Home, Sweet Home

Moving to Africa for three months does not come without it's own questions about where will I live and what will it be like? Before accepting, I asked a thousand questions. While Chris, my friend and manager, patiently waded through my anxiety. He finally acknowledged, "Ken, I am happy to answer all your questions, and you should keep asking, but the truth is you cannot imagine what it will be like to live here. And all the answers I could give you still can't tell you what it's like. You have to come experience it." And he was right. So this next entry will try to describe what it's like to live here.

Kigali, Rwanda is a city of more that 600,000 people. It sprawls amongst many hills with modernizing offices, traditional mud/adobe homes and walled "suburban" yards all side-by-side. Paved roads run along the ridge tops, with a network of red clay pathways and roads branching outward. Heavy rains, sometimes daily, streak ruts into the roadbeds. I live in one of the walled, suburban compounds which I share with three other volunteers. It's a 4-bedroom ranch house with three baths and a sad little kitchen. So much for the Joy of Cooking. Still, it's more than comfortable, and it comes with a staff. Having Security watch the house and people to clean feels odd, and yet it provides jobs. At first it seems like an embarrassing luxury, until you realize the alternative might be much more basic than we think of as home.

The house comes with a beautiful garden with hibiscus, passion vine, and plants we'd consider houseplants. Edibles include banana and plantain palms, along with okra, onions, amaranth (think celosia stewed into greens), basil and mint. Plus, a headge of lemon grass no one could possibly use in a life time of Thai soup. It's a great spot that attracts an amazing array of birds, to say nothing of the bugs. Bugs... big bugs and small... Here's a giant critter who visited my living room. Surprisingly, bugs have not been as prevalent as I expected. It's the little ones you need to watch out for... Living in malaria-prone areas comes with lots of precautions. Everyone sleeps under mosquito netting, giving your room a sort of Jamaican princess inspired flair. Other than seeing the exact same arrangement in an American Girl catalog, it's a small inconvenience. For those of us staying a short time, we also take drugs.

East Africa is known for unparalleled birdwatching. I haven't had the chance to get out much to check it out. But I'm amazed at what I see all around me. Whether in the yard or down the road outside our driveway, I see incredible new species everyday. This little guy below is a Red-Cheeked Cordon Bleu (Uraeginthus bengalus). I have yet to snap an image of the African Paradise Flycatcher (Terpsiphone viridis), but they hangout in our yard all the time. My lifelist is going to need a new page or two after this stint.

And my favorite spot is the terrace off the living room. It's a great place to lounge, read, watch the birds or enjoy the breeze. I think this is the part I like the most.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Ethiopia was not on my radar when I thought of traveling to East Africa. When I was asked to facilitate two offsites in Addis Ababa, I thought, "Great, a whole new country I had never expected to see." What's funny is when you never thought of going to a country before, you have very few expectations. It's all surprises.

The first surprise is getting somewhere. Taxis in Addis are these little blue Fiat's which have been driven too long and suffered too many accidents. Traffic moves about in some alternate order where passing on the left, right or middle is perfectly allowable. As is backing into traffic or stopping in mid-stream. The concept of right-of-way does not translate. Essentially, right-of-way is about claiming any unoccupied patch of pavement rather than looking for a gap in traffic. Horns indicate I am heading in your direction and will not be stopping.

The street sides are lined with stalls, many with produce but also assortments of household products, bottled water and car parts. It's through gaps in these stalls that you find these intriguing restaurants tucked down alleyways and built around courtyards.

Living in the Ethiopian neighborhood of Seattle, I had sampled the foods and heard snippets of the culture. Our neighborhood Mr Tana's market had taught me of their calendar and the shifted timing of Easter. I had seen the bags of green coffee. He had shared the bags of toasted barley snacks, qolo. And here in the market sat small bags of qolo and green coffee beans, just like back home in Seattle. Suddenly, this ancient culture I could see all around me.

As part of our trip, we would be taking our regional team on a field trip to visit a coffee mill. The coffee harvest in Ethiopia had just finished. In the warehouse you could see the final bags stacked and ready for loading. Bags of coffee weighing 60 kg. (130+ lbs.) are heaved up on the shoulders of workers loading trucks to be carted off to port. The bags stamped with the image of the coffee exporter distinguishes its coffee.

Inside the offices, our host has arranged a cupping of their coffees for us to sample. Trays of green and roasted coffee lie adjacent sampling cups. Hot water is poured over hand-roasted samples and brewed. We each grab a spoon to slurp our way through three samples of three types of coffee. We taste the difference between a washed Sidamo, a washed Yergecheff and a locally-preferred, naturally processed bean. The washed varieties are bright and crisp with fruity, floral notes. Our project being to promote washed processing by constructing farmer-owned wet mills, we natrually prefer these varieties.

Locals prefer the natrually-processed coffees brewed in the traditional method, a clay vessel. It's a thick black brew, strong and requiring lots of milk and sugar to tame. Brewed here by the cupping method it's not quite so extracted, or tasting of clay. Still, you taste the papery seed parchment.

I nose around the office while the others slurp. I spot this wall-hanging. It recounts the discovery of coffee as legend tells by goats. The goat-herder spotted his goats reacting to eating coffee cherry. It goes on to depict preparation by Ethiopian tradition which is then served in a formal ceremony. Coffee plays an important role in daily life for Ethiopians. You see it here on the street just like I see it back home in my neighborhood coffee shops filled with Ethiopian men or on Friday nights and Mr. Tana's market.

A Trip to the Market

A trip to the market is something I enjoy when I travel. All the exotic foods in all their freshness and all the hustle bustle. I was excited when I heard we could stop by the market and pick up some things for dinner. I couldn't wait to see what it had in store.

My host, Chris, warns me, prepare yourself to be overwhelmed. As we pulled in a scrambled rush of kids chase us. All of them vying for our attention. Some want to watch the car. Some want to help us shop. All want a few coins to take for what must be a long days work. Chris handles them all and I get to just tag along. He has his favorites that get him the best deals or the freshest produce.

The market is an open-sided, corrugated metal building. It's cavernous and dark compared to the outside glare. All is a mix of strange smells (some not so pleasant), jostling shoppers, piles of produce everywhere and vendors pulling on your sleeve.

We see tall bunches of plantains, a starchy, potato-like banana stacked along the aisles. I haven't tried them yet, but I see them growing everywhere (including our yard) and people carrying them on their heads or the backs of their bikes.

We see amazing piles of pineapples. Pineapple here is so sweet and juicy. It's served everywhere and abundantly delicious.

And then there are the beans. Row upon row of broad, low woven baskets filled with shelled beans, some dry... some fresh. All of them seeming variations on the kidney bean in every color and pattern imaginable.

Down the way we spy an arranged stack of fruit new to my naive eyes. Chris tells me they are tree tomatoes. About the size and shape of a roma, they taste something akin to a cross between a passion fruit and a tomato. When sliced, they run with a deep purple juice. As you split them apart, they reveal orange flesh, punctuated with the a purple-crimson jelly around numerous seeds. Tart and fuity and "tomato-ey" all at once.

Rwanda Countryside

For those of you wondering whether Ken would ever figure out his digital camera, RELAX. You will not be subjected to mere words for the entire ramblings of this blog.

With less than 36 hours with my feet on the ground, we set off for Gisenyi and Lake Kivu. But not before a scavenger hunt for gas. We drive station-to-station. It's not exactly clear what causes their energy shortage. A few months back it could be blamed on political unrest in Kenya. Now it seems just poor logistics. At last we find one station crammed with mini-buses, moto-taxi's, etc. Somehow we inch our way into the chaos.... and wait. No point in being frustrated. It's all part of the experience.

Nicknamed "Land of a Thousand Hills," Rwanda is truly beautiful. Verdant hillsides of lush, tropical vegetation. Small, subsistence farmers clinging to the hillsides. Steep slopes intensively farmed with banana, beans, cassava and yes coffee. At last a real coffee farm. A wee, little one, but still the real deal (sorry, no picture). More than hills really, the only thing putting them into perspective is the backdrop of volcano cones towering above. We drive and drive and drive twisting and turning our way up one hillside and down another. Curiously, many roads skirt the ridge line with steep slopes on either side. It's an amazing panorama.

The drive too is an adventure. Not what we might be use to when it comes to highways, all roadways are two lanes, not that anyone is sticking to that convention. All are paved, and while we encounter potholes regularly, I'm told these are some of the best roads in East Africa. What I can't get over are the number of people... everywhere... walking. Seemingly endless streams of pedestrians on remote stretches, climbing steep inclines. Some carry parcels on their heads. Some women with infants strapped to their backs. Some in amazing, vibrant dress with headscarves. All walking... walking... walking... We roll along passing trucks belching diesel exhaust and dodging the endless procession.

Arrival!

I start with an early morning flight, just past the post-holiday returning rush. With 20+ hours flying time and several lay-overs, I'm bracing myself for fatigue, delays and general discomfort. Departing Seattle with connections through Dulles/Washington, D.C.; Bussels, Belgium, then onto Kigali, Rwanda. As far as travel to East Africa goes, it's about as direct as it gets. But still l-o-n-g. Across the aisle for the first leg is a military officer in fatigues. Everyone seems to recognize he is of rank, greeting him as they pass. An outgoing sort he strikes up a conversation immediately upon take-off. A general recently returned from Iraq, and soon to be traveling onto Afghanistan. I've never spoken to a general before. I'm intrigued by his job leading a team of consultants that assess operations, document best practices, conduct training and share lessons learned. It sounds oddly similar to my job. Weird. Departing Brussels it's a packed flight with your garden variety of families, aid workers and international travelers. It's surprisingly average looking. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I thought a bit more exotic perhaps. Despite delayed departure, all-in-all it's been relatively smooth. It's the last leg, and 8+ hours yet to go. Yet I'm surprised I haven't hit that discomfort limit where you just can't sit any longer and you just want them to stop the plane so you can get off. I'm seated next to a contract consultant assessing sanitation practices in rural villages. She describes her previous experience working in the Peace Corps in West Africa and several contracting assignments in Nicaragua and other parts of Africa. She's tough and knows it. So I ask her about staying healthy in the countryside. She speaks of bringing filters, drinking the water and just recognizing you're going to get sick. She eats at street vendors and tries to be smart about picking the right vendors. "Yeah, you'll get sick, but it's not like it will kill you." Somehow, that doesn't feel so reassuring. The jet touches down. My seatmate and I look at each other. She asks so honestly, "Are you excited to be in Africa?" "I will be tomorrow," I reply. And I will be. Right now I'm tired with the whir-r-r of jet engines still ringing in my ears. I still don't know where I'm sleeping or what it will take to get through the airport. It's a tiny airport where you walk down steps onto the tarmac. The big jetliner seems to dwarf the terminal. With surprising little direction, you wander across the tarmac into a semi-informal passport queue then into baggage claim. These flights are the largest of the day and at 3/week bring the bulk of westerners to Rwanda. One last hurdle still to pass, customs. Rwanda has taken the bold move to outlaw plastic bags. Despite having heard repeated warnings, it wan't clear what all was covered. We were told any plastic bags would be confiscated. While not your average contraband, I couldn't help but recognize the irony that the US required you to place any carry-on toiletries in a clear plastic bag and Rwanda might confiscate them. To say nothing of the packs, wrapped in plastics by the airlines to contain loose straps. As it turns out, most rules and limitations seemed optional as passengers ambled by with bags, to say nothing of wide-screen TVs and stereos in boxes. I'm not sure what the customs limits were, but seemed easily surpassed.