tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78810893278371914432024-03-05T22:12:02.974-08:00Rachel's Goma Web LogRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-5673044801213155372010-08-11T12:21:00.000-07:002010-08-11T12:21:49.489-07:00Signing OffAnd signing on: <a href="http://rachel-in-erbil.blogspot.com/">http://rachel-in-erbil.blogspot.com</a>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-77115207618792959712010-08-11T08:59:00.000-07:002010-08-11T11:11:27.598-07:00The Best of Us & the Power of Social NetworkingYears and years ago (although somehow it was really only 23 months ago) I moved to Northern Uganda for a short stretch of time. Before moving there, I read lots of books about Northern Uganda. Many books were Good Books. One of the books was wonderful. Somehow I dug through my busy schedule and found time to write an inane two-sentence review on Amazon.com.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Very informative.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I bought this book (and many others) before moving to Kitgum for four months. This was my favorite; I found this book to be interesting, informative, and unbiased.</span><br />
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Brilliant, right? (Ha.) <br />
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Andbutso. A few weeks later, I got a Facebook friend request from a woman, C. She wrote that she looked up my name from that tiny little blurb of a review. She wanted to ask about Northern Uganda. She’d heard about Kitgum on the news or from <i>Invisible Children</i> or something. Who accepts friend requests from strangers on Facebook? Not me! Andbutso for some reason – somewho, somewhy, somewhat – that day I was in a good mood. I accepted. C and I chatted a bit. Not in depth. But I did like her. From then on, sometimes C would write little comments on my Facebook wall. I would write little comments on hers. Why not? Friendships are funny. You should cultivate them wherever they spring up. C is a single mom of two lovely, beautiful boys in a southern US State. I clicked “Like” on the cutest of the photos of her kids. C looked at my photos. Sometimes she would write slightly religious comments beneath them. I’m not a believer, but if somebody looks at a photo of a sunset or a rainbow and says “Praise God” – well, hey, who can’t appreciate that sentiment?<br />
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<i>(Story thread jump. Now I’ve traveled to Congo. I’m living in the East.)</i><br />
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If you have read this web log from the beginning, you’ll be familiar with A, who was my very first friend in Goma. He’s one of those geniuses of language and intercultural competencies. He’s a very young man – just 23, 24 years old. His English, which he learned in a Goma high school, is amazingly strong. When I first arrived, his ability to empathize with me was incredible, despite his never having traveled and my initial complete cluelessness. We hung out. He helped me a lot. We became Facebook friends. A is very religious. He’s very confident and self-assured in his belief. (I’ve seen another colleague take the piss out of him for praying and A has laughed along, never flinching, joyous and fervent in his faith.) Sometimes, if on Facebook I posted a particularly lovely photo of the green-blue-purple waters of the lake, A would write something religious beneath it.<br />
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<i>(Story threads merge.)</i><br />
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One day both C and A wrote something vaguely religious on a photo I posted. Sitting in my bedroom next to Lake Kivu in Goma, I clicked the Facebook webpage open and read the comments, and (with my atheist feelings of faux-superiority) rolled my eyes. I thought to myself “Gosh, they should just befriend each other.” I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t have to. They apparently had the same idea. <br />
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C and A became Facebook friends. They wrote on each other’s walls. They commented on each other’s photos and links. They asked each other questions about their respective, and very different, lives, and their respective, and very strong, belief systems. They became friends on Skype. They talked every day. One day I walked into the office while they were talking aloud to each other and I heard C’s pretty, lilting voice for the first time. A talked to C’s young boys on Skype. He told them a bit about life in Goma. C learned several phrases in Swahili and talked to A’s brothers and sisters. This is nothing romantic – this is pure friendship. Mutual curiosity, reciprocated respect, shared support: The loveliest things in the world.<br />
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They talked about their desires. A talked about how he wanted to go back to his studies. C suggested he come to college in the States. What an opportunity! That’s the dream. C helped him research schools. A filled out applications. C offered a spare bedroom. A wrote her name on sponsorship forms. They chatted. They prayed. They hoped. A got accepted into school, which wasn’t a surprise, but then there was the visa process. Standing on the porch outside of our office, I took photos of A for the US government. He made me take what seemed like hundreds until he was satisfied. And then – just a few weeks ago – as I was back here in the States deep in reverse-culture-shock doldrums, A got accepted for a visa. Bada bing, bada boom. And now all of a sudden he’s in this country, too, living in C’s spare bedroom – meeting her family – meeting his new church community -- buying pens and notebooks – preparing for school. <br />
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Life is, our lives are, so funny. Sometimes people are just so wonderful you could die. What I typed above – it’s not a story. It’s a chapter. What happens now? Brilliant A, young A, has never been out of Eastern Congo before, except once, to go to Rwanda, and now he is in University in a southern US State (with all that THAT entails). Lovely C, warm, open C has just welcomed a new brother into her family – why? Why has she done that? Why would someone do that? <br />
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With the evidence I have been given, what follows is my best guess as to the “why”:<br />
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Because that is what the <i>best</i> human beings do. They befriend and love, and then they support, the rest of us. The best of us, the top people, don’t give assistance out of pity for their neighbors. The best of us don’t write checks to charity because some organization has mugged their emotions with photographs of naked children, flies on their eyelids. <br />
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The best of us give assistance because they <i>respect</i> the rest of us. They believe in our abilities. They recognize that we are all tied to each other – there is simply no Me without You – we are joined, we are one, we are in this together.<br />
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Oh gosh – the hi-jinx that will result for A and C over the next year. The intercultural miscommunications. Oh! the adventures. Oh! everything that is yet to come. The good that is yet to be born and the crimes that are not yet committed. The future – that wonderful, terrible, joyous, limitless stretch. The beauty, the death, the life, and the love and love and love and love and love andRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-55865560916415329862010-08-07T18:09:00.000-07:002010-08-07T19:56:34.533-07:00A Couple Numbers22 hours (and 49 minutes) till the $10 million proposal I’m consulting lead writing is due.<br />
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Then resting, relaxing, writing something more than 2 sentences on here, and trying to figure out what in the hell to pack for Erbil over the following 10 days. <br />
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Then Iraq! Whee! For the YEAR!Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-2198611901460338602010-08-04T05:06:00.001-07:002010-08-04T05:06:26.706-07:00I have a lot to write but I haven't been able to find time.But I will, soon.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-56229618822983838382010-07-30T10:37:00.000-07:002010-07-30T10:37:52.153-07:00Rachel in Arbil (or Irbil) (or Erbil)I can't figure out which is the best way to spell it. But it looks like I'm moving there in a couple of weeks.<br />
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Watch out, Professional Paid Aid Worker World. I'm slowly forcing my way in.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-90983047971580313812010-07-29T07:54:00.000-07:002010-07-29T07:56:07.763-07:00Minerals GaloreWronging Rights: <a href="http://wrongingrights.blogspot.com/2010/07/impress-your-friends-and-outflank-your.html">Impress Your Friends and Outflank Your Enemies: The Wronging Rights Guide to the Conflict-Mineral Regulations in Section 1502 of HR 4173 </a><br />
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Wronging Rights: <a href="http://wrongingrights.blogspot.com/2010/07/pointcounterpoint-conflict-minerals-law.html">Point/Counterpoint: "Conflict Minerals Law Will Have No Effect in Eastern DRC" vs "Conflict Minerals Law Will Have Little to No Effect in Eastern DRC" </a><br />
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Texas in Africa: <a href="http://texasinafrica.blogspot.com/2010/07/minerals-week.html">minerals week</a><br />
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Texas in Africa: <a href="http://texasinafrica.blogspot.com/2010/07/minerals-week-funding-violence-in-kivus.html">minerals week: funding & violence in the kivus </a><br />
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Congo Siasa: <a href="http://congosiasa.blogspot.com/2010/07/why-legislation-on-mineral-trade-is.html">Why legislation on mineral trade is a good thing</a><br />
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And the debates going on in the comments are all very worth reading, too.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-53437766819381144722010-07-28T16:19:00.001-07:002010-07-28T16:19:41.730-07:00perks of being a consultantBeing a consultant means that maybe, one day out of the week, when the air is heavy and the sun is smacking the pavement over 110 degrees hot before even 10 am, you can work from home for maybe three hours in the morning, another four hours in the evening and at night, and in between then one of your close close friends can call in sick to work and you and she can drive off to the Six Flags water park 17 miles away in Maryland and sit in innertubes that drop down rushing waterslides at 89 degree angles and scream your heads off and laugh.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-84192904716919295362010-07-22T07:14:00.000-07:002010-07-22T07:14:46.870-07:00This is an Unexpected Development.Erm. Um. So. I got a phone call unofficially asking if I would be interested in accepting a job in Arbil. This came yesterday morning. It came completely out of the clear blue sky. Just – poof! – my phone rang. Hello? I said. <br />
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All of my job searching has revolved around returning to the Great Lakes region.<br />
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So. I get this call. I immediately e-mail 50 million close friends begging for advice. Then I stop abruptly and shut down my computer without e-mailing any other friends at all. Hell, there are no guarantees. Shouldn’t concern/excite people unnecessarily.<br />
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So since I’m not telling other people, and I’m waiting for work e-mails to come through in regards to my consultancy, I leave the apartment, walk down to the metro, get on a train, switch trains, and ride the long escalators up at Pentagon City mall. I go into clothing shops and pick out the clothes that I think are stylish, although what do I really know anymore, I don’t live here. I try on the short high-waist skirts and the gladiator sandals and the frilly blouses and the smart-cut vests. I stare at myself in the mirror and I cock my head and I try to decide if this outfit, or this one or this one, is the outfit that a woman who might move to Arbil for a year would wear.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-46788216351895918952010-07-20T07:18:00.000-07:002010-07-20T07:28:10.824-07:00DC in the SummerGuess who is working for the next few weeks as a consultant writing a proposal for an NGO in Eastern Congo? THIS me! <br />
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I’m working remotely, of course, but it is so wonderful to still feel connected to life in Goma via the research and reading and writing I’m doing. In the meantime, I’m playing young urban professional, hanging out with dear dear dear friends in the evenings – visiting museums – going to darkened movie theaters – sipping martinis at rooftop bars – shopping for random overly-priced items at Whole Foods – walking everywhere until my feet bleed in my flip-flops but I don't care because I'm able to walk everywhere – and wondering where I will move to next.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-82866580172061324722010-07-16T09:51:00.000-07:002010-07-16T09:51:14.021-07:00If Wishes Were Dollars, I'd Be RichI used Skype – how blessed are we to live in the pocket of time-on-Earth that has given us Skype? – to call a friend back in Goma this morning. And then other friends were with her, so I got to talk to a handful of friends. Oh I love them. <br />
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But I wish I were there.<br />
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Tonight I am driving to DC, a city I love, to sleep on the futon of two old friends whose wedding I missed last year when I was living in Northern Uganda. Tomorrow morning I am going to see two other dear friends whose wedding I missed this spring when I was in Eastern Congo. <br />
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I wish I had trillions of dollars and a private jet and the ability to be everywhere at once.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-7649762424171568492010-07-12T06:50:00.001-07:002010-07-12T07:57:01.356-07:00Space-TravelWhen I was a kid I used to like reading science fiction novels about space-travel. Little communities would climb into a ship and fly for years and end up on an entirely different planet, disconnected – deep into the Wild West(ern sky). The night of my birthday (Saturday), I was looking up at the planets from a horse field next to the Pennsylvania woods. Venus, Mars, and Saturn were all visible – Venus was even visible at dusk, shining small and bright and white through the pink gloaming. It was the same sky – it’s always the same sky – there is only one sky – but the planets were in entirely different places than when I would look up at them in Goma. Like as if I were elsewhere in the universe.<br />
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The cultural norms here are different from the norms in Goma. Instead of wearing bright colored cloths people wear costumes of khaki pants and polo shirts. Out at dinner, I have to think and think to remember which angle to rest my salad fork at on my plate so that the servers don’t grab it out from under me, imagining I’m finished. People can talk for hours about the genealogy tests they had done on their dogs, and “Oh,” I say in response. The shadows of chandeliers and fir trees on white-painted walls are gorgeous like carved wooden masks. There are deep woods and moss-covered felled and fallen logs and slippery rocks in trickling streams and trees taller than me twenty times over. There are blasts which are fireworks, not gun shots, and there are gun shots which are people shooting clay pigeons, not aiming at each other. When people ask me about Eastern Congo while I am sitting beneath a chandelier that is reflecting rainbows on intricately pattered wallpaper, and when I respond in a voice tinny to my own ears, it seems to me that I am making up stories, that I am lying – that these two worlds do no overlap, they cannot co-exist – that I never have been anywhere but here. <br />
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Space-travelers in the novels I used to read would fly for hours or years to get to their new planets, dependent on the universe created by their author. Me? I was up and down in the sky for 36 hours to get here. Miles above human habitation, I wasn’t quite closer to space than to terra firma, but I was still pretty high. I landed in an entirely different place, where people look different, talk different, dress different, and care about different things. I remind myself of those astronauts in those paperback books. I like imagining that this is a different planet entirely. <br />
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It’s not, though, a different planet entirely. On our one singular earth, everything is interconnected. The fiscal and structural architecture of our global society is one formation, and the life that I live here does impact the lives that people live there.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-6871061603481935372010-07-08T17:38:00.001-07:002010-07-08T17:38:45.340-07:00Back HomeI had my blood drawn today – which hurt like a witch – to be tested for schistosimiasis. The doctor came into the room flipping through a diagnostic book because he had no idea what it was I was asking to be tested for. That was concerning.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-77119393907337837452010-07-04T12:04:00.001-07:002010-07-04T13:40:47.971-07:004th July 2010Here in the United States on America’s 234th birthday, there are fat robins, manicured lawns, and paved sidewalks. The TV news channel headlines with “Janet Jackson Discusses Oil Spill”. I went to bright, shiny Old Navy and bought a new swimsuit because mine went missing in action three days ago when I was packing and there is a party at the city/country club pool that I am going to attend tonight with my parents and next-door neighbors, with brokers and businessmen and young pregnant wives.<br />
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Today, I’m typing this sitting on the kitchen counter of my childhood home with my feet in the sink, my laptop balanced on my lap. This is the only place I can find to grab wifi (with permission) from a neighbor.<br />
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Yesterday, I was on an airplane miles and miles and miles above the Atlantic Ocean. The airplane was crammed full of people: There were the teenage missionaries with their braids and bandanas, the hunters who didn’t want to pay $40,000 to kill an elephant so shot a leopard instead, the dozen white American couples clutching their newly adopted Ethiopian babies, and me. The kid next to me was reading a self-help book about leadership on his iPad. I’d never seen an iPad before. The yellowing pages of the book I was reading (about Robin Hood in Sherwood) kept falling out after the binding cracked when I turned a page.<br />
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Two days ago, I was also up on airplanes, one of the members of the lucky minority of this world who periodically get to look down on the clouds and chase sunshine across the sky. <br />
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Three days ago, I was in Eastern Congo.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-15572439634094390542010-07-02T06:30:00.001-07:002010-07-04T09:29:28.709-07:00Love love love part #2Yesterday – Thursday – was my last day in Goma – for the time being. As terrible last days and sad goodbyes go, it was pretty lovely.<br />
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Morning – I woke up and packed. That was awful. But then my sweet, darling friend C called and we decided to go get coffee. Waiting for C to pick me up, I climbed up into the guard tower and clutched the non-razor sections of the razor wire, looking out over the dusty street. Our guard P was up in the tower listening to music. She took one of the ear buds out of her ear and stuck it into my ear, so we listened to music together. It had a lovely beat with lyrics in Lingala. I pulled out a cigarette and offered one to P. Turns out, she’d never smoked before. So we shared a cigarette, one puff for me and one for you, and the whole time P giggled like a 13 year old sneaking behind the high school. Which made me giggle too. And we felt like young best friends acting silly. <br />
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C came and we drove to get coffee, whirling around the round-about with the golden chukudu statue. The golden man riding the golden chukudu was dressed in a basket ball uniform that must have been sewn on him, the colors of the Congo flag, decorated for Independence Day. We laughed at the wonderful sight and took pictures with everyone else.<br />
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We ordered Mochas at Nyira and they came with little cookies, and we sat with another friend, M, who told me how jealous she was of me for my unsurety about where my next job will take me and when the pieces will fall into place. She said that if she were me she would go to DC, sleep on her friends’ couches, and volunteer at the zoo. She said she’d watch my Facebook page for updates about playing with pandas and French classes that I could take at local libraries until the time came for me to leave the States again. She said it sounded unsure and perfect and wonderful.<br />
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C and I ate lunch together at my home, overlooking the lake, and A joined us. A was my first friend in Goma. I will always owe him a debt for his initial kindness to me when I was friendless and clueless about where I’d landed myself. My experience here would have been totally different and far less vibrant without either C or A.<br />
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After lunch, I went to K’s apartment building. K has been on vacation for the last ten days and I missed her terribly. She is one of the most hysterically funny and also one of the most pure, lovely, good people I know. It was three in the afternoon and we went to a fancy hotel and got glasses of white wine and sat by the lake watching the cranes and talked about every single thing in the whole wide world and my stomach muscles hurt from laughing. I’m so lucky to be her friend.<br />
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K’s wonderful wonderful partner J picked us up at the hotel in the evening and we went to the grocery store. They bought cheeses and grapes. A small handful of my dear friends came over to their house and we sat and watched crappy TV and ate cheese and grapes until past midnight.<br />
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Today – Friday – I woke up early and finished packing. I sobbed on H’s shoulder – sweet, supportive, darling H who I have lived with for the last 8 months – she and I had been living in our group house the longest of anyone. H gave me cookies and magazines for the airplane ride. My funny, kind housemate B made me a mixed tape. K also made me a mixed tape. I cried when I said goodbye to our chef, JB, and he gave me his phone number and made me promise to call. I hugged P goodbye and she started crying. My Cote d’Ivoirian housemate, J, called me by the Swahili name she had given me, which means “Joyous”. I rode the three hours to the Kigali airport with B and V, and V bought me a croissant and a water.<br />
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But then they left. And I was alone. <br />
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Sitting all alone in the coffee shop at the Kigali airport, crying quietly to myself, I pulled out my computer and opened up Skype. An old friend’s name popped up, a wonderful woman I haven’t talked to in months. I double-clicked on her name. And I began typing to her. I asked for stories about her life in Spain to take my mind off of my loneliness. And she told me about love, love, love. We talked about friend love, lover love, and family love. We talked about how damn DIFFICULT love is. And how impossible it is. But how difficult and impossible it is for everyone in the world – every single person. And so I stopped crying. Because I wasn’t sitting all alone in a coffee shop anymore. I looked around. I was sitting next to an old man who kept having to get up out of his chair to chase down his little granddaughter, who kept running hither and thither. I was sitting next to the waitresses, one of whom rolled her eyes and whispered something to the other, just at that moment, and laughed. I was sitting next to a young biracial couple, two tables down, and next to another woman jiggling a screaming baby on her knee. I was sitting in Rwanda beside my friend in Spain.<br />
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I do not make life easy for myself. My heart gets broken all the time. Sometimes somethings that would not hurt someone else very much will hurt me a great deal. But I think that this is okay. It is okay to be sad sometimes. I get sad because I love, I love, I love.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-36148832731347954372010-07-01T01:25:00.000-07:002010-07-01T01:30:04.013-07:00Love Love Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkR_PNUBZkjwGtRiME6lE17ygSweF-k-qdYhsKkFRhZwReEq9T0b570pHH4yxQB2Dv_ZdSerDa9DAC4tKbdbKToWEDfH0LBGxIzpsxtc0lXu9U959nYnAaN51aqbMZuztLfjAZDgSgNtY/s1600/IMG_6782.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GLEUaKFaFmx4VdrsO5jGyDXhnRbSQ3awk1AXVpPHnKKxFzLq_RUwz8IoVOYqd2AWwVWC0rw55md9SZytllsto8ZL0rnu7Z5yhU8oQcH0Iuh4R2_8SEQQSJI-HtycYjf6xBO-nS6i9RI/s1600/IMG_6783.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GLEUaKFaFmx4VdrsO5jGyDXhnRbSQ3awk1AXVpPHnKKxFzLq_RUwz8IoVOYqd2AWwVWC0rw55md9SZytllsto8ZL0rnu7Z5yhU8oQcH0Iuh4R2_8SEQQSJI-HtycYjf6xBO-nS6i9RI/s320/IMG_6783.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-27821491277582758302010-07-01T00:08:00.000-07:002010-07-01T01:17:00.317-07:00Thursday before Friday when I FlyWoke up early & got up out of bed to pack. That way I will have some time to spend with my dear friends today-my-last-day.<br />
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Took a break from packing and lay out on the hammock looking over the lake, puffing on a cigarette. I'm not a smoker, but I've allowed myself all the cigarrettes that I want this week because starting tomorrow I will be back in the land of $10 cigarettes and won't be able to afford them, anyway. So there's no worries about it becoming a habit.<br />
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A little tiny tiny little lizard crawls up next to me on the hammock, the same light green color as the hammock, with huge eyes, a tiny body, and huge toes. The songbirds are singing. The cormorants are fishing. The kingfishers are winging. The lake is the pastel green color it is in the mornings.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMnE5m-Uu9Sa8SVizzuWDSTcVJBnMyHdrkxnjOQH80HzerfPNbgHzWLYysr4iRvTA9S5v0maZ2wyKDe0UrKple2XCFsuZVY0cm_9snKthH43uk2PxQLGCA5fAv0v4hbQ84LK-AeYn-xA/s1600/IMG_6509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMnE5m-Uu9Sa8SVizzuWDSTcVJBnMyHdrkxnjOQH80HzerfPNbgHzWLYysr4iRvTA9S5v0maZ2wyKDe0UrKple2XCFsuZVY0cm_9snKthH43uk2PxQLGCA5fAv0v4hbQ84LK-AeYn-xA/s320/IMG_6509.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-48326086689018036242010-06-30T00:00:00.000-07:002010-06-29T21:58:24.714-07:00Lock-Down Day #2We are in lock-down yesterday and today, which means that we aren’t allowed to leave our compound. We’re locked down in it. One may conjecture that this would encourage me to have already begun packing. Ha. <br />
<br />
We are in lock-down because this week, today, 30th June, is the 50th anniversary of independence for the State of Congo/Zaire/DRC. There are worries of insecurity but none of my friends thinks the city will be attacked. The more plausible worry is small riots by overly excited citizens.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynGH8WDAHbPO7civOo-i4Tqy2NnwdM4WHNe8v31mTGfT-RD7i3SwNU5evFTIghBQIYlB-I-zNRGZLJWcbdvD3c7SwTidRZYCx5uUB-DUYg-diRYjvDrdeC4jKRlGAqGlrwkQrSmy4sYc/s1600/IMG_7870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgynGH8WDAHbPO7civOo-i4Tqy2NnwdM4WHNe8v31mTGfT-RD7i3SwNU5evFTIghBQIYlB-I-zNRGZLJWcbdvD3c7SwTidRZYCx5uUB-DUYg-diRYjvDrdeC4jKRlGAqGlrwkQrSmy4sYc/s320/IMG_7870.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yesterday we got a security SMS about a protest going on in front of the Governor’s building. There was a huge lottery advertized all month, the winners to be chosen this week. Apparently the losers were marching, chanting in anger. We snorted at the ridiculousness of gambling, losing, and then protesting your loss. But a Congolese friend told us that, while the government had all month promised that 1000 tickets would be winners, they actually stopped drawing numbers after the 440th. So people were legitimately upset.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-7420284310774932192010-06-29T11:37:00.001-07:002010-06-29T11:37:30.850-07:00First Day in Lock-DownGoodbyes are starting. I do not like goodbyes. One of my friends came to say “See ya later” today. We sat by the lake and talked. Then she left. I started to cry, so to feel better, I curled up in bed with two housemates and we watched reruns of Top Chef on a laptop.<br />
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The problem with this job is that when your contract ends, you not only lose your work and your office and your desk and your colleagues. You also lose your bedroom and your housemates and your friends and the city you’ve been living in and your daily rituals.<br />
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I like excitement. I like some measure of uncertainty. I don’t want any other career. But it’s not easy.<br />
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One day I will actually have a salary and so when my contracts end, I will be able to afford a trip to Zanzibar or to Petra or to Thailand to relax, to bookend assignments. Until then, I will be grateful for what I do have. Which is a lot. <br />
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It’s good to be sad about losing things, because it means that you have things to lose – and to remember when they are gone.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-38922060980968323052010-06-28T03:02:00.000-07:002010-06-28T05:27:49.540-07:00WeekendPlayed poker Saturday night, tag team with a friend. We lost all twenty bucks, but then when the World Cup game went into overtime, we bought back in. It was good we did – at the end of the night we ended up even. The joy of winning (or at least not losing) money mitigated the pain of the USA defeat at the (quick and nimble) feet of the Ghanaians. The inky lake stretched out beneath the porch and the water lapped at the lava rocks.<br />
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Spent Sunday lounging around the beach in Gisenyi with friends.<br />
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Tomorrow we go into lock-down and I will have to start packing.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-58958709242950297202010-06-25T08:56:00.000-07:002010-06-25T08:56:07.411-07:00Photos of the Sky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbRcziEXN0lgaQuF0R3wT5blycC9xbd9kObYm8w72NK2Ln_lhKDIukR6mr_baX36nt63nD1XzUjTYaGsKjxH1t3jqoqJ5y2zPx28l6BhpBNu4mMMD7XNJnyQjlFsv5RAsGEJp3BKtWbk/s1600/nyiragongo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbRcziEXN0lgaQuF0R3wT5blycC9xbd9kObYm8w72NK2Ln_lhKDIukR6mr_baX36nt63nD1XzUjTYaGsKjxH1t3jqoqJ5y2zPx28l6BhpBNu4mMMD7XNJnyQjlFsv5RAsGEJp3BKtWbk/s320/nyiragongo.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmnoaXMqEoOcoUDNrAymDc01FIlX_eKFfyVatp58kVj1QuxFq6cD5QplRvV4t682DF3wlwDBWjCAXfG72tLPvygnmCnB1YQNcwOr9zY25N8Lf8emxfufNh9W9AlAL5UqXKjbNZAUq6rs/s1600/sunset+from+the+veranda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmnoaXMqEoOcoUDNrAymDc01FIlX_eKFfyVatp58kVj1QuxFq6cD5QplRvV4t682DF3wlwDBWjCAXfG72tLPvygnmCnB1YQNcwOr9zY25N8Lf8emxfufNh9W9AlAL5UqXKjbNZAUq6rs/s320/sunset+from+the+veranda.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IkTCcve83fxfHDn94iRgtF6ikIJZLkWtTMOM6wL0phPgSN2XNFrCtXHAGe_YLR7KkKVdYo0IsgCBu1q1LJDMLo3BFXuxFX6hcl4Ethj7bouFAPGVI2GR0sb-zP_NzyvSba8gIlKFVn0/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IkTCcve83fxfHDn94iRgtF6ikIJZLkWtTMOM6wL0phPgSN2XNFrCtXHAGe_YLR7KkKVdYo0IsgCBu1q1LJDMLo3BFXuxFX6hcl4Ethj7bouFAPGVI2GR0sb-zP_NzyvSba8gIlKFVn0/s320/sunset.jpg" /></a></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-39214132585944615612010-06-23T03:47:00.000-07:002010-06-23T05:23:31.788-07:00ThanksReady for some initials? Here we go: My friends C and H and I went to dinner last night at IndBatt1 (a large MONUC compound) where my friend S lives and works with his friends R and P.<br />
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I met S here – I mean, here on the internet – before I met him here in Goma. He’s been a wonderful supportive friend, leaving me nice blog comments all the time, and then inviting me to dinner. It was a lovely dinner. The six of us sat in a circle on a wooden dock on the lake. A gentleman served us white wine (any drink we wanted, actually, and we chose white wine) and delicious cheesy <i>hors d’oeurves</i>. Kivu was flat as glass, black like ink, and the moon was bright. S and R and P told us about their homes in India, about their travels through North Kivu, about their jobs, about their daily routines. <br />
<br />
They told us how they used to swim in the lake until they saw a lake cobra slithering along the surface one afternoon. Sceptical? So was I. Then they showed us a picture of the lake cobra. Yes. That’s a cobra all right. C screamed at the photograph.<br />
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S showed us pictures of the north of India, where the land is elevated and dry as the desert and gray as the moon. He showed us photos of his adorable dark-eyed son back home. <br />
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We talked about security. Nobody at all thinks that any proverbial shit will hit spinning fans on the 30th, which is a relief to hear over and over, again and again. We compared curfews and talked about hippopotamuses and lions and communal living and life far from home. <br />
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There are so many of us living in Goma. There are the Congolese who come to Goma from other areas of the country because it is a city of opportunities. There are the Lebanese and other businessmen who move to Goma because you can make money here. There are the wealthy from other provinces who travel to Goma to vacation on the lake. There are the MONUC soldiers who are sent to Goma for their careers. There are the aid workers who sign up for Goma because they want to put EASTERN CONGO on their resumes. And last and sometimes viewed as least, but not least, God, never least, there are the men, women, youth, boys, girls, and babies who were born to inherit this city because their ancestors settled it and built and rebuilt it, defiantly, in the face of earthquakes and wars and volcanoes. Who will still be here when the rest of us ridiculous transients leave. <br />
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All of us live in our defined groups beneath our little labels. We live in funny non-concentric circles, our lives overlapping in weird and wonderful places like Venn diagrams but rarely blending, only touching. <br />
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But the luckiest of us are invited to partake in the experiences of the others.<br />
<br />
Thanks to S for the wonderful dinner and insight into how he lives here. Thanks to A for letting me meet and befriend his family. Thanks for JB and J for the hospitality and opening the doors of their homes. Thanks to C for letting me volunteer at his school. Thanks to N for opening his office. Thanks to etc etc etc. I’ve been lucky.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-20473391120385818192010-06-23T01:17:00.000-07:002010-06-23T01:46:49.859-07:00How to Break into "The Business"This is the career advice people have given me recently:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>Do ANYTHING to stay in Eastern Congo right now – even taking a very low paid position. You know this context. And being in “the field”, especially in a singular place, for a protracted period of time, will look great on your resume. Don’t get stuck at home.</li>
<li>Do NOT take another low paid or volunteer position. Go home. Stay and hold out for something great, something that will look better on your resume.</li>
<li>Go to an English speaking country – even if you don’t know the context. Get a job there and become really adept at it, and then, with confidence and resume built up, you can come back to a French speaking country.</li>
<li>Learn even more French. Become a fluent writer in French. Nothing will be better for your resume.</li>
<li>Stay with the organization you are with now. Institutional knowledge etc. Resume.</li>
<li>Get experience with a UN agency. Build a well-rounded resume. Here’s an easy way into the biz – become a UNV.</li>
<li>Do anything you want, but do NOT be a UNV. You’ll get burnt out and you’ll never actually get hired because everyone will still view you as a “volunteer”.</li>
</ol><br />
I mean, good heavens! Damn! <br />
<br />
Next question: What do me myself I want? <br />
<br />
A. I want to stay here. <br />
B. AND and and and I want to stay with this organization.<br />
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Deep down I’m a homebody who craves consistency. <br />
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I might be able to work out one or the other of those things, if I keep pestering people – but I can’t get both.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-1064965614096477612010-06-22T07:44:00.000-07:002010-06-22T07:46:14.974-07:00Science is Fun!On the LEFT: Rose hip tea made with steaming hot <i>bottled</i> water.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlo6bjnPK2UVkgtJWBPcoMyLtwXEfWWfdj3jvfjULJepSVK0tKdxAyPHv_uTxPmId1z3KKqEZl5WbvJ7FIelYlMITOXcMKzHtswQ2NwliIYdMgrfCIC5n1OGrfdzV-R5oX2LacH6Ywmw/s1600/IMG_7804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlo6bjnPK2UVkgtJWBPcoMyLtwXEfWWfdj3jvfjULJepSVK0tKdxAyPHv_uTxPmId1z3KKqEZl5WbvJ7FIelYlMITOXcMKzHtswQ2NwliIYdMgrfCIC5n1OGrfdzV-R5oX2LacH6Ywmw/s320/IMG_7804.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
On the RIGHT: Rose hip tea made with boiled Goma tap water.<br />
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Hmm.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-4543249907550213742010-06-21T08:34:00.001-07:002010-06-21T12:51:54.567-07:00what we talk about when we talk about loveYou wake up yesterday morning – late, because it is Sunday – and you roll yourself out of bed. Slip beneath the mosquito netting into the pink light of the day. You pull on socks and tennies, not the 500 franc flip-flops your feet are used to wearing. A baseball cap. Shorts – shorts! A ratty gray tee-shirt that says <i>PITTSBURGH – City of 446 Bridges</i>. You walk out onto the crackly gravel of the driveway and find a chauffeur. <br />
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Fifteen minutes later you pull up to the local tennis courts – brown clay, dusty, beneath the brilliant sun of the dry season. Beside a water source swarming with small children clutching jerry cans. The tennis pro grins and greets you in French and you respond easily, in French, and he loans you his light, tightly strung pink racket. Beneath the brilliant hot sun, dust clings to sweat turning your skin red. You smash the ball into the net, over the ratty fence, and sometimes, once in a while, into the opposing court. You beat one of your dear good friends in THREE GAMES. Three games! Three whole games are yours, yours, yours, you WIN them. It doesn’t matter that those three games are out of a total of thirteen. You scream with glee and gloat and run to the net to laugh.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
<i>Nighttime Recipe: </i>Tired tired tired from a long week, open your bedroom door. SKITTER SKITTER SKATTER! There goes a tiny black crab skirting sideways across your floor. Rush upstairs to breathlessly tell your housemates. Swing around and run back down to your bedroom clutching a broom. Sweep the silly little guy into your orange plastic trashcan. In the soft breezes beneath the stars, carry him to freedom by the lake, gently over turning the basin. Bang on the basin – it’s for his own damn benefit! – when he won’t unpinch his tiny claws. Watch him skuttle away and feel GOOD about saving his life, about your contribution to the life force, about one more small soul still attached to its earthly body because of YOU. Return to your room. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Pull on PJs. Pull down mosquito netting. Switch off light. Crawl deep beneath crisp clean sheets. Clutch your stuffed penguin. Shut your eyes and breathe deep and GURGLE GURGLE BURBLE SCRATCH! <br />
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Snap open your eyes. <br />
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Kneel on your bed. Fumble for your flashlight. Swing the light across the floor. See a tiny black claw sticking out from beneath your blue pumps. <br />
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Repeat.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Two of your dear wonderful friends are in Zanzibar. Barring security crises which are very unlikely to come to pass, and barring delayed flights which are much more likely, they will be home in Goma three days before you leave. They have promised – PROMISED! – to bring you a shell.<br />
<br />
Spirals of shells can be distilled into beautifully pure mathematical formulas. Your recognition of that is the closest you come to believing in religion, and it’s enough.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Today the waters of Lake Kivu, filled with crabs and shells and the bones of murdered beloved people and fish and methane gases and white capped waves, are brilliant bright blue, like Renaissance paintings of heaven in the sky.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7881089327837191443.post-76226522664282204622010-06-21T00:57:00.000-07:002010-06-21T02:58:56.910-07:00Necessity/HopeHave you seen the movie “The Stepford Wives”? Friends who live in Gisenyi tell stories of midnight police visits – knock knock knocks on their doors. “You don’t have enough flowers in your garden,” the police will say, or “Excuse me. Your gate is 13 centimeters higher than regulation.” Yeah. Just like that.<br />
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Homes and small businesses that are built too close to the road, according to the “regulations”, get a bid red <b style="color: red;">X</b> spray painted on them and get smashed in with sledgehammers. <br />
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In the last few months the mayor of Goma has undertaken a similar campaign. In a province where the average daily income is well under a buck, shacks where people scrape by meager livings, support their families by selling cigarettes and flip-flops, have been broken into and destroyed – for what? For the aesthetic improvement of not having them roadside. <br />
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A man I know, N – a lovely guy with a wife and kids and an okay job (not quite what he wants to do in life, but hey, a job) – got a frantic phone call at work last month. The mayor and his team of army men were at N’s house banging down the gate. Heart in throat, N sprinted out of work and flagged down the first <i>boda-boda</i> he saw. Clinging to the back of the motorcycle he urged the driver to go faster and faster over the lava flow roads but even so – when he got home, his house, his home was all but demolished. The army men had looted it. N grabbed what possessions were left and hid them in the homes of his neighbors.<br />
<br />
N’s home wasn’t too close to the road. He has all the evidence to prove that, and he brought that evidence to the mayor. “Whoops! My bad,” said the mayor. N has taken his evidence to the courts, and the judge will rule in N’s favor – he will have to. But even when N wins – nothing, nothing at all is likely to happen. No compensation, nothing. He had a home and possessions. Now he doesn’t. He’ll scrape together what he can and he and his family, together, they’ll rebuild.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Yesterday, Sunday, I took advantage of the hospitality of one of my colleagues, F, and went to his home to meet his wife and children, to eat chips and fried bananas, to drink a beer and watch the World Cup on his flat screen TV (except when the kids batted their huge eyelashes at their daddy and he let them change the channel to cartoons, “Just for ten minutes, though, kids,” because he’s a pushover and loves them so). In Goma, city of devastating poverty and ghastly riches, F is one of the few members of the solidly middle class.<br />
<br />
But. But but but. 2002. F had met a lovely woman at University – a freshman when he was a senior. He had waited four years for her to finish her studies. He had finally felt free to propose. She said “Yes”. Both sets of parents agreed. Dowries were collected. And two weeks, no more than two weeks before the wedding date there was a trembling underfoot, deep in the ground. Nyiragongo. Lava spewed up and took everything. Not their lives, and not the clothes on their backs, but absolutely everything else. Possessions, money, their homes. The banks burned down. They fled deep into Rwanda and slept outside beneath the stars. Overnight, they went from excited youths planning their wedding to homeless people living day-to-day. <br />
<br />
But then. Slowly, slowly. Somehow, somehow. Where does that type of strength come from? From necessity and with hope and through love. They rebuilt.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053170860539726466noreply@blogger.com0