Friday, August 8, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
My oh my, so many thoughts
So where even to begin.
Whether it is a combination of being alone for long stretches of time, and thus with lots and lots of time for contemplation, or it is the surreal environment of Kigali, I’m not too sure – but every time I sat down to write this entry, I became simply overwhelmed by a strong urge to write everything and anything. What I thought as I talked to my fellow hotel-mate, Anna. What I thought as I had dinner with some Korean expats here.What I felt watching some school kids at the Genocide Memorial, or how I really want to react when some cocky guy on a motorcycle zooms by, yelling “muzungu!” (hint: it is illegal in every country). So every time I turn my lap top on, I shut it back down, simply because I don’t know where to begin.
Maybe I will try with last night’s dinner: I had dinner with a couple of Korean IT guys, here in Kigali as part of Rwanda’s lets-go-high-tech plan. The loneliness, especially aggravated by the extreme language barrier (the guys don’t really speak English, neither does most of the Rwandans, and let’s face it, none of them are even trying to learn kinyarwandan) pulls people together – honestly, what are the chances that we would meet in Korea under normal circumstances? 5 30-ish tech dudes with wives and children, and one 20 something college student. Some might say, smells sketchy. But here, we are all buddies, bonding over some poorly made kimchi and a sad attempt at some other Korean staples. Nationality is a funny thing – I always want to be the post-modern child, keenly aware that national identity is yet another constructed label – but find myself giggling away at their geeky jokes, sitting in a room full of strangers in total ease, just because we are Korean. Perhaps hypocritical on my part? Or inevitable? More like, convenient?
And shall we progress on to my afternoon of frustration? Trying to contact some people at the British Embassy and Television Rwandais, I experienced the pitfalls of mad bureaucracy. No miss, this is not my responsibility, let me refer you to my colleague, Robin. Well I just came from Robin. Oh, then Dave. Damn you all. Is your boss in? Let me check, nope, his car is not in the parking lot. Do you know when he gets back? Nope. Do you know anything about your boss’s schedule, given that you are his secretary? Pardon? Never mind. Au revoir. (Damn you). Some of the kids near I live shout out: why so busy? Why hurry muzungu? When I speed by them, en route to a meeting or just to grab some fanta orange from the supermarket. Maybe my ‘normal’ speed of life is not really ‘normal’, and perhaps I should enjoy the slow, simple life – but you know, there is something to be said of getting things done. Waiting is just, goddamn boring.
Now seems to be a good time to let out my rage when cheeky guys of all age yell out “muzungu!”: not that I am particularly angry at people calling me muzungu, I guess I am around here – but hey, if you think its indecent to call out after a Rwandan girl like she is some cute dog, its indecent to do that to a foreigner too. A simple bonjour, ca va, you do to your countrymen would suffice for the muzungu too. (I am also a very dangerous person. Seriously.)
Anyone a big fan of order and discipline? Because I’m not: My day started with an early morning meeting at the Memorial Center, which ended up being a late morning meeting, as meetings often do around here. I stretched out on a bench in the gardens, to write a blog entry and perhaps go over some questions I had before starting the meeting. Sooner or later, I realized I was sitting amidst a prong of Rwandans – solemn, sullen, and frighteningly silent. A group of thirty something Rwandans in their Sunday best and often with a purple scarf around their neck, was standing in stoic silence, two by two, in front of the front door of the memorial. No one had asked them to stand in line, but there was no moving, no chit chat, nothing. Like soldiers bowing to an unseen authority, they all stood in the morning heat in silence. ‘Order’ is, indeed, an interesting thing. People often associate chaos with pain and suffering, and order with peace and stability – however, the equation is often not that simple. I always get this weird feeling in my stomach when I see ‘order’ of that sort – it always seems more like a calm before a storm. Peace, in my opinion, should be a orderly chaos, the freedom of mind to ask your friend how he felt about the exhibit, or sit down in the shade when the sun is blazing down. I asked Emmanuel and Honoré, two guides I have befriended of what is going on. They answered it was a group of ‘locals’, perhaps from the same village or school district, gathered for a tour of the center to sensitize themselves to what is genocide, and how it can be prevented, etc. Noble attempt. But there was something of their silence that bothered me throughout – what is under that silence? Forgiveness, strength to cope, or just simmering hatred?
And finally, never did I think I would be inspired by a man named James Smith: After meeting a handful of people at the documentation center, I bounded up the stairs to where the enigmatic ‘James Smith’ was meeting, hoping I could get a quick five minutes with him. What I got out of my prolonged five minutes (turned out to be more than 20) was nothing I had bargained for, but nonetheless still a fresh shock and fresh inspiration. He showed exasperated resignation almost when I told him the purpose of the trip – Rwanda doesn’t need any more critiques, academic endeavors, etc. Rwanda needs solutions. Rwanda needs answers, ways out. Stop doing things that will get on the next issue of some Oxford University press magazine – do something that will actually change the Murambi memorial. What Rwanda needs is the stability, integrity and expertise of your institution. I had to argue back, for the sake of my ‘institution’- what we are doing is yes, academic, but that is not because we are blind or complacent. Maybe sometimes. But things are a bit more complicated – we are, after all, an academic institution. Each institution speaks in its own language – and in order for Harvard to be in Rwanda, be the Harvard Rwanda wants it to be, it must first persuade itself in its own language; the language of the academia. You have to rally your own troops before you charge forward. Perhaps he bought it, perhaps he didn’t. He has a point – but I do think I had one too. But in the end, I emerged from this impromptu meeting a little overwhelmed, a little ashamed, and a whole lot inspired. Some people, indeed, do make things happen. This post did not do James Smith justice - perhaps I will return to our conversation, once I got his points all processed and internalized.
Whew. My oh my, what an odd place I am at.
Whether it is a combination of being alone for long stretches of time, and thus with lots and lots of time for contemplation, or it is the surreal environment of Kigali, I’m not too sure – but every time I sat down to write this entry, I became simply overwhelmed by a strong urge to write everything and anything. What I thought as I talked to my fellow hotel-mate, Anna. What I thought as I had dinner with some Korean expats here.What I felt watching some school kids at the Genocide Memorial, or how I really want to react when some cocky guy on a motorcycle zooms by, yelling “muzungu!” (hint: it is illegal in every country). So every time I turn my lap top on, I shut it back down, simply because I don’t know where to begin.
Maybe I will try with last night’s dinner: I had dinner with a couple of Korean IT guys, here in Kigali as part of Rwanda’s lets-go-high-tech plan. The loneliness, especially aggravated by the extreme language barrier (the guys don’t really speak English, neither does most of the Rwandans, and let’s face it, none of them are even trying to learn kinyarwandan) pulls people together – honestly, what are the chances that we would meet in Korea under normal circumstances? 5 30-ish tech dudes with wives and children, and one 20 something college student. Some might say, smells sketchy. But here, we are all buddies, bonding over some poorly made kimchi and a sad attempt at some other Korean staples. Nationality is a funny thing – I always want to be the post-modern child, keenly aware that national identity is yet another constructed label – but find myself giggling away at their geeky jokes, sitting in a room full of strangers in total ease, just because we are Korean. Perhaps hypocritical on my part? Or inevitable? More like, convenient?
And shall we progress on to my afternoon of frustration? Trying to contact some people at the British Embassy and Television Rwandais, I experienced the pitfalls of mad bureaucracy. No miss, this is not my responsibility, let me refer you to my colleague, Robin. Well I just came from Robin. Oh, then Dave. Damn you all. Is your boss in? Let me check, nope, his car is not in the parking lot. Do you know when he gets back? Nope. Do you know anything about your boss’s schedule, given that you are his secretary? Pardon? Never mind. Au revoir. (Damn you). Some of the kids near I live shout out: why so busy? Why hurry muzungu? When I speed by them, en route to a meeting or just to grab some fanta orange from the supermarket. Maybe my ‘normal’ speed of life is not really ‘normal’, and perhaps I should enjoy the slow, simple life – but you know, there is something to be said of getting things done. Waiting is just, goddamn boring.
Now seems to be a good time to let out my rage when cheeky guys of all age yell out “muzungu!”: not that I am particularly angry at people calling me muzungu, I guess I am around here – but hey, if you think its indecent to call out after a Rwandan girl like she is some cute dog, its indecent to do that to a foreigner too. A simple bonjour, ca va, you do to your countrymen would suffice for the muzungu too. (I am also a very dangerous person. Seriously.)
Anyone a big fan of order and discipline? Because I’m not: My day started with an early morning meeting at the Memorial Center, which ended up being a late morning meeting, as meetings often do around here. I stretched out on a bench in the gardens, to write a blog entry and perhaps go over some questions I had before starting the meeting. Sooner or later, I realized I was sitting amidst a prong of Rwandans – solemn, sullen, and frighteningly silent. A group of thirty something Rwandans in their Sunday best and often with a purple scarf around their neck, was standing in stoic silence, two by two, in front of the front door of the memorial. No one had asked them to stand in line, but there was no moving, no chit chat, nothing. Like soldiers bowing to an unseen authority, they all stood in the morning heat in silence. ‘Order’ is, indeed, an interesting thing. People often associate chaos with pain and suffering, and order with peace and stability – however, the equation is often not that simple. I always get this weird feeling in my stomach when I see ‘order’ of that sort – it always seems more like a calm before a storm. Peace, in my opinion, should be a orderly chaos, the freedom of mind to ask your friend how he felt about the exhibit, or sit down in the shade when the sun is blazing down. I asked Emmanuel and Honoré, two guides I have befriended of what is going on. They answered it was a group of ‘locals’, perhaps from the same village or school district, gathered for a tour of the center to sensitize themselves to what is genocide, and how it can be prevented, etc. Noble attempt. But there was something of their silence that bothered me throughout – what is under that silence? Forgiveness, strength to cope, or just simmering hatred?
And finally, never did I think I would be inspired by a man named James Smith: After meeting a handful of people at the documentation center, I bounded up the stairs to where the enigmatic ‘James Smith’ was meeting, hoping I could get a quick five minutes with him. What I got out of my prolonged five minutes (turned out to be more than 20) was nothing I had bargained for, but nonetheless still a fresh shock and fresh inspiration. He showed exasperated resignation almost when I told him the purpose of the trip – Rwanda doesn’t need any more critiques, academic endeavors, etc. Rwanda needs solutions. Rwanda needs answers, ways out. Stop doing things that will get on the next issue of some Oxford University press magazine – do something that will actually change the Murambi memorial. What Rwanda needs is the stability, integrity and expertise of your institution. I had to argue back, for the sake of my ‘institution’- what we are doing is yes, academic, but that is not because we are blind or complacent. Maybe sometimes. But things are a bit more complicated – we are, after all, an academic institution. Each institution speaks in its own language – and in order for Harvard to be in Rwanda, be the Harvard Rwanda wants it to be, it must first persuade itself in its own language; the language of the academia. You have to rally your own troops before you charge forward. Perhaps he bought it, perhaps he didn’t. He has a point – but I do think I had one too. But in the end, I emerged from this impromptu meeting a little overwhelmed, a little ashamed, and a whole lot inspired. Some people, indeed, do make things happen. This post did not do James Smith justice - perhaps I will return to our conversation, once I got his points all processed and internalized.
Whew. My oh my, what an odd place I am at.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
A Lone Researcher
It’s rather funny to think that back home, as I was packing in Korea, my mother and grandmother(s) were so concerned about the weather here in Kigali. Yes, it is rather hot during the day, and a bit muggy and the city always seems to be enveloped in a certain fog / dust for the most part, but it is actually far, far easier to breathe than in Seoul. Monsoons don’t happen in developed countries, my friend used to say, but Seoul is a great big exception – we have something that strongly resembles a rainy season. The weather, in other words, was horrendous when I left, with temperature up to 31 degrees (celsius) and rain incessant. It is, on the other hand, the dry season here in Kigali. The sun is out, the humidity is low (or non-existent) and the mornings are reasonably cool and days pleasantly hot. In other words, it is rather nice here.
Funny, huh? How things can be so different from what we fret and worry about. Often it seems, our concerns are directed towards the wrong things – the weather is hardly the problem, compared to making sure I don’t go over budget in Kigali (who said Africa was cheap?). There is no dearth of nice places to go in this city; I am sitting in a café overlooking the city, which well could be an African themed café in London, Seoul, or New York. No one, however, worried about getting the right ‘authorizations’ for everything I need (or want) to do. (Well, okay, that’s a slight lie – but lets just say its not the same as I heard). You are never really prepared for Africa, says Justine(?), a British med school student working in Gisenyi. Maybe you are never prepared for anything.
That’s exactly how I felt this morning in the shower, getting ready to head to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center. Are you prepared to see what you are going to see? An Australian adventuress, Katie, had asked the night before. For the past couple months, I had read everything there is to be read on Rwanda, on the genocide, on the memorials. Every testimonial, every travelogue, every academic article. I could recite to you the history of the genocide, the memorial, and everything around it if I needed to. I had read everything and anything on the theory of memory, theory behind memorials, theory behind art in commemoration, and other things the academia had churned out. But that did not make anything better, if not worse—just because I knew what reaction is expected of me, does that mean the memorial will elicit that response from me? What if my response is to the contrary? Will my prior knowledge be in the way of actually processing what I see?
The Memorial is a beautiful white building, surrounded by a series of gardens (garden of unity, garden of reconciliation, garden of children, genocide...). Had it not been the sign, it could have been a nice mansion of a rich Rwandan. The normalcy was almost startling. (But then again, isn't the status of "normalcy" killing assumed during the genocide almost as disturbing as the actual violence?)
The exhibit itself was...i hate to say this, but, a bit unimpressive. I guess to those who had not been reading about what happened in 1994, the exhibit was a highly educational experience. Often, I found myself reading the posters with astonishing skepticism, not necessarily about what happened
, but mostly about how they described certain events. I could not help wondering,was this what most Rwandans, or "victims" think, or is this what the West thinks (this memorial was built mostly by Western money)? Is it wrong of me to question those things? You would think the "main" exhibit would be the main stage of all emotions.
Before I entered the exhibit, I had taken a tour of the gardens. On one side of the building are large stone slabs - mass graves of bodies found around Kigali. One after another, unmarked, undifferentiated, these slabs were the last resting places for hundreds of Rwandans. I could not decide what was more disturbing- the sheer number of deaths, or the fact that just like when they were killed, the victims had lost their individualities even in death. They were killed not because they were Paul, Samuel or Beatrice-to their killers, they were simply "Tutsi" (or a dissenter) and nothing more. There individuality meant nothing at the moment of their death. And even in their graves, they are still "victims". That was the aftermath of a 'jenoside.'
At the end of row of graves was a single glass panel that showed the inside of the slabs-which revealed two coffins, covered by a white cloth with a purple cross. I found myself afraid to go any closer to the panel. (Was I afraid of the dead?) I looked up, and saw an old man walking towards where I was standing. I became deathly afraid. I did not want to disturb him, if he was visiting the grave of a loved one. I did not want to be seen, to afraid to peer into the panels. Hesitantly, I pulled out my camera to fulfill my role of "documenting" the memorial- behind the safety of the lens, I inched forward, looking down upon the caskets. I could make out the shape of the casket through the cloth. I felt myself choking up. The sight of two caskets, and one old man who was sighing deeply at the sight of it, was far more poignant than a roomful of commentaries and evidence. Nothing is as expected, and nothing really prepares you for anything.
I thought I was discreet, but I guess something of me smelled "researcher" rather than "tourist." (I thought behind my ridiculous white sunglasses, I would seem like another ditzy wife/child of a businessman, but I guess my note taking gave it away) Sooner or later, I had the head guide trailing my whereabouts, peering time to time at my notes (if he understood them he is a genius- I was writing in a jumble of Korean and English). Eventually I decided to introduce myself - and voila! I whipped out my Harvard ID."Hahvahd! The famous school!" Yep, we are rather well known. After a couple name-dropping sessions (oh, and you know Dr.Stephen Smith? Well I've been talking to him via email, and he said...) I had a name card (Honoré, Head Guide), an appointment with the chief operator tomorrow morning, and potential access to the archives. A big, big sigh of relief.
I ended the day at Cafe Bourbon, a famous gathering space for muzungus and rich Rwandans - I figured I needed some muzungu interaction to detox from my first day. Honestly, I was at loss of what to do - I hardly know anyone in town, and I don't really have work to do yet. Well, I guess I could just blog. In the surreal environment of Bourbon, where most of the clientèle spoke English and the decor was more East Village than East Africa (okay, Central East to be exact I guess), I caught myself gazing at the door, half expecting someone I know to walk in. (Yes, my point is, I am getting a little lonely). Oh well. I'll catch up on my reading.
Funny, huh? How things can be so different from what we fret and worry about. Often it seems, our concerns are directed towards the wrong things – the weather is hardly the problem, compared to making sure I don’t go over budget in Kigali (who said Africa was cheap?). There is no dearth of nice places to go in this city; I am sitting in a café overlooking the city, which well could be an African themed café in London, Seoul, or New York. No one, however, worried about getting the right ‘authorizations’ for everything I need (or want) to do. (Well, okay, that’s a slight lie – but lets just say its not the same as I heard). You are never really prepared for Africa, says Justine(?), a British med school student working in Gisenyi. Maybe you are never prepared for anything.
That’s exactly how I felt this morning in the shower, getting ready to head to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center. Are you prepared to see what you are going to see? An Australian adventuress, Katie, had asked the night before. For the past couple months, I had read everything there is to be read on Rwanda, on the genocide, on the memorials. Every testimonial, every travelogue, every academic article. I could recite to you the history of the genocide, the memorial, and everything around it if I needed to. I had read everything and anything on the theory of memory, theory behind memorials, theory behind art in commemoration, and other things the academia had churned out. But that did not make anything better, if not worse—just because I knew what reaction is expected of me, does that mean the memorial will elicit that response from me? What if my response is to the contrary? Will my prior knowledge be in the way of actually processing what I see?
The Memorial is a beautiful white building, surrounded by a series of gardens (garden of unity, garden of reconciliation, garden of children, genocide...). Had it not been the sign, it could have been a nice mansion of a rich Rwandan. The normalcy was almost startling. (But then again, isn't the status of "normalcy" killing assumed during the genocide almost as disturbing as the actual violence?)
The exhibit itself was...i hate to say this, but, a bit unimpressive. I guess to those who had not been reading about what happened in 1994, the exhibit was a highly educational experience. Often, I found myself reading the posters with astonishing skepticism, not necessarily about what happened
, but mostly about how they described certain events. I could not help wondering,was this what most Rwandans, or "victims" think, or is this what the West thinks (this memorial was built mostly by Western money)? Is it wrong of me to question those things? You would think the "main" exhibit would be the main stage of all emotions.
Before I entered the exhibit, I had taken a tour of the gardens. On one side of the building are large stone slabs - mass graves of bodies found around Kigali. One after another, unmarked, undifferentiated, these slabs were the last resting places for hundreds of Rwandans. I could not decide what was more disturbing- the sheer number of deaths, or the fact that just like when they were killed, the victims had lost their individualities even in death. They were killed not because they were Paul, Samuel or Beatrice-to their killers, they were simply "Tutsi" (or a dissenter) and nothing more. There individuality meant nothing at the moment of their death. And even in their graves, they are still "victims". That was the aftermath of a 'jenoside.'
At the end of row of graves was a single glass panel that showed the inside of the slabs-which revealed two coffins, covered by a white cloth with a purple cross. I found myself afraid to go any closer to the panel. (Was I afraid of the dead?) I looked up, and saw an old man walking towards where I was standing. I became deathly afraid. I did not want to disturb him, if he was visiting the grave of a loved one. I did not want to be seen, to afraid to peer into the panels. Hesitantly, I pulled out my camera to fulfill my role of "documenting" the memorial- behind the safety of the lens, I inched forward, looking down upon the caskets. I could make out the shape of the casket through the cloth. I felt myself choking up. The sight of two caskets, and one old man who was sighing deeply at the sight of it, was far more poignant than a roomful of commentaries and evidence. Nothing is as expected, and nothing really prepares you for anything.
I thought I was discreet, but I guess something of me smelled "researcher" rather than "tourist." (I thought behind my ridiculous white sunglasses, I would seem like another ditzy wife/child of a businessman, but I guess my note taking gave it away) Sooner or later, I had the head guide trailing my whereabouts, peering time to time at my notes (if he understood them he is a genius- I was writing in a jumble of Korean and English). Eventually I decided to introduce myself - and voila! I whipped out my Harvard ID."Hahvahd! The famous school!" Yep, we are rather well known. After a couple name-dropping sessions (oh, and you know Dr.Stephen Smith? Well I've been talking to him via email, and he said...) I had a name card (Honoré, Head Guide), an appointment with the chief operator tomorrow morning, and potential access to the archives. A big, big sigh of relief.
I ended the day at Cafe Bourbon, a famous gathering space for muzungus and rich Rwandans - I figured I needed some muzungu interaction to detox from my first day. Honestly, I was at loss of what to do - I hardly know anyone in town, and I don't really have work to do yet. Well, I guess I could just blog. In the surreal environment of Bourbon, where most of the clientèle spoke English and the decor was more East Village than East Africa (okay, Central East to be exact I guess), I caught myself gazing at the door, half expecting someone I know to walk in. (Yes, my point is, I am getting a little lonely). Oh well. I'll catch up on my reading.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Bonjour, Kigali!
It seems like six million years since my last post. OMG. I AM IN AFRICA. No, no,
for reals. This is it. The real thing. You know how I know it? See, for the first, very first time in my life I have no fucking CLUE what people are saying when they speak
their language (kinyarwandan). Yeah, no kidding, this is a first.(Hey, even in Germany I could pick up some stuff on the menu and what the waitress was saying) Like a virgin, touched for the very first time. Only, its kind of like being an infant with an overgrown body. Baaba, boo boo, anyone? Funny thing is, this is precisely what my mother said as I left "Ha, now you get to feel how its like to have NO CLUE!" Absolute, complete alienation.
Well, not that I am particularly upset about it. I did notice I became a lot nicer, more humble. I am not the nicest sweetest person when it comes to everyday tasks, like say, getting on a bus or grabbing a cab (hey, life doesn't wait for you, okay?) but today I was the sweetest little darling. (Um, sorry, oh no, blvd l'umuganda, sil vouz-plait? connaitre (bad french) chez lando? its near there? no?)
The Koreans dropped me off at my little quaint guesthouse, a cute little place with yellow brick walls and pink flowers. (They were horrified - these men stay at Hyatts, Hiltons, Ritz Carltons...) I panicked for about two hours, having difficulty talking to my cleaning lady, jet lagged, unable to operate my phone... and then Moses arrived. No, I'm dead serious.
Moses is the name of our interpreter, who is also a part time business student. A rather quiet, smallish man of indeterminate youngish age, Moses struck me as what people stereotyped as "Rwandan" - slow, but steady, quiet but friendly. This man was literally my savior - took me to the bank, got francs, got me a phone, and planned my next 5 days. All set. Bravo. Even got me an English speaking (fellow ex-expat from Uganda) cab driver, just in case I end up in the wrong side of the country.
So tomorrow the real adventure begins. I will be off to the Memorial center, taking notes like a madwoman, and taking photos and sketches like its nobody's business. Now, if I can just hail the night concierge to make me a nice ham and egg sandwich...
for reals. This is it. The real thing. You know how I know it? See, for the first, very first time in my life I have no fucking CLUE what people are saying when they speak
their language (kinyarwandan). Yeah, no kidding, this is a first.(Hey, even in Germany I could pick up some stuff on the menu and what the waitress was saying) Like a virgin, touched for the very first time. Only, its kind of like being an infant with an overgrown body. Baaba, boo boo, anyone? Funny thing is, this is precisely what my mother said as I left "Ha, now you get to feel how its like to have NO CLUE!" Absolute, complete alienation.
Well, not that I am particularly upset about it. I did notice I became a lot nicer, more humble. I am not the nicest sweetest person when it comes to everyday tasks, like say, getting on a bus or grabbing a cab (hey, life doesn't wait for you, okay?) but today I was the sweetest little darling. (Um, sorry, oh no, blvd l'umuganda, sil vouz-plait? connaitre (bad french) chez lando? its near there? no?)
The Koreans dropped me off at my little quaint guesthouse, a cute little place with yellow brick walls and pink flowers. (They were horrified - these men stay at Hyatts, Hiltons, Ritz Carltons...) I panicked for about two hours, having difficulty talking to my cleaning lady, jet lagged, unable to operate my phone... and then Moses arrived. No, I'm dead serious.
Moses is the name of our interpreter, who is also a part time business student. A rather quiet, smallish man of indeterminate youngish age, Moses struck me as what people stereotyped as "Rwandan" - slow, but steady, quiet but friendly. This man was literally my savior - took me to the bank, got francs, got me a phone, and planned my next 5 days. All set. Bravo. Even got me an English speaking (fellow ex-expat from Uganda) cab driver, just in case I end up in the wrong side of the country.
So tomorrow the real adventure begins. I will be off to the Memorial center, taking notes like a madwoman, and taking photos and sketches like its nobody's business. Now, if I can just hail the night concierge to make me a nice ham and egg sandwich...
Lost in Transit
All good travel blogs have a remarkable, perceptive and movingly witty section about the various vignettes that go fleeting by in the modern reincarnation of limbo- the airport. Obviously, as long as I decided to do this (blog), so I might as well do it well.
It is a three flight saga, to get to Kigali from Seoul. Spending roughly 20 hours in awkward silence and transit, in and out of airplanes and airports, I have had my share of colorful personalities. Here are some examples:
The Cameroon Footballer: A handsome, cocky young guy sitting behind me, who introduced himself as “Karen”(Caren?) and a “footballer originally from Cameroon, who now plays for Maldives” Do you know about Maldives? Are you Taiwanese? (Well, yes, it was a nice little isle of luxury resorts that got demolished by the tsunami, but they play football?) (No, try again)
Yellow Shirt: The man who tried to take my seat, but politely apologized when I fumbled in my atrocious French, “C’est miene!” We had a delightfully awkward conversation in French, which he thought (at first) I was fluent in – my response was mostly limited to “Oui”, “Ah, bon” “Genial”, and the obligatory “Non, je ne parle pas bien francais..mais je peux parler bien anglais.” The man fell asleep promptly after our painfully awkward encounter, only to reappear somehow in a full suit when I woke up from my slumber. I gather he is from Angola, or somewhere near there.
The (Rich) Lone Businessman: There are tons of this kind at the Kenyatta International Airport (where I am stuck for the next two and a half hours due to a flight delay). Quite impeccably dressed, always armed with a blackberry (or an occasional Samsung equivalent), these men are pros at striking up conversations with other Lone Businessmen in unimpressive coffee shops. Some wear their flags on their suit lapel. Unfortunately, most of them seem to be French speaking, and as my French usually limits myself to politely refusing the cup of coffee the Lone Businessmen offers (Non, merci) I was left sulking in the back of the café, writing this entry.
The Dubai Man: One of the Lone Businessmen who sat next to me, and one of the far most impressively dressed man in the airport – impeccable, very Saville Rowisque suit, crocodile dress shoes that Matt Bird will probably cry for, and red leather briefcase/luggage bag that I stared at unabashedly. This man spoke in a barely audible, low, beautiful French, introduced himself to be from Dubai, on his way to Congo. He became the instant center of the conversation, as other Lone Businessmen and Chic European Travelers started to ask his opinion on everything – starting from Portugese cuisine to African coffee. He left with the conclusion that there is nothing worth eating in Congo, although coffee is respectable, and indeed, Marseilles is quite charming.
The Korean Businessmen: Randomly met on the plane, all three of us rejoiced when we realized we are all headed to Kigali. Like a true Korean, these men started the conversation by asking where I live, where I study, and how old I was. Now that we have our stats all straight, I am now referred to as “Hey, student” or “Yo, kid” and am obligated to watch their stuff while they scurry off in search of a cigarette. (This airport is non-smoking). En route to Kigali on a business trip, these men are going to spread our true (secular) religion – WiFi. God bless WiFi (it’s actually called WiBro)(These men actually gave me a ride in a government sponsored 4wheeler, so I rode into my guesthouse with "I LOVE RWANDA" on my bumper. I got style)
The Chic European Traveler: Here, mostly French, Belgian or British (others did not speak up) many of these people are of African descent, and have a rather blasé outlook of their impending visit to x country. Yes, I am going to Uganda, and I have been there ten million times before. Yes, I am headed to Ethiopia, to visit a cousin. Many of them are sporting very tight jeans (especially those from Paris, etc) and often tight polos as well. Algerians (from France) have the tendency to announce their nationality by wearing their national football jersey. They are also very conversational, and offer me coffee after laughing at my French.
The (Chic European) Hippie Traveler: Usually in pairs (lovers?) or alone, these people tend to dress more “African” than anyone else at Kenyatta. Colorful beads? Check. ‘Fro or dreadlocks? Check. Multicolored shirt paired with some baggy pants? Check. One of the least conversational types at the coffeeshop, they eat their croissant and coffee, murmur amongst each other, and leave. Passport indicates Australian (so I guess not European, but hey), British, German, French, etc.
The Chinese Businessmen: They. Are. Everywhere. They also like to stare.
The Peacekeeper: I almost cried when I saw that blue hat.
Forgive how roughly I portrayed things here – but honestly, how much depth does one get from sharing a coffee table? Well then, what type am I? Perhaps I am the
(American) Student on (Spiritual/Adventurous/etc) Journey: There are a few of us here – our Americaness (well, not mine I guess) is made evident by the fact that we all carry our laptops (despite the fact that we are not businessmen) and often wear sweatshirts with our school name emblazoned on it. (Mind you, I am wearing a ZARA tshirt and a jersey shawl/jacket). We occupy corners of the coffeehouse etc, usually on our laptops (blogging?) or reading an occasional novel (Audacity of Hope by Obama pour moi). We also often carry nalgene bottles and LLBean bags. (I have neither. Just saying) We are very conversational if provoked, but won’t speak up if not spoken to.
So that is about it. Now I have moved to a random chair in the hall, as the owner of the coffee shop told me I can’t have the table for three straight hours, unless I actually buy something. I still have two hours left. I am bored out of my mind. Sigh. Talk you all again in Kigali.
It is a three flight saga, to get to Kigali from Seoul. Spending roughly 20 hours in awkward silence and transit, in and out of airplanes and airports, I have had my share of colorful personalities. Here are some examples:
The Cameroon Footballer: A handsome, cocky young guy sitting behind me, who introduced himself as “Karen”(Caren?) and a “footballer originally from Cameroon, who now plays for Maldives” Do you know about Maldives? Are you Taiwanese? (Well, yes, it was a nice little isle of luxury resorts that got demolished by the tsunami, but they play football?) (No, try again)
Yellow Shirt: The man who tried to take my seat, but politely apologized when I fumbled in my atrocious French, “C’est miene!” We had a delightfully awkward conversation in French, which he thought (at first) I was fluent in – my response was mostly limited to “Oui”, “Ah, bon” “Genial”, and the obligatory “Non, je ne parle pas bien francais..mais je peux parler bien anglais.” The man fell asleep promptly after our painfully awkward encounter, only to reappear somehow in a full suit when I woke up from my slumber. I gather he is from Angola, or somewhere near there.
The (Rich) Lone Businessman: There are tons of this kind at the Kenyatta International Airport (where I am stuck for the next two and a half hours due to a flight delay). Quite impeccably dressed, always armed with a blackberry (or an occasional Samsung equivalent), these men are pros at striking up conversations with other Lone Businessmen in unimpressive coffee shops. Some wear their flags on their suit lapel. Unfortunately, most of them seem to be French speaking, and as my French usually limits myself to politely refusing the cup of coffee the Lone Businessmen offers (Non, merci) I was left sulking in the back of the café, writing this entry.
The Dubai Man: One of the Lone Businessmen who sat next to me, and one of the far most impressively dressed man in the airport – impeccable, very Saville Rowisque suit, crocodile dress shoes that Matt Bird will probably cry for, and red leather briefcase/luggage bag that I stared at unabashedly. This man spoke in a barely audible, low, beautiful French, introduced himself to be from Dubai, on his way to Congo. He became the instant center of the conversation, as other Lone Businessmen and Chic European Travelers started to ask his opinion on everything – starting from Portugese cuisine to African coffee. He left with the conclusion that there is nothing worth eating in Congo, although coffee is respectable, and indeed, Marseilles is quite charming.
The Korean Businessmen: Randomly met on the plane, all three of us rejoiced when we realized we are all headed to Kigali. Like a true Korean, these men started the conversation by asking where I live, where I study, and how old I was. Now that we have our stats all straight, I am now referred to as “Hey, student” or “Yo, kid” and am obligated to watch their stuff while they scurry off in search of a cigarette. (This airport is non-smoking). En route to Kigali on a business trip, these men are going to spread our true (secular) religion – WiFi. God bless WiFi (it’s actually called WiBro)(These men actually gave me a ride in a government sponsored 4wheeler, so I rode into my guesthouse with "I LOVE RWANDA" on my bumper. I got style)
The Chic European Traveler: Here, mostly French, Belgian or British (others did not speak up) many of these people are of African descent, and have a rather blasé outlook of their impending visit to x country. Yes, I am going to Uganda, and I have been there ten million times before. Yes, I am headed to Ethiopia, to visit a cousin. Many of them are sporting very tight jeans (especially those from Paris, etc) and often tight polos as well. Algerians (from France) have the tendency to announce their nationality by wearing their national football jersey. They are also very conversational, and offer me coffee after laughing at my French.
The (Chic European) Hippie Traveler: Usually in pairs (lovers?) or alone, these people tend to dress more “African” than anyone else at Kenyatta. Colorful beads? Check. ‘Fro or dreadlocks? Check. Multicolored shirt paired with some baggy pants? Check. One of the least conversational types at the coffeeshop, they eat their croissant and coffee, murmur amongst each other, and leave. Passport indicates Australian (so I guess not European, but hey), British, German, French, etc.
The Chinese Businessmen: They. Are. Everywhere. They also like to stare.
The Peacekeeper: I almost cried when I saw that blue hat.
Forgive how roughly I portrayed things here – but honestly, how much depth does one get from sharing a coffee table? Well then, what type am I? Perhaps I am the
(American) Student on (Spiritual/Adventurous/etc) Journey: There are a few of us here – our Americaness (well, not mine I guess) is made evident by the fact that we all carry our laptops (despite the fact that we are not businessmen) and often wear sweatshirts with our school name emblazoned on it. (Mind you, I am wearing a ZARA tshirt and a jersey shawl/jacket). We occupy corners of the coffeehouse etc, usually on our laptops (blogging?) or reading an occasional novel (Audacity of Hope by Obama pour moi). We also often carry nalgene bottles and LLBean bags. (I have neither. Just saying) We are very conversational if provoked, but won’t speak up if not spoken to.
So that is about it. Now I have moved to a random chair in the hall, as the owner of the coffee shop told me I can’t have the table for three straight hours, unless I actually buy something. I still have two hours left. I am bored out of my mind. Sigh. Talk you all again in Kigali.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
