In the Kibira Mountains...the last strip of forest in Burundi:
Hanging out with Miss Emma, letting our toenail polish dry:
The boys kicking around the "football" in the front yard:
Spaghetti feast the other night with care package goodies from both our sweet mamas (and Grace's mom Lois!), our rad sister Virginia, and our favorite Southerner Christie:
Umm...yeah. No real explanation. How did we end up in the same position?
My cool handmade crafts from a women's peace cooperative I visited yesterday. The women have all lost husbands to tribal violence, and they get together with other women (including those from the enemy tribes) and make crafts while talking about peace and forgiveness.
Don't you love these placemats? Hand-woven with love. And these funky cloth napkins? We always use cloth napkins at home instead of paper anyway since they're more eco-friendly (oops that makes us sound so granola...will you still hang out with us even though we're dorks?)
This week some friends from New Jersey are visiting the house, and one friend, who had been reading our blog, leaned over to me after a few days here and said "You really weren't kidding about every meal being the same". I have mentioned before the slight lack of variety in the local diet. So, remember that old gem "necessity is the mother of invention"? We have taken what we have and have made some delectable (read: edible) fusions that I am sure will make you want to run to the grocery store and make them for dinner tonight.
As background, I should let you know that in a care package a little while ago, a blessed event occured: an angel (you know who you are!) sent along a bottle of ranch dressing. Oh, glorious day. This was treated in our household as a cause for much jubilation and celebration. Since we have recieved this little bottle of white gold (memo to our readers from Baltimore: not that white gold.) we have created a culinary game of exploration, to see how we can creatively use this delicious blend of spices, buttermilk, and a bunch other other ingredients that I can't pronounce and that are probably toxic preservatives. For good measure, we will also allow other surprising condiments that have arrived by care package in our little competition. But I digress.
101 (Okay, Maybe Less) Unconventional Uses of Ranch Dressing (And Other Blessed Condiments From the Continent of North America)
peas and ranch = definitely edible ugali (ground cassava flour paste) and ranch = doable, but not for the faint of heart
ugali and ketchup = no, no, no. pineapple and garlic = only in dire circumstances
pineapple and ranch = not recommended boiled potatoes and ranch = the "why haven't I tried this before?" winner bananas and ranch = ...try at your own risk plain ketchup squeezed in to the mouth = classic. plain ranch dressing squeezed into the mouth = somewhat less so. fried plantains and ranch = eh. could be worse. parmesan cheese = good on anything and everything (even pineapple). lima beans and ranch = this should come with a warning label
rice and ranch = begs the question "why?"
peas and ketchup = only if Pepto is handy
pineapple and ketchup = face-puckering
Grand Prize of Culinary Creativity goes to our lovely friend Grace, for her incredible burst of innovation: rice with pineapple, soy sauce, and dried garlic and onion - we might be on to something.
We, of course, are not flying solo this summer. We live in a big house full of people! To get an idea of those we're sharing our summer with, check this out.
On a recent hike in the Kibira forest (Hike? Us? Long story...we'll tell you about it another time)
Being a gentleman on aforementioned hike
So, I am going to take a moment here to tell you about my sweet sweet husband Ron. In Africa, he has been rechristened Nahimana, which means "I am here because it is God's way" (appropriate, yes?). At home, Ron is an engineer. In Africa, Nahimana is a rock star.
Principally, Nahimana is a rock star because he has some pretty decent Kirundi skills - rare for a white visitor to Burundi. He is even able to pray entirely in Kirundi when asked, which is pretty often, seeing as he's quite a novelty.
We take walks sometimes in the middle of the day, just around the neighborhood, and the neighbors and those on the street call out his name as we pass, and wave at him like a celebrity. Sometimes, little children, girls especially (Nahimana is quite popular with the ladies, even the baby ones) will come up and try good naturedly to speak to us in English after our Kirundi is exhausted. ("Hello, how are you?" they carefully enunciate, giggling wildly). Then they shyly take his hand. Seems I have some competition.
Nahimana also is a hero on the local soccer pitch, where he makes waves and gathers a crowd every time he plays. He plays in a part of town where there probably isn't another white person in a 3-mile radius, and we are treated with the appropriate curiosity. One day he took a dive for the team and ended up taking all the skin of his left kneecap. It created a scab that covered his whole knee and it oozed rainbows of pus for three weeks. Disgusting. This, however, earned him a lot of respect from his teammates and they are now quite interested in the scar. Men are strange and unfathomable creatures.
Warning to those at home: Nahimana is quite taken with the concept of African time. Good luck getting him to show up on time for anything ever again. If we are running "late" (admittedly a relative concept here), he'll dismiss me with a wave of his hand and "Buke, buke", our shorthand version of the African proverb "Slowly slowly the banana ripens".
Nahimana is also quite popular due to his dancing skills. Africans love to have their white guests come up to dance, so that they may all have a group laugh over what seems to be the entire white world's inexplicable lack of rhythm. (A Ugandan friend said to me recently in worship, "Just stand next to me and clap when I clap. Your people have trouble with this part.") But Ron actually gets up there and dances with the best of him. He has had honorary tribe membership bestowed on him more than once after he has successfully danced to the beat of a song.
In all, Ron is thriving in Africa and I think it will be difficult for him to transition back to life as a non-celebrity.
Even in the poorest country on the planet, there are relative levels of privilege. The poorest of the poor in Burundi are the small tribe known as the Batwa. The indigenous inhabitants of the Great Lakes region, they thrived for centuries in the forest as nomadic hunter-gatherers. Due to the influx of pastoralist and agricultural communities, the Batwa were soon exiled from what little forest remained. Deprived of their natural source of sustenance, they were also summarily dispossessed of their lands with no legal recourse. Instead, they turned to economic activities with quick returns: pottery, day laborers, and domestic workers. Discrimination often prevents them from gaining employment in the latter two, and as industrialized products become more widely available, even their pottery has become economically insufficient. They live in abject poverty. Even other Burundians, who are no strangers to poverty, are shocked and devastated when exposed to the conditions of the Batwa.
Today, the Batwa are the victims of total unofficial segregation. They are excluded from eating or drinking with those of other tribal backgrounds, visiting their homes, and intermarrying with others. They are not allowed to touch eating and cooking implements, approach too close, or sit on the same benches at schools and medical clinics. They must collect water downstream from others, remain on the margins of public space and, when selling goods in markets, can only sit on the outskirts, away from other sellers.
Last Sunday, Ron and I went with Claude and Kelley and other friends to visit the nearby Batwa village. As you can imagine, no matter what you have read or heard about a situation, nothing can prepares you for the experience of it.
Their village is about 40 minutes outside the city. We drove there on a hot, still day, when the mid-afternoon hush had settled over the land. We turned off the main road and onto a dirt road of sorts - mostly just a trail where the occasional passing car had already flattened the dry reed grasses. We drove on this road for several miles before our van bottomed out too many times on the rough terrain, forcing us to walk the last 200 yards or so. As we came closer, however, the children saw us and excitedly called for their friends and family, and before we knew it we were surrounded by smiling and politely curious Batwa.
Officially, they have inhabited this plot of land for only three days. They began the tedious task of clearing the hillside of trees and undergrowth a month ago when the government informed them they would be moving from their previous location, which is about nine miles away. While we are there, we get the news that the government has already told them to move again, to the other side of the hill. The government “doesn’t want to have to see them” from their side of the valley”. The other side of the hill will require even more work to clear than the side they are on now.
When we first arrived, everyone wanted to shake our hand, as if simply wanting to touch us. They were wide-eyed and unbelieving that we had come to visit them. The children gathered around curiously, with the brave ones sometimes daring to run up and say hello, or to touch our clothes or skin, to the nervous giggles of their friends. They are, without exception, very skinny.
As more and more onlookers flocked around, an impromptu song and dance session broke out, borne out of the joy of having visitors. Their smiles were wide and their dances athletic and rhythmic. Their voices are strong, and all, even the smallest, know to clap along.
I closed my eyes and took in the sounds; the rustlind grasses, the clapping, the singing. Not too far away, a baby wailed, a desperate cry that bore little resemblance to the whimpering, cooing cries of well-fed babies. These are wails of hunger. The Batwa people in this particular village eat only two or three times per week. Not per day. Per week. Similarly, because the nearest water source is miles and miles away, one liter (about two regular water bottles) must last an entire family or two days or more. The people are constantly thirsty, and their skin is dusty and cracked from chronic dehydration. The tall reed grasses blow desolately in the hot, dry wind, kicking up dust on the parched rows of wilted crops. There is no shade and no respite from the burning African sun.
People were dressed in rags; filthy, ripped rags. They have probably worn the same clothes for most of their lives, and they are their only possessions.
As we were ready to leave, I felt a light touch on my arm. I turned and saw the desperate, pleading eyes of a young mother. She plucked at her baby's filthy and tattered clothes, as if to say, "I am hungry and my baby is in rags. Please help." I was unable to turn away, and as a tear welled up in my chest and threatened to burst forth, a tear welled up in her eye too.
The Batwa are a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, resilient people. They are more than their circumstances.
As with all the assaults on human dignity that occur daily in this part of the world, the eternal question is, what is my responsibility? Now that I have seen this, I cannot walk away untouched. Their humanity stands mutely as a rebuke against the demons of greed, consumerism, apathy, and gluttony.
The slideshow, of course, could never have been crafted and loaded from here. Many, many thanks to my wonderful friend Christie who is not only beautiful and talented but who also has the sense of humor to sort through a motley batch of photos from a friend in Africa and make a piece of art out of it.
1. Whatever's in the food is the food. Bugs, rocks...get over it. You asked for variety in your diet, right?
2. DEET is the new Chanel No. 5.
3. A white person speaking Kirundi is a cause for great mirth. Your very existence in this moment of your life is amusing.
4. Cleanliness is highly relative. Especially when you must plan your shower schedule around when the city delivers water to your neighborhood.
5. Buke, buke bukomeza igihonyi. Slowly, slowly the banana ripens. This wisdom is best applied to every facet of life.
6. Celine Dion cannot be escaped anywhere in the world.
7. White skin is abnormal and strange. Any mention of sunburn in particular is regarded as an occasion for extreme hilarity and inquiries as to your general hardiness as a human being.
8. Our collective western imagination is severely limited in envisioning the kinds of things that may be efficiently carried on a bicycle. Ditto the human head.
9. All Kenyans are related to Barack Obama, or have a story of how they are related to Barack Obama - no matter how fantastically exaggerated these connections are. In fact, if you would like to instigate immediate social suicide (for whatever reason), immediately stand up and announce that you are voting for John McCain. Then run and hide. But beware. They will sniff you out.
10. What side of the road do Africans drive on? The smoothest side.
11. Beware of Nigerian movies dubbed in Kirundi. They are of questionable cinematic merit. And the dubbers don't find it important to silence the original dialogue, so the two languages are simply blended together in what sounds like nonsensical babble.
12. "Pull my finger" does not have a direct translation into Kirundi. Enough said. No further inquiries please.
13. A "beauty saloon", unfortunately, does not have a bar inside.
14. When Africans start shrugging their shoulders and saying "ah well... T.I.A., This Is Africa", you know you are in trouble.
15. When you pick up a package at the post office, make sure you have cash on you. At home, this would be called "extortion". Here, it is called "mandatory reimbursement for delivery services rendered".
Pictures = good internet connection today. Lucky lucky you!
With care package items in Uganda...don't we look happy?
Chatting with some Kenyan friends
Ron's jam session with some buds
So, many of you have asked what types of wild safari animals we have encountered here in Africa. Sightings of desirably interesting exotic animals have been few and far between, but it is true that we’ve had more encounters with nature than we would have at home.
We have exactly three mosquitoes living inside our bathroom toilet. Before you dare to sit, you must first wave your hand quickly over the bowl several times, hopefully causing enough air disturbance to make them flee. Otherwise, you will have given these mosquitoes a feast – the equivalent of a double whopper delivered right to their front door. All white meat, if you know what I mean.
In fact our bathroom is a veritable panacea of wildlife. We also have a gecko living behind our bathroom mirror. We have named him Geico the Gecko, and we like him and he is our first pet. Although recently Geico was very roguish indeed when he appeared one day with baby geckos. Apparently “he” is a “she”, and we ought to adjust our gender pronoun accordingly.
We also have large – very large – grasshoppers, which have the distasteful habit of flying around in chaotic zig-zag patterns. Having one hit you in the side of the face is a startling and unpleasant experience indeed. And don’t even get me started on the Mutant Cockroaches Which Must Have Migrated Here From Chernobyl.
Other wildlife sightings include the rat that lives in our neighbor’s backyard that is big enough to be seen from three stories up. Barf. I don’t mind insects and little buggy creatures so much, but I draw a hard and fast line at snakes and rats. The neighbor also has a pet monkey, which occasionally makes lewd gestures at pretty girls.
Speaking of our little plague-inducing friends, one day we were at the market when there was a disturbance on one of the shelves, which turned out to be a large black rat. The shopkeeper excused himself (with some measure of dignity, which I’m not quite sure how he managed) and marched over to that rat and picked it up in his meaty fist, took it outside, and flung it over the roof of the building. I was astounded. I kept thinking that there was probably a poor kid on the other side of that building, playing soccer in his yard or whatever, when out of the clear blue sky a big black rat came and hit him in the face. Sigh. It’s a tough world.
In town, there are curious number of establishments that play host to packs of wild cats. Now these are not the darling, sweet, playful cats that live in some people's imaginations (although the rest of us know that, with rare exception, they are a savage, barely domesticated species who consistently make you feel inferior to themselves). These cats are mangy and wild-eyed and have fleas. I feel very suspicious of these cats.
There are also herds of turkeys in our neighborhood. And no, we do not live on Old McDonald’s farm, though it may sound as such. There are one or two big, ugly turkeys and many little turkey babies. I wonder what the purpose of these are, since I have never actually seen or heard of a turkey being eaten in this part of the world, and to my knowledge you can not make an omelet out of their unborn.
And lastly, the entire Great Rift Valley in Africa seems patrolled by cows with horns as tall as me and with the girth of my thigh. The cows themselves seem docile enough, but these horns are terrifying and I do not like them. My sister Emily has an irrational fear of cows, which, she would be happy to know, is not so irrational here in Burundi.
So that is the relative extent of our wildlife experience. If it sounds exciting, then you have gotten more out of the description than we have gotten out of the experience, we promise you.
And while we do hope to see an elephant or hippo or something postcard-worthy one of these days, we do hope that Gustave the man-eating crocodile stays away.
We thought, after the Rwanda Air Express flight that we told you about, that we would have no more sketchy travel stories to share. That was before we experienced the Great East African Bus Adventure. Last week, we went to Kampala, Uganda, to help host the Amahoro Summer Institute. The ride was a coma-inducing 14 hours (17 on the way back since the transmission gave out and we switched buses), on a packed public bus, which smelled pungently of a little scent we will refer to delicately as B.O. With erratic bathroom breaks, no food breaks, and certainly no seventh-inning stretches, we went, as gamely as we were able. The bus careened around precariously narrow mountain roads at breakneck speeds, utterly disrespectful of the fact that we could at any point find ourselves sharing the road in a most uncomfortable way (read: head-on collision). But, we arrived in one piece, surely helped along by my repeated prayer "God, please tell us you did not bring us all the way to Africa so that we could die on a bus".
Kampala was fantastic; a vivacious, bustling, relatively prosperous African city. It was a bit of a shock after being in our little Bujumbura, which, for all its personality, is definitely much smaller and more provincial than Kampala. Our hotel was great - it featured hot water (I pretty much showered twice a day because it was so awesome) and great food, including not-so-delectable local delicacy chicken gizzards (kind of like fried chicken on the fourth of July, right? Right?).
The conference itself was absolutely amazing, and I will have to write more about it at another time. So many intelligent people in one room, all throwing around theological ideas like heavyweights. It was invigorating. Many friends we saw in Kampala are people we originally met in Rwanda in May, so it was great to be able to reconnect. Some of the greatest people in the world are living in Uganda, and if you ever get a chance to see them or their country, I would highly recommend it.
Another highlight of our trip came when our American friend Jimmy Farley (bless his heart) and his team showed up with care packages from friends and family in the back home. Ron said it was like Christmas morning. Thanks especially to my best bud Christie, who knows I have an unholy fondness for cheezits and still loves me anyway, and my sweet mama who sent along a box of mac and cheese, among other delectable goodies. Jimmy also left behind some books and magazines and it is our fervent hope that God blesses him with peace and prosperity and unlimited chocolate sundaes and whatever else his heart desires as a reward for his services.
All in all, it was a great trip. Beautiful friends, beautiful country, beautiful memories. But don't expect us to hop on another bus anytime soon.
Don't you love these placemats? Hand-woven with love. And these funky cloth napkins? We always use cloth napkins at home instead of paper anyway since they're more eco-friendly (oops that makes us sound so granola...will you still hang out with us even though we're dorks?)
Don't you love these placemats? Hand-woven with love. And these funky cloth napkins? We always use cloth napkins at home instead of paper anyway since they're more eco-friendly (oops that makes us sound so granola...will you still hang out with us even though we're dorks?)
