursday morning. Although the start was later, our bus driver fancied the accelerator. I met someone for lunch downtown, discussed project matters, visited the suppliers, and checked the time. Nearly 4 pm and I still hadn't secured a sleeping berth. I decided to try to acquire my groceries, it being the last item of business, and catch the last bus home, which egressed Kigali two hours later. Food for home- check, dinner before the trip - check, got on the wrong bus only to be warned five minutes before it left - check (I wasn't the only mistaken one). Darkness descended, but this is when many trucks operate. About halfway through the journey, we caught a dump truck, with a Land Cruiser Prado between us. Several blasts of the horn warned the SUV of the overtake. Then he cuts us off. More honking and more cutting off. The Prado brakes to a halt, always keeping us directly behind him. Because we are a bus, stopping in time was no easy feat. Immediately, the back door of the Prado opens, which sends the bus driver into fanatic mode. Throwing it into reverse, he prepares to make a textbook getaway...in a bus. The man who opened the door exits the vehicle and his clothing identifies him as a police officer. He chats with the bus driver, thanks the Prado driver, and piles into the bus with his comrade as if nothing had happened.
You may rave about all the places you have visited, lauding their beauty, and cursing the cramped space because your sibling overpacked. I am thankful to get there at all, because more often than not, the journey seems to occur on the precipice of disaster.
Last week, I hurried to Kigali, which proved to be a frivolous endeavor. But I did notice something regarding the motorcycle taxis from the hospital to Kibuye and the return trip the next day. The distance is 30 km and one requires an hour to traverse. Computing the average speed is trivial and straightforward. Instantaneous speed is something I always wondered. Both motorcycles had working speedometers, the first two I had seen on bikes in all of Rwanda! However, both gauges were readily dispensable, but for different reasons. On the way into town on Thursday, the taxi arrived promptly at 8, and we departed. The driver gingerly attacked the road (if you can even call it that). Although missing the bus hardly worried me (indeed I still arrived 45 minutes early), the driver's cautious nature probably rendered the device useless because no laws (if there were any governing the path) were broken. Conversely, on the return trip, the driver made haste and mincemeat of the road. The gauge was of as little interest to the chauffeur as daytime soap operas to an employed person.
And now a story from a few months ago. Some may recall that in late November, about a dozen of the Gimbi-ites ran the Great Ethiopian Run. The night prior, most of us indulged in some (ok, a bit more than some) delicious Indian food. Feeling the need for exercise, we decided to walk back to our lodging, perhaps 3 km away. All was going well. Despite being foreigners in downtown after dark on the eve of a major event, we had safety in numbers. About halfway back, a police cruiser (which was a Land Cruiser) stopped and told us to get in. Odd! He was alone, asked our destination, and offered us a lift. Hesitantly, we accepted, but in no time at all, our compound welcomed us.
Finally, a much more recent narrative. In light of last week's failed Kigali excursion, I departed once again for Kigali on Thursday morning. Although the start was later, our bus driver fancied the accelerator. I met someone for lunch downtown, discussed project matters, visited the suppliers, and checked the time. Nearly 4 pm and I still hadn't secured a sleeping berth. I decided to try to acquire my groceries, it being the last item of business, and catch the last bus home, which egressed Kigali two hours later. Food for home- check, dinner before the trip - check, got on the wrong bus only to be warned five minutes before it left - check (I wasn't the only mistaken one). Darkness descended, but this is when many trucks operate. About halfway through the journey, we caught a dump truck, with a Land Cruiser Prado between us. Several blasts of the horn warned the SUV of the overtake. Then he cuts us off. More honking and more cutting off. The Prado brakes to a halt, always keeping us directly behind him. Because we are a bus, stopping in time was no easy feat. Immediately, the back door of the Prado opens, which sends the bus driver into fanatic mode. Throwing it into reverse, he prepares to make a textbook getaway...in a bus. The man who opened the door exits the vehicle and his clothing identifies him as a police officer. He chats with the bus driver, thanks the Prado driver, and piles into the bus with his comrade as if nothing had happened.
You may rave about all the places you have visited, lauding their beauty, and cursing the cramped space because your sibling overpacked. I am thankful to get there at all, because more often than not, the journey seems to occur on the precipice of disaster.
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