Africa Wins Again!

OK…where to begin. For those of you who follow this regularly, you know I am publishing late this week. I will try to describe the last week to you and the reason for that. I do want to start by saying that I am not a complainer, and I have a pretty good attitude about the challenges that life in Central Africa brings, but I was definitely tested to the limit this week.

It probably began Monday when Zachee and I started to move our office. We have been needing to change locales for a while so we signed a lease with the Friends Church (Eglise Evangelique des Amis) to rent space. We were told we could move in anytime and stopped by Monday morning to have a look. No one was around but the office was open and I noticed that they had left us some furniture too. We went back to our office, rented a truck (and driver plus three helpers) in the market and loaded everything into it. When we got back to the new office with all our stuff in tow, low and behold, it was full of people working! A perplexed man asked what we were doing with all the furniture and files and we explained that we were moving in. Imagine his shock, since he had not even been informed that his organization was being evicted. AWKWARD!! Apparently that was a small oversight on the part of our landlord.

On Thursday I went to Rwanda with Brandon, an MCC worker, and Isaac my housemate. I had to meet and interview some partners about programs they were doing and wanted Brandon to do some photography for me. (Isaac came up to see the work of his organization, World Relief, in Kigali.) The drive up was uneventful and the border crossing was fairly quick (no buses ahead of us.) When we got to Kigali, we stopped at an internet café for some coffee then went to our guesthouse. The next morning I went to see our partner org. called Friends Peace House. We support, through them, quite an amazing prisoner reintegration program. It involves inviting recently released prisoners, (held for 14 years or more) for crimes against humanity committed during the 1994 genocide to a 2 week workshop. Also invited to the workshop are victims of genocide (survivors). Together they learn about conflict resolution, share testimonies and have an opportunity to be reconciled, ask for forgiveness, forgive, and most importantly dispel the ignorance and fear the two groups have for each other. (Prisoners fear retribution, victims fear another attack.) After each workshop, the group chooses two of the most vulnerable families, and together the whole group builds 2 houses for them. Sharing together in a work project solidifies the relationships in the group. It is a real trust building exercise. MCC supports the project by paying for the tin roofs ($1000 each). If anyone is interested in supporting the project let me know.

I interviewed several ex-prisoners and victims about their experience in the workshop and Brandon took pictures. It was a very moving experience. Among the more quotable quotes was from from a young man named Claude, a child during the crisis who saw his family killed. He lived his life up to the time of the workshop tormented by fear. He said he learned that finding peace was not a private matter. He had to confront his enemies and be reconciled to them. “If I am to have peace, all must be at peace!” was his revelation. He was very surprised to find that returning prisoners were as fearful as he was and completely destitute when they came out of prison. He has since been reconciled to the killer of his family and they have become friends. With forgiveness and reconciliation to his enemy he has completely lost all fear in his life. Together he and his new friend even feel empowered to fight the real enemies that stalk their country: poverty, ignorance, and despair.

In the afternoon, Brandon and I went out to visit some of the families and houses that have been built. I had hoped they were close to town, but they were not. We drove about an hour out of town on the good road before we turned onto the bad road. We visited 4 houses, each presenting a more difficult driving challenge. It was great to see families making lives in these houses and hear what it meant to them to be supported by their fellow participants in this way. They were all very happy. I have some pictures here of the 4 houses for your interest.

By the time we got back that evening I was wiped out. I had not spoken English all day and had had hours of intense conversation, I was also fried from the driving on all of the dreadful roads. (foot paths). We stopped and picked up Isaac in town and were really looking forward to an Indian meal to enjoy and unwind. We decided that the last thing we would do before dinner and rest was to get some gas in the car so we could leave early the next morning.

We stopped at the gas station and Brandon and Isaac jumped out of the car to change some money nearby. I was by the car but opened the hood to check the oil. 2 minutes later they came back and Brandon looked in and said, “Did you leave the car?’
I said “No, I have been right here next to it.”

“Then where did our bags go?” ...

I know most of you have had that experience. That fateful moment when a direction has been chosen for you. Maybe deliberately, or as a result of a moment of carelessness, but with irreversible consequences. We stared at each other, stunned, panicked, horrified. Indeed Brandon’s bag with his $3000 Mac computer (with all his photos on it) was gone along with Isaac’s bag which had a $700 camera and ipod in it. We asked around, phoned the police—back to French again--and still struggled to understand what to do. Finally we decided to find a ‘mzungu’ with connections who could help us. We knew the director of World Relief, Phil, lived near the US embassy. It was already very dark and we were not sure how to get there but we set off. Long story short, we eventually found it and he sent one of his Rwandan staff to help us at the police station. (He and his wife were also great at the trauma healing work that was necessary when we arrived there unannounced.)

We proceeded to the police station to file a report. We discovered to our great relief that all of us had our passports on us and not in the bags, so we would be able to leave the country. Brandon’s computer was insured so all we needed to do was file a police report and get a receipt to give to the insurance company. We felt that was the best we could hope for, and went to file the report. Here is where everything took a distinctly African turn…

Rwanda is a police state. That is to say, it is highly regulated and the police have a lot of power. We went to file a report that evening at the central police station in the city. It was nearly deserted, nonetheless, there was no sense of urgency about helping us. Finally the officer at the desk deigned to acknowledge us and opened a large book and laboriously filled in numerous columns with details from our statements. Watching him write was like watching a movie in slow motion. The process seemed to take hours. When he was done, we asked for some kind of copy of the police report. He told us htat he was not authorized to give us a copy, only the ‘commandant’ could give us that and we need to come back the next morning. We told him we were rushing to leave town but he assured us the commandant would be there at 8am and he would already have everything he needed from what was written in the book. The process would be quick.

That night we did go out for Indian food it was fabulous and well worth the wait, eventhough we did not get to eat until after 10pm. It made us feel better about the whole evening too. We got back to the guesthouse around 11:30.

At 8am the next day, we came back to the police station (knowing full well that we had been told what we wanted to hear, not what the facts were, but really having no other choices.) The commandant was, of course, not there, and no one knew of his whereabouts. Someone said he had heard he was in Uganda. Neither the officer we talked to before nor his book was anywhere to be found either. We explained what we needed to about 10 other policiers and after much fussing, someone finally came and took our statements down meticulously again. When he was done we asked him for a copy of the paper for the insurance company and he said in surprise “Oh no, only the commandant can sign that!” We again, with growing impatience, said we had to leave town that morning in order to get through the roadblocks before dark in Burundi. He eventually sent us to another officer who also, in a completely different book, took down our statements in great detail. (This time with carbon paper!) Again, when we asked him for a copy he said matter of factly that we could have a copy as soon as the commandant came and signed it, and that perhaps we should come back tomorrow.

For those of you who have read Kafka’s The Trial, I can only imagine that he had had some experience with an Franco-African bureaucracy. At this point I pulled out all the stoppers and told the man that my pregnant wife was about to give birth in the US and I would miss my flight if we did not get back to Bujumbura by nightfall. (only a slight exaggeration of the facts.) Eventually someone was given permission to sign after numerous telephone calls followed by tedious minutes of paper straightening, and stapling.

We got our forms and drove furiously back to Bujumbura that day (leaving a mere 3 hours later than planned). Brandon drove and despite the loss of time we got back to Bujumbura that evening.

Generally, in our ride home we were fairly philosophical about the whole thing, accepting God’s will in everything that happened, and realizing how fortunate we were in so many ways. We mused over the expression that our World Relief friends used for the types of bureaucratic obdurance, cultural misunderstandings, petty crime, and frequent frustrations that we mzungus encounter here: AFRICA WINS AGAIN.

As I said at the beginning of this blog entry, I do my best do avoid complaining about life here. I have one more night before I make the 20 hour flight back to the USA for the birth of my son. (The birth will happen this Wednesday.) Due to internet problems I have not been able to talk to Rebecca so I really miss her and will be glad to see them.

I am truly blessed to have an amazing wife and (soon) two sons whom I will see in 36 hours! BUT…


This morning I woke up with a high fever and diarrhea (something from the Indian restaurant): D’OH Africa Wins Again!





By the way, the photos above were all taken by Brandon Theissen who is one of our MCCers out here from Canada. He works with a partner called Help Channel on reforestation, but moonlights as a photographer, and is a great person to have on our team. (Here is a picture of him (taken by Rebecca, I think.)

Au Bureau de Poste and the Hope School

Picture of Hope School at Burasera with Seminary in the background.

I am doing my best not to count the hours until I get to see Rebecca and Oren again. Fortunately life here is presenting me with enough challenges and urgent tasks that it would be impossible to pine. I have about 8 days left here. In that time I need to move our office, go to Rwanda, and make a myriad of financial arrangements to see that our service workers, partners, housestaff, and bills are paid during the two months that we are out of town.

I did get to take a weekend off after my Ghana trip. I feel like I have not had one for a while. I had sprained my back in Ghana as I mentioned last week and spent several hours laying on a large frozen fillet of fish from our freezer as we had run out of ice. I also took a real swim (1.5 miles) on Saturday at the Club du Lac T. (Truthfully I would rather have been in the kiddy pool with Oren.). On Sunday I was back in my church again after having absent for 3 weeks due to various trips every weekend. It was good to be there again.

Monday and Tuesday were a bit frustrating because it was hard to get a lot done. Zachee’s son Timmy had malaria and had to go to the doctor on Monday, while I spent half the day at the bank making arrangements for Zachee to have signing power on our accounts. I spent the other half of the day at the post office picking up parcels that had arrived for us. Thank you all so much who heard about Oren missing Cheerios and the high cost of cheerios here. He will appreciate the gift when he comes back, I have not doubt. The downside is that the customs officer at the post office charged me $80 worth of duty on the parcels, so counting postage I estimate the cereal we received ended up costing about $60 per box. I noticed on my receipt that the import tariff was 5% of postage—($2), but a whopping $70 ‘transactional tax’ was also assessed--which I am guessing was the custom agent’s cut! I asked about it and he simply showed me that all his receipts in the book included a ‘transactional tax.’ The fact is, corruption is so institutionalized here that it is not really possible to challenge it. The agent even put the charge down on my copy of the receipt and stamped it and the parcel officiously on every side. (For more about the institutionalization of corruption here read the book Africa Works. --The premise is basically that since all the largesse from collection of ‘fees’ is redistributed rather than kept by an individual, it is legitimized and in the interest of the elite in power and their supporters/clients to perpetuate it, not fight it.)

Tuesday was a jour conge (holiday). We have a holiday almost every week in Burundi in October. Sadly they are mostly memorial days for assassinated presidents. There is a cynical joke here about the danger of being president of Burundi during the month of October. It is indeed tragic though that several of the visionary founders of Burundian independence and democracy who resisted ethnic divisions were killed in the past 20 years.

On Wednesday I went up country to Burasera, where Jodi teaches at the Hope School for the Batwa. I had mail, money, and supplies to bring her (24 rolls of toilet paper among other things.) As I have mentioned before, the trip is treacherous and punishing on the vehicle (as well as my still sore back.). To be precise, it is more dangerous for pedestrians and bicyclists than motorists. I witnessed, on the way up, the remains of a recent truck wreck--It had slammed into the embankment on the way down the mountain. Tragically 2 bicyclists who hang on the back for a ride on the hills were killed when it hit. I was driving up with Gaspar to take his mattresses to his village, and we drove in awkward silence for quite a time after passing it.

I arrived in Burasera in the afternoon, on time to see Jodi giving private English tutorials to a group of students. Here are some pictures of her in the class. I think the students are fascinated by her and she loves it there. She has encouraged some of the adults in the area to share their history in class for the students, as there just does not exist much by the way of written history about the batwa. This is because many of the batwa settled here are severely dislocated communities who were at one time in Congo before they fled being kidnapped in the forest and forced into Mbutu’s army or slavery. (When I say slavery, I am talking about the 1990’s and later, not the nineteenth century!) Jodi related several stories to me about people in the area who shared stories of being captured and sold into slavery in Uganda, and then many years later, had miraculous reunions with family. The stories emphasize the triumph of the batwa spirit over the forces of oppression.

Jodi has been very resourceful in developing a curriculum suited to the rustic conditions they have at the school. (They have virtually no supplies, running water, electricity, meals, etc.) In the morning though, she took the students on a field trip to a nearby hydroelectric generator that makes power for the seminary with a water wheel in a small river. She had the electrician from the seminary explain to the children how water can be used to create electricity. I am trying to imagine how that must have sounded to the children of what was essentially, a generation back, a hunter/gatherer culture. She has big ideas for capacity building in the school including completing a water tank for hand washing (as a mission project), creating a health care voucher system at a nearby hospital for illness, AND eventually even a laptop for every student through the laptop project. If anyone is interested in participating in one of these projects let me know!

I spent the night in the seminary guest house and had dinner with the priests who love to have visitors join them at their table. When I passed by the monkey on the way to dinner I was filled with a longing for Oren to be there, who really liked to come up and see it. I am including a picture here taken on an earlier trip with Rebecca, Oren and I, looking at the monkey.

I returned to Bujumbura on Friday and had my last Kirundi lesson until January. I am sorry to be ending my lessons as I am finally beginning to be able to have some rudimentary conversations. (It is a very complex language.) I am amazed what one can learn about a culture from the language. I can only say that every culture divides up reality and concepts in some unique ways. It is interesting to see what words in English do not have exact equivalents in Kirundi (ex: to make or to do is almost always translated--to work) and vice versa. In Kirundi, for example, ‘to want to know’ is a single word/concept that is completely different than ‘to know’. There are also about 9 ‘classes’ of nouns. (There are no masculine and feminine classes like french, but two of the divisions are people and animals). All have entirely different ways of agreeing with their corresponding adjectives and direct objects. For example a good child: umwana neza, is different than a good cow: inka nziza. The beginning of the word good, changes for each class of noun, and you have to learn all the classes to know which one to use. To make it worse it changes again in plural--four good children are abana beza bane and good cows are inks nziza zine!

Taking Kirundi has also helped my French a well, as my teacher speaks mainly French and Kirundi, so instruction is primarily in French.

One more thing worth reporting: I now have 2 housemates, Isaac and David (see picture) who are going to be staying here in the house while Rebecca and I are away. They are both ‘3rd culture kids’—spent their childhood overseas with missionary parents. They just finished college and are working with a Christian NGO called World Relief. Isaac will be working on AIDS awareness and David will work with a microfinance project. It is inspiring to see these young men who are so enthusiastic about being here and working compassionately to make life better for others. Actually David was a last minute arrival. He was supposed to be placed in Eastern Congo (across the border which is only a few miles away), but the security conditions have deteriorated so much there in the past few months that his NGO decided not to send him there for the time being.

I talk to Rebecca and Oren when I can, but Skype is very disappointing in trying to communicate feelings and to share emotional support. They are doing well and Oren is surrounded by loving, doting grandparents. It is strange to hear Oren talk to me on the phone and to realize how much he is growing and changing there. He speaks quite clearly in grammatically correct sentences. I will be very glad to be back with them again and not miss all the exciting development stages he his passing through.

Ghana Conferences, the Slave Trade, and Cecille’s Hope

I am writing this blog lying on my stomach in bed in Bujumbura. Although it is not an ideal posture for composing, it is one in which I can be in for an extended period of time without excessive pain. Apparently I injured my back during my travels to Ghana last week. I probably should not be surprised since in my paranoia about having luggage stolen I stuffed everything I needed for 10 days into my hand carry and briefcase. For those of you who are used to American airports where an extendable gate takes you right into the plane and airport, that is not the case here. You descend by staircase, cross the tarmac, and then go back up the stairs to the gate in the airport (or into the plane). I think I hurt my back taking the bag out of the overhead storage, or descending the stairs.

On the good side, I really prefer to go outside before and after a flight, because it gives me a chance to see the plane, smell the jet fuel, and feel the weather when I come and go. I am becoming very aware of how much time we spend in climate controlled conditions in the USA. That is quite a contrast to Burundi where we live in open air houses and feel the changes in weather constantly. We have to get used to the smells as well. Sadly Bujumbura smells vaguely like burning to me at all times. That is probably due to the fact that everyone has to burn all of their garbage at their homes, since there is no municipal trash collection. (For anyone who hates paying taxes, you should spend a few weeks in a city where you don’t have to. Find out what you lack,--schools, ambulances, fire trucks, garbage collection, playgrounds, parks, trustworthy police, safe drinking water, a house without an 8 foot wall around it topped with embedded broken glass.)

But I diverge, back to Ghana. The purpose of going to Accra was to participate in strategic planning (5 year plans) for MCC for its future, especially in Africa. They asked all of us working in countries in West and Central Africa to meet in Ghana, and bring some of our local partners. I traveled with 2 other Burundians, and a Rwandan partner. (Zachee, as well as Levy who runs a peace ministry in Burundi, and Cecille who works with a group called Femmes en Dialogue in Kigali, Rwanda- she is in the front in this picture) All of our partners made some great contributions to our planning and I think they really enjoyed getting a chance to travel. As part of the planning workshop Cecille shared some of her story and I will share it with you in hopes that you might be inspired by her work:

Femmes en Dialogue brings together women who were victims of the 1994 genocide, (widowed, children killed, attacked themselves) with women whose husbands are currently incarcerated for committing crimes against humanity by participating in the genocide. Cecille shared some dramatic stories about women who have met and have supported each other in the group even though, in some cases, the husband of one was the murderer of the other’s family. She has witnessed some tremendous acts of reconciliation and healing. Women have forgiven each other, as well as the incarcerated men. Widowed women have also been able to identify with the plight of those whose husbands are imprisoned and left devastated by guilt and loss of livelihood.

Cecille is well qualified to be doing this work and her passion for it comes from firsthand experience. She was very young and just married in a mixed ethnic marriage when the crisis erupted. (She is tutsi, her husband is hutu.) When the hutu’s were killing tutsi’s in Kigali, her husband protected and hid her and their children. They all survived the massacre (although not her extended family). The story does not end there though, her husband was later captured and accused of crimes against humanity himself and is currently incarcerated where he has been for the past 14 years, awaiting a hearing on whether he will ever be released. She is a courageous woman and I have great respect for her work and hope for the future. Her ministry is definitely inspired by her unique dual perspective on the tragedy of the events of 1994. I also see in her a confidence in a Lord who will someday ‘turn her mourning into dancing’.

The time was not all work though. There was opportunity for sight seeing and shopping as well. One of the things I bought was a new Djembe (Ghanaian drum) to replace the one I had had stolen when I was in Chicago earlier this year. I bought the biggest one I could find, and it cost about $35 with the bag! It is really nice and survived the trip back to Bujumbura without a problem! Here is a picture of the store where I bought it in downtown Accra. Notice the store is called In God We Trust. Many of the businesses had names expressing religious sentiments. I had less trouble with that one than He Has Made All Things Beautiful Fashion Boutique and the pious Jesus Above All Liquor Store.

Among the sights we saw were two slave castles along the coast. Elmina Castle, and Cape Coast Castle. I am including pictures of these here. We took a 2 hour tour of Elmina, built in 1482 by the Portugese and heard some of the atrocious history of the European slave trade. It was ironic that the fort originally was used to trade goods with Africans and only later became a trade in human beings when a market for cheap, durable, human labor emerged in the warm climates of the new world (North and South America). Africans were found to be the strongest workers and were captured and sent to the Americas for labor. The conditions for keeping them was appalling as they were prepared for transport. Men and women were separated and kept as many as 1000 per cell with no bathrooms, and one meal per day. It is estimated that only 30% of slaves survived from capture to arrival in the Americas. The gratuitous cruelty of conditions in the castle defy belief--including the fact that the women were frequently used to satisfy the sexual desires of the men who captured them.
(Ironically, the children of these unions were separated and given education at the castles which later evolved into the Ghanaian formal education system after slavery ended.)

It is of course even more tragic for me to see the complicity of the church in all of this. The chapel was an auspicious presence in the center of the castle. I do not know how the priests who worked there serving a Lord who was stripped and beaten, reconciled their work supporting the men involved in the slave trade. Here is a picture of me standing on the roof overlooking a market, and another of me next to a cell where insubordinate captives were put for discipline. There was no exit from here. You were simply put in, starved, dehydrated, and not taken out until you were dead. Its value was deterrence and not reformation.

I got back to Burundi on Friday morning and got home to find the house still intact. It is good to be back but it is still lonely without Oren and Rebecca. I was able to talk to them frequently on Skype. They are doing well in Baltimore. Oren started preschool and really seems to like it. He has said some things about missing Burundi as well, so I think he will be ready to come back when we do. Rebecca is doing well with the pregnancy. She told me she misses work in the field almost as much as I miss caring for Oren in my free time.

I did read a book recently called The Shack on my flight. It was interesting and wrestles with the problem of suffering. I am currently reading a book called Africa Works about the failure of institutions and the state in sub-Saharan Africa. Not light reading.

Volcanoes in Rwanda and Dumbo in Burundi

For the second week in a row I find myself writing this entry outside of Bujumbura. Yesterday I arrived in Accra, Ghana with our program officer Zachee, and two of our partners, Cecille from Rwanda, and Levy from Burundi, for some strategic planning meetings. We will try to imagine a vision for the future for MCC in the region. These meeting also include MCC representatives and partners from Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Chad and Congo, as well as senior International Programs staff from the US and Canada.

--But I am getting ahead of myself. I will say more about this next week and include some nice pictures of Ghana when I download them from my camera. A lot happened last week in the intervening time between returning from Rwanda and leaving for Ghana.

The time in Rwanda was good and included meeting with several partners. The most interesting one was upcountry near the Ugandan border where one of our partners, CAPR, does interdenominational peace work by bringing pastors together to dialogue and build unity. This is particularly important in Rwanda where ethnic divisions fell along denominational lines as well. This was the byproduct of different denominations dividing the country up regionally to evangelize; consequently, Christianizing the country resulted in reifying ethnic divisions rather than ameliorating them. (I used the word christianizing to distinguish it from the more transforming work of sharing the Gospel message and bringing people into a living, loving relationship with Jesus and each other, which seeks to love enemies, and bless the peacemakers.) They asked me to say a few words as part of the conference, so I pulled together a little encouragement talk (in French) using Ezekiel 37 about the dry bones coming to life. I think they were planning on giving me an hour to speak off the cuff, but I begged off and said 10 minutes would be more than enough!

The meeting was interesting, but the drive up deserves its own space in this blog. Since I had flown up to Kigali, I had to rely on local transportation to get me around in Rwanda. This put me considerably out of my comfort zone but I braved at least one trip in town on a ‘taxi-moto’ (a motorcycle taxi). I have not mentioned these before, but it is one of the preferred modes of transport in Kigali and Bujumbura. (Probably because fuel is so expensive) The risk by western standards is really unacceptable and I have avoided them, but did have a few short trips that seemed reasonably safe in town.

To go upcountry I had to hire a cab. Fortunately I had the number of a local cabbee who was reliable and I called him to ask him to drive 4 of us up. He agreed, and we made a price. My prayer was that we would not find ourselves driving through the Rwandan mountains at night in an unreliable vehicle. (This prayer was not answered the way I wanted it.) We started out Saturday, midmorning. The cab seemed to ride low but I had no choice but to trust it or else create an embarrassing scene betraying my probably irrational fear. I had two of our Rwandan partners in the car with me as well and they seemed not to be worried. The car overheated the first time about 30 minutes into our 3 hour journey out of the city. The fuse to the fan was not working. We stopped and took on water. We went another 20 minutes and stopped again… and so on... until we got to a town with a mechanic who could bypass the fuse and connect the fan directly to the battery. That helped. (I could write a whole blog entry about what a 3rd world auto service station looks like, but it would be too much of a side track here. Suffice it to say, spare parts are non existent, and wood, tape, string, nails, torn cloth and cardboard, are all acceptable materials for repairing an engine.)

We plodded on to our destination though by now we would be quite late. Despite my anxiety, I was in for a real surprise. Northern Rwanda is home to a spectacular range of volcanic mountains! You should shoot me for letting my camera battery die here, but I can only describe it as something that would inspire the scenes from the movie King Kong, or Dr. Livingston’s “Dark Continent” The 13 peaks were sublime and beautiful towering above the hillsides, the tops hidden in clouds . Our project was also right next to the lowland gorilla national park. (We did not have time to stop in though.) I really understood then, one of the reasons that Kigali is so developed, and has such a thriving tourism industry. This was truly magnificent. I hope to come back my family sometime next year.

In stark contrast, the village where our project ran was profoundly impoverished, and in our short time there we saw some development projects for children to learn sewing in order to afford school fees and food as well as an income generating woodshop where they made planks. The contrast between the guest houses near the park entrance and this were striking. I thought of tourists who would bypass this on their way to the beauty of the volcano and gorilla parks.

We had our meeting with the pastors and it was good, and I spoke reasonably well. It was, however cut short by our necessity to get back on the road to Kigali before it was dark. (We also took on a passenger.) I have to admit that the ride back was very hard. We continued to break down, bottom out at every bump, and limp back to Kigali at a snail’s pace in total darkness. I can’t tell you the relief I felt to get back to an internet café and Skype Rebecca and Oren that night.

I returned to Bujumbura Sunday morning to an event worthy of note--a levee de deuille for Zachee’s wife. This is a ceremony that is done a year after the death of a loved one. It is an official lifting of the veil of mourning, after which time one can get married, family property can be petitioned, debts can be collected, etc. Prior to that year, nothing legal is done with the decedent’s property and making new relationships prior to this is socially unacceptable. Zachee lost his wife Fifi last September, and this has truly been a year of mourning for him. I do believe that he and his 3 year old son Timmy are ready to move on, and it was good to support them in this ceremony.

Without Rebecca, the week was very busy for me on the homefront as well. I had to do the many things that she normally does, like make the weekly menu and shopping list for the cook to go to market, pay staff, organize cleaning, etc. All my work here has been complicated by the fact that we have been having daily power failures in Bujumbura for the past week, at very inconvenient hours when I usually need the computer. I also had several guests over the weekend for the aforementioned ceremony, and I have a new housemate, Isaac, who just came to Burundi. He will be staying with me for the next month and will continue on to housesit when I go back to US.

I have really missed Oren greatly and look forward to talking to him although Skype does not keep his attention. To his great delight though, I have been taking pictures we have of him from Africa and elsewhere and adding in his favorite cartoon characters, using photoshop. Here is one of him in our backyard under the avocado tree with me and Dumbo. He loves these and apparently said to Mommy when he got it: “Dumbo is in Burundi!” Rebecca reports that they are doing well in Baltimore and Oren loves to be at his grandparents’ house where raspberries are in bloom and he can pick them off the bush and eat them. He also began preschool there.

A final postscript. For those of you who read last week of Gaspar’s need of mattresses for his children. I bought them this week with him and hopefully will be able to help him get them to Gitega when I go up next week.

The Shortcut and Home Alone

“The longest distance between two points is a shortcut.” --Corollary to Murphy's Law

Most of us have a shortcut story and this one deserves a good recounting: As you may know, Rebecca'a Mom has been here this week visiting. She is here to take Rebecca and Oren back to the USA ahead of me for the birth of our son. So our scene opens in a crowded Landcruiser on the way to a remote village called Burasera. The players are:
1)Grandma Jean (my Mother-in-law)
2)Rebecca (the pregnant wife)
3)Oren (the cantankerous 3 year old)
4)Jodi (the intrepid missionary ready to spend 3 years teaching in a remote village)
5)Our fearless (not) leader--(that's me)

The landcruiser is packed to the gills and roofrack with stuff for Jodi's new home in Burasera. It has just finished raining and we are heading into the mountains ready for adventure. It is exciting to be able to take Grandma Jean on this trip to see one of our projects and show her the beauty of the high country. Although I have only been to Burasera four times, I feel competent enough about the route to risk a shortcut that I noticed on the map and seemed to cut a considerable number of kilometers off of our trip. The road would not be paved but we trusted the Landcruiser could handle it. We turned off the main road near a genocide memorial in Kabimba and headed down a small rough road. It looked bad, but the map indicated that our destination was only a short 16K away. As we drove the road continued to get worse. Often it ran close to a drop off, other times it climbed at a grade that is made for burro travel, not cars, and some of the bumps were more akin to bouldering than driving.

When we came to a fork in the road we had to make a choice. We asked a passing bicyclist and he told us (in Kirundi) that both prongs went to Burasera. We asked which was shorter and he said the left one, BUT he volunteered that the right one was 'neza' (good). We weighed the options and decided on the shorter one.

Very quickly I realized this was going to be very difficult. The road quickly dwindled to little more than a footpath, and branched often to different villages making the main route difficult to discern. The road also dipped and rose with the terrain. In my mind, I had the idea that if it ever got to a point where I did not feel I could continue, I would turn around (or back up) and go back the other way. …

Scene 2: The Slippery Slope
There are different types of paths we take in life. Some you can try and then change your mind, reverse course and take a new way. But many, at a certain place have a 'point of no return.' beyond which a reversal of course is impossible. At about the 4 km mark we hit a 'slippery slope'. (Not a metaphor!) This was a downhill that looked fairly promising. The road seemed a bit wider and less bumpy. As soon as we started down I realized the problem. The road was mud. Soon our wheels were caked and the vehicle began sliding right no matter how I steered. To engage the 4wd you have to stop and get out of the vehicle to turn a lock on the hub of the front wheels. We did this (and got muddy feet). This helped us control the direction of our descent somewhat, but at the bottom of the hill the road arrived at what could best be described as a tdouble width foot bridge. I knew at this point, that we could not go back up the hill so our only hope was to cross. For the safety of all, everyone got out while I drove across. Here are some pictures of the bridge and Rebecca and Oren crossing after the landcruiser.

We only hoped we had seen the worst of the 16k shortcut, and by the grace of God, the other side of the valley was more rocky than muddy. We climbed out and within a short distance rejoined the wider road to Burasera.

I wanted to show my mother-in -law the intriguing aspects of our work, but it was more of an adventure than I had bargained for. The seminary at Burasera never looked better (see picture). It is quite a place, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, where they generate their own electricity, and have orchards, a dairy, chickens and eggs, a vineyard, make their own furniture from their own trees that they replant as well. They also run a guest house. It is like a self contained little world, and the Diocesan Priests who work there are incredibly hospitable, and got a big kick out of Jean and Oren (who loves their pet monkey.)

The trip went very well and Jodi is now living there and began teaching school this past Monday. We returned to Bujumbura with minimal incidents except a race against time to beat the 5pm military roadblocks on the way down the mountain.

The rest of the week is somewhat of a blur. We crammed in too much that all needed to be done before Rebecca left. We had many friends visit and wish us well. I did my best to have enough time with Oren (more for me than him). I did not succeed. I can only describe the experience of packing them up and putting them on a plane this morning as agonizing. I can say that this next month will be harder than any I have had here thus far, because I am here alone. I do not feel up to the task either--professionally or emotionally. Nonetheless, 3 hours after they left, I was on a plane to Rwanda, and I am currently writing this blog from an internet cafe in Kigali. (I am putting it up Thursday because I might be in a very remote place tomorrow to visit a project of one of our partners.) I will get back to Bujumbura Sunday, then I will be off to Ghana next Thursday. I am hoping that the travel will take my mind off the feeling of having my right hand and heart ripped out (emotionally).

Here is a picture from Grandma's Jean's repertoire of Oren and Pacifique our gardner. I think Pacifique will really miss Oren as Pacifique enjoyed hosing Oren down as he ran around in the yard almost as much as Oren enjoyed it.

I again leave you with a small character portrait. Before leaving, Rebecca asked our guard, Gaspar if he was going to go home to visit his family over the next 2 months. He said he probably would not, because travel is expensive and he was saving his money to buy his 4 children a mattress to sleep on. (I think he was working up the courage to ask for a loan to buy one.) When I heard this, I was truly convicted—living comfortably in the four bedroom house he guards, where most of the rooms are empty much of time. I went out and told him that when I get back we would go out and shop for mattresses for his children. I don't know if there was a more 'capacity building' way of helping him out, but his need was a harsh reminder of what the disparity between rich and poor looks like outside the USA.

Au Marche--Mw’Isoko--At the Market

For those of you who have been praying for the safe arrival of Gramma Jean’s suitcases, your prayers have been answered! They did arrive about two days after she did. Picking them up was an interesting experience. The lost luggage section in the Bujumbura airport customs warehouse is not a place that inspires confidence. When you walk in, it looks like a very likely place to lose a piece of luggage hopelessly. Nonetheless, we presented our lost luggage fiche to the douniare and after disappearing behind several hills of luggage, he emerged, to our amazement, with her bags--completely intact and unopened. It was quite a relief, and Oren was delighted to get the Cheerios and plastic animals that were stashed inside.

This has been a week of errands for us here. Today we head up country with Jodi and her luggage to install her in Burasira where she will spend the next 3 years. It is quite a challenge to get someone set up from scratch in a new household when you do not have a Walmart nearby. Nearly every item has to be bought at a separate place, and it is all so expensive (and must be negotiated vigorously). A can opener runs about $15. Rebecca braved the market with her mom and Jodi and a Burundian friend, Francine. They spent hours haggling over the price of pillows and sheets, and made several trips to different tailors to have pillowcases and couch covers made. (There is no Martha Stewart section of window dressings in the market either!) Here is a picture of Rebecca bargaining for some storage baskets.

There are other unusual shopping risks here. For example: Among the purchases we made was a large pressurized gas container for the stove we bought her. I was driving it home in the land cruiser (alone) on a particularly bumpy road in town. The gas bottle tipped over and hit the spigot. Within seconds the entire car was filled with gas. I stopped, jumped out of the car and ran around back to open the back end doors. Fortunately the spigot was not broken and I was able to shut the gas off and air the car out. None of this was accomplished without creating a considerable traffic jam and scene in the crowded street when I stopped in the middle of the road, and dove out of the car yelling “Il y’a du Gaz!!” The smell in the car was awful, and our night guard Gaspar had a lot of cleaning to do when I got home. It is better now. (Here is a picture of Gaspar with us out in our yard. He is a great help to us at home. Not just guarding the house at night, but doing our ironing, cleaning the car, feeding the dog, minding the front gate, and running various errands.)

Grandma Jean has been keeping herself very busy here as well. She has made some connections with the University Medical Library and even met with the Dean of the medical school to alert him to the availability of online medical publications, and suggest ways they might get access to some computers to be available in the library for faculty and students. She has also been teaching some new recipes to our cook Marcelline. Cinnamon rolls were an addition to her repertoire this week. Here is a picture of Oren getting in on the act during the lesson. I am putting in a picture of Marcelline as well. She has also been a big part of the marketing for items for Jodie to take up country this week. She is very good at driving a hard bargain, and always gets a better price than us bazungus.

I am trying to include a story of the power of faith in the life of remarkable individuals we have met here. What is amazing is that it seems that no one in Burundi is untouched by the crisis of violence and civil war that ripped this country apart the past 15 years. This past Wednesday, in our prayer and share group, our pastor Immanuel Ndikoumana was talking about having a confidence in God’s love and purposes that even transcends our natural fear of death. (We were reading Romans 8 for those of you are Biblically inclined .) In his own case this was tested many times, but once when he was sitting in a car at the market and a militia surrounded him with the intention of killing him. He recounted to us how he had been meditating right at that time on Romans 8:18 where it says: “I consider that our present suffering are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” He described a sense of profound serenity that came over him as the men approached, and when they looked in the car he smiled at them and began to laugh. The leader was incredulous and demanded to know why he was so happy. Immanuel told him and the leader of the gang said: “We cannot kill this man.” And let him go.

What is particularly disturbing to me, an American who has been quite well protected from danger in my life, is that stories like this are not atypical in the Burundian context. Learning to deal with fear and the threat of violence is a part of the lives of most people here. I am becoming aware of the dire choices that individuals and communities must make in response to this experience. Either they will succumb to fear, and continue the cycle of retribution in the name of security and survival, or they must be able to transcend it, forgive, and look with HOPE at the ‘current sufferings’ as something that can be overcome. This hope is only possible through a radical love, that reconciles us to our most feared enemies. The encouragement I have is that I am meeting a cadre of courageous individuals who are willing to risk standing up in their communities, against the tide of fear and ignorance, and say that--despite all they have suffered--there is the hope of a good future, that is worth living and dying for. I have found that such courage comes from their commitment to emulate the example of the Lord they serve.

“For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not have, we wait for it patiently.”
Romans 8:24

This is a picture of our Bible study group. Immanuel is in the back in the middle. His wife Azele is in the front. The others are Val and Charles from Scotland, Fidel from Chicago, and Suzie from Timonium, MD.

Grandma Jean!

I am beginning this entry a bit late today because we just came back from the airport. We picked up 'Grandma Jean' or 'Mama Rebecca' as she is known in Kirundi. Oren was thrilled, although sadly, all of her baggage is currently at large—apparently disappearing in Nairobi. We are less than optimistically awaiting news about it.

This has been a 'capacity building' week for me as I spent several days upcountry, where I had akazi-kenshi (many things to do). As I mentioned in a previous entry, we are setting up our service worker Jodie to teach at a Batwa school in Burasira. It is quite remote. I drove her up then came back alone. This is the first time I have driven in rural Burundi alone. Several hours of the trip were on very rough dirt roads. I did stay a night at the Catholic seminary again. I felt a real sense of accomplishment about not getting lost and beat a torrential downpour on my way down the mountain by about 5 minutes. ALSO I am able to ask for directions in simple Kirundi now. (Although I did not need to.) This is a trip I will be making monthly so it is good to feel competent.

On the way up, we stopped in Gitega where we have several partners I needed to meet. As part of the work I had to conduct a two hour interview with three of them in french by myself, then translate and write up a report. It was exhausting but I did manage to do fairly well.

Among the other highlights of the week was a conversation with Delphine, a partner of ours who directs the World Outreach Initiative, a local NGO. Again, what is striking about her story is the personal commitment to the development, peace and reconciliation work they do. The work with displaced people during the time of the 'crisis' (app. 1994-2004) along the border in Tanzania cost her husband his life. He was shot in the process of a reconciliation project. For her, her faith has sustained her as she continues their work. She does not consider the mission of development, peace and reconciliation to be separable from evangelism. One cannot evangelize without providing care for immediate needs, but one cannot change deeply marred values and generational hatred without grace, and a love that offers reconciliation to God and neighbor. Without a transformation at the personal and societal level, development is simply not possible. The sad tragedy of Burundi is the number of years it has spent in limbo, entrenched in a civil war which goes back 40 years, but has stagnated the country for the past 15.

BUT in the people I meet, I do have hope that a 'righteous generation' is emerging. Many young people do not want to perpetuate the mistakes of the generations before them. Delphine is just one of several of our visionary young partners who inspires hope for the future and affirms my faith as well.

On the homefront: Grandma Jean's arrival means that Rebecca and Oren are two short weeks away from leaving the country for their soujourn in Maryland. They will be leaving me here for another month, before I join them for the birth of our child at the end of October. I am not looking forward to the month alone here, but there is much to do in our work. Here is a photo of a us with a quilt we were given from our church in New York. We just put it up in preparation for Grandma's arrival.

This week has been hard in several ways: One of our colleagues continues to have an ongoing battle with malaria, and our night guard has amoebic dysentery. Rebecca and our cook were also both sick last week. Illness seems to be a fairly regular part of life here.

A few words from Rebecca: Much of this week has involved acquiring household items for Jodi's new house up-country. On Monday, we took a trip to the main market with a young Burundian woman who is great at bargaining. Under one big roof, you can buy anything from second hand clothes to liquor to mangoes to plastic washbasins -- but you need to bargain with each of a thousand vendors separately for each item. There are no shopping carts. Instead, as you go, you employ a young person to carry your purchases while you keep shopping. And you have to make sure you don't step on a mother and child begging on the floor of the narrow aisles.

I have been used to buying everyday items cheaply in other underdeveloped countries, but the situation is different here. Sometimes you can get items at prices comparable to the US. But most things are very, very expensive because they are shipped from other places and the price of transport is so high right now. When you consider that a drinking glass or a kilo of beans costs $1 and that most people make $50 or less in a month, you can see why people struggle so terribly with poverty.

Another challenge of this week was to learn more about public transportation while our Jeep was in the garage. Our cook Marcelline graciously indoctrinated me into the world of riding in the minibus taxis one afternoon. Every one of these vehicles carries up to 20 people and, I swear, has a smashed front windscreen, rickety seats and a sliding door that must be manually reattached every time it's opened. Marcelline even paid my fare (25 cents for a trip to the center of town). Good thing because I had to do it again by myself yesterday while Paul was upcountry! People definitely stare when a white woman gets into one of those vehicles. And I don't know much Kirundi but there is one phrase that I'm really getting the sense of, a shouted exclamation something like, "Look, a pregnant white woman!!" I guess that very few foreigners choose to stay here to deliver babies.

I am sending some pictures of some local sights. This shot was taken from an outdoor restaurant club near Lake Tanganyika. The birds are crested cranes. There is also a giant turtle that roams the grounds. Oren loves that.