There is now a memorial to this atrocity in Smallville.  The Courthouse is in use as a courthouse. It is the building you go to when you need Justice in Smallville.  A few of the perpetrators were prosecuted. But most of the officials of that town still live and work and hold authority in that town today.

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Nia - 20 months
She thinks she's a Butterfly

Back in 2007, I took a  side trip in Kigali to interview vulnerable students at the Friends Church secondary school. My report of that trip is here.

After that report the fabulous Friends in Portland Oregon and Northwest Yearly meeting raise $10,000 and sent 40 students to school for a full academic year.  Four of the six students in my original report finished high school because of this generosity.

When I arrived in Kigali this year I contacted my friend,  a former GLST student  and he informed me that some of the students had heard that I was coming through and had asked him to bring me for a visit. We arranged a time.

I was met at the Campus by Twagirayesu Venuste. If you had asked me which of the six I had met before was in the worst shape and most likely to fall, it would have been Venuste. He was a very traumatized young man with almost no outside support. He had not been able to make a smile for the picture (see link). That's what I would have said, and like so often I would have been so wrong.


Here was Venuste, bounding across the campus, looking smart in slacks and stylish shirt and white loafers. Here is Venuste grinning from ear to ear at the sight of me.  Introducing himself to me, as if his image had not been seared into my unconscious and prayer life for these last three years. Here was Venuste reporting that he was working as a waiter and attending university nights. He is making good progress in his second year. (Only a very small, single digit, percentage of students get scores high enough to be admitted to University in Kigali).


Venuste had organized a party, paid for the drinks and food and bought a present for me - socially required.   Five new vulnerable students were there to greet me - a group is also socially required. And Venuste had prepared a speech in English - Africans are like Hobbits about speeches at important occasions. When I said I would videotape it and bring it to America he got very serious, but agreed.  

Here is the speech of Venuste.
You may have a little trouble catching his English - it is really quite good.  He thanks those who supported their students. He calls them "Our parents" and sponsors. In good African style he asks for the moon in terms of additional help.
But hang to the end, because he will treat you to the most brilliant natural smile you have ever seen.  


Some readers of this blog contributed to this young man's future, with no expectation of knowing the outcome.


Enjoy!


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Want to buy a condo with a nice view?

The answer is... nothing!

This is standard MIDDLE CLASS African travel.  There is a whole level of travel below this for the poorer class.

MIDDLE CLASS travel means:
Unpredictable schedules - Standard
27 hours for a 16 trip - Standard
Filthy toilets - Standard

Eating once in a day while traveling - Standard
Sexual Harassment  for unaccompanied women- Standard

At risk for Theft - Standard
Cold, tired, no place to wait comfortably - Standard
Drunk and dangerous drivers - Standard

Terrible road conditions - Standard
Dangerous equipment used for public transport - Standard
Oppressive  and illogical bureaucracies - Standard



During one of the legs of the trip an African business man inquired about my mission and when I informed him, he puzzled "Why aren't you on an airplane?  It was a good question.  Upper Middle Class Africans take the plane these days. David Niyonzima  takes a plane if be has to go from Buja to Kigali.  My desire to see the country and experience at least once the way in which my friends live, was a privileged whim. I was "slumming." Knowing that I could leave at nearly anytime. None of the other people on my bus had that option in reserve.

Getting yourself killed while slumming would be an ignoble death.

I am glad I did it.
I don't think I will do it again.

Pp

When the midnight bus out of Kampala finally rolls at 2:30 I am relieved.  Relief gives way to annoyance when we pull into a petrol station at the edge of town, but really, I can't be opposed to the notion of being fueled up. It takes 30 minutes to fill a big bus. Then,  to my enormous dismay, the bus turns back towards town and returns to the bus station. What sort of velocity do you need to escape this place? We apparently lack a conductor, and had simply been allowed to ride along for the fill up. A conductor joins us and it is 3:30. Perhaps now?

And then the young fellow next to me speaks up.
"Say, Conductor, Do you have our complimentary water? Our tickets say that we will be provided bottled water on this trip."
"No - you want me to go get water?" asks the conductor.
"I do" says my seatmate oblivious to the hissing and growling and wall of hatred radiating off his fellow passengers.
As for myself, I haven't see a toilet since the Kenyan border 8 hours ago, and drinking water is the last thing on my mind.
"You have got to be kidding!" I say "We are working on four hours late and you want to slow us down!?"
"We paid for the luxury bus, and I mean to get what I paid for." He says.
And an entire busload of Christians ignore the Sermon on the Mount and commit the sin of murder in their heads.

The conductor goes back up into the station and eventually comes back with a case of bottled water. It is 4am, and we appear to be leaving Kampala, but I am not convinced.

The roads are bad, and I don't care. Our driver drinks, and I don't care.  I wedge my pack between me and the seat in front of me so that I physically cannot be thrown out of my seat when the brakes slam on. I put my small bag between me and the wall so that when I am hurled outward, I have something to cushion the impact, and I turn my back on my seatmate, and try to sleep.  My dozing is intermittent due to the flailing arms and knees of the boy next door. He is not wedged in and occasionally gravity attempts to put him in my seat. Despite this, He stretches out and snores peacefully.

About 6 the darkness starts to lift.  I give up on sleep and watch the Ugandan countryside fly by at warp speed. Uganda looks poor but there are enormous white cranes in the marshes. I decide to take out my final hard boiled egg and call it breakfast. I find it nestled intact in my bag. I hold it up and try to compose a prayer of gratitude. At that moment a pothole gets us and my egg is airborne and crashes to the floor, cracks and rolls towards the back of  the bus. Somehow this manages to disturb my seatmate and he sits up and says "What was that?" "My last bit of sanity breaking - not to worry."

At 7, the bus pulls off at a petrol station and the conductor announces that this will be our only morning rest stop. I look across at Chantelle, "Toilets?" "Of some sort" She says. Everyone gets off. I follow the parade. Behind the station is a Ugandan  people's relief station.  This means that behind a low wall, there is a 3 meter by 3 meter, concave, concrete structure with a hole at the low center. It is not only unisex, but is used by 8 people at a time, two to a side.  The surface is slippery and sticky at once. The men have the obvious natural advantage of distance and don't actually have to step onto the concrete. African ladies step up onto it and raise skirts and squat.  Gentlemen are very careful in their attempts to not splatter the ladies. If you must do something other than make water, you squat with your back to the hole, and there is a garden hose to wash solids into the abyss. Not everyone had been so thoughtful. Like most western ladies I prefer trousers for travel. I took in this entire scene and scanned the area for friendly bushes. I asked Chantelle if she thought anyone would care if I went off into the brush. She looked shocked, and mildly disgusted and said "You can't do that when there is a toilet here."

The social rules seemed to be urban elevator. Do not converse, do not make eye contact, do not look at others. Unless of course a white lady is about to drop trou, in which case anyone could be forgiven taking a good look because, God knows, she might have a tail or something in those trousers and this may be your only chance in this life to see such a sight.  I hope they were satisfied.

The most immediate story starts here, or here if you want to go back to Momabsa, or here if you want to include my summer posts from Africa.

The roads in Uganda were significantly worse than Kenya. And our bus driver seemed to be determined to make up the time lost at the border. This is when I discovered that Kampala Coach Ltd. had been investing more in red paint than in shock absorbers. The potholes were bone jarring and the occasional sudden swerves  attempting to avoid them had a tendency to put you in your neighbor's lap or on the floor of the aisle. After the first dumping into the aisle I moved to the seat by the stairs where I could wedge my pack and small bag between me and the barrier and outer wall as pre-emptive "air-bags."  This seat also provided great air-flow from the door that did not really shut. I pulled out my only long-sleeved shirt for warmth.

This seat also afforded me a view of our driver and the scene out  the  front windshield. Our driver was taking regular sips from a flask.

"Our driver appears to be drinking." I said to the man next to me.
"Oh, yes, they all do that - they need to stay awake, you know."
"No, I mean he seems to be drinking alcohol."
"Yes, a little whiskey to stay sharp."
"Wouldn't you want to take tea or coffee to stay awake?"
"No! tea makes a person ready for bed!"

I encountered this idea several other times in East Africa - the belief that alcohol keeps you sharp and tea makes you sleepy. (Most Africans don't have much experience with coffee)  I tried to explain stimulants and depressants but it was a lost cause.  I asked around and drunk driving  (emphasis on severely drunk) is discouraged, but drinking and driving is not actually illegal in most of the countries I was in.

Many of my fellow passengers had the gift of "sleeping in any circumstance." I tried and failed. We flew through villages on a regular basis and I watched as roadside shops stayed open for late business and eventually all closed but the drinking houses. In between villages it was truly dark, our driver was making liberal use of the entire road, as evidenced by the occasional sudden headlights appearing around what I presumed from the centripetal forces was a blind curve, with attendant blaring horns and cursing. 

I am sure that Kampala is a lovely city. I am sure that it is first rate in many ways. I am sure that Uganda has much to offer - I hear that there are 600 varieties of birds. But I saw none of that.  Whenever you enter a city by bus or train you see a different city than you see as a tourist flying in for your vacation. We reached the far outskirts of the city at about 10pm. Not much was open.  As we entered the city everything was barred and gated like you would see in the bad parts of New York. But the homeless were out, and there are no city ordinances against garbage fires, so that is what they use for heat. And heat was needed as it was probably in the low sixties and dropping. The humans dressed in layers of rags around the fires lent a discernible air of Gehenna to the place. Dante would have been at home here.

We reached the bus station about 11:30. It had huge, arched, iron gates topped with the standard African replica spear heads decoration and  coils of razor wire on top. Inside the gates were a row of buses and above them a dimly lighted area. Our conductor said that there was no room for us inside the gates and that we would be parking here in the street. Transfer passengers were told to make their way up to the office and check in. Our driver opened his door and drained out into the dark. We all started to gather our things. The conductor was about to take off when a passenger near me shouted "Man! You aren't letting this Mzungu walk up there by herself, are you?" "Oh, Kswahili-curse-word, OK - stay where you are, I will go get some help." I was mildly concerned that he thought he needed help, but thanked the other passenger, who just shook his head. I was alone on the bus for a couple of minutes and there were men at the door calling for me, having marked my presence.  When the conductor came back with two other guys he gave me my intructions "Ok - in and up - don't Stop - stay right behind me!"  Off of the bus, my small phalanx of bus employees shouted and slapped and  pushed their way through a crowd of what I presume was mostly taxi drivers, sure that I was a potential fare to the nearest decent hotel.

Some of you have have experienced the African airport taxi crush. Bus station taxi drivers are several magnitudes more desperate and aggressive than that. Taxi drivers attempt to get a hold of your bag because they know if they get your bag - they will get you.

So many arms were reaching and tugging at my bags and shouting for me to join them. Other more ragged arms were also attempting to reach me, I presume a sprinkling of thieves and pickpockets - because that is just standard. I managed to keep my footing on very uneven ground in almost no light, with my top heavy pack being yanked left and right.  My tucked down head still identified the smells of burning garbage, human waste, goat Barbecue, stale beer, and unwashed and unwell humans. Not quite Reavers, but close. (sorry, Firefly reference)

When we got through the gates my phalanx reversed and pushed me up a small flight of stairs and to what I presumed was safety.

Our bus rolls through about 6:00. And they give it a final customs check. Our driver and conductor look nervous. They ask me to bring my bag up from the boot as they lockers will be sealed once they are checked.  We wait. And then we wait some more. Finally a team of inspectors show up and give our bus a body cavity check from stem to stern. They go through the bus itself and look at every passengers luggage. They herd us all off the bus and check it again. Everyone is nervous.  Our conductor says this usually takes 10 minutes. He denies knowing why the concern. They hold us for two hours. Then they let us go. It is 8pm and dark. Off to Kampala.

So, to review - here is the map of my transit. In the story so far you can see that I have covered almost half the distance and am resting comfortably outside of Eldoret up at the top of the map. (clicking the map should enlarge it,) I drove that nice long stretch through the National Parks and beyond. You can see why I thought that the next leg from  there to Kigali should have been no big deal.  Kigali is not marked on the map for some reason, but it is where the red and green lines merge.  (the green line being my 07 trip to Goma)  Everyone, including me, thought I would be tired at the end of the trip, but everyone, inlcuding me, thought that it would progress without any real trouble and that I might even enjoy parts of it.  Zarembka had done it many times -  I remember him saying that he would never do it again, but he blamed that on being an old man, and he had no doubts about the wisdom of my plan over flying back to Nairobi and flying to Kigali. Turned out that my hope of getting a puddle jumper straight from Western to Rwanda was impossible.  And I have this travel allergy to retrograde motion - it has gotten me in trouble before and will no doubt get me in trouble again.

What I was forgetting was the African Relativity Theory,  Which states that the difficulty of traversing any particular kilometer can be inversely proportional to the level of difficulty anticipated. translation: "Whatever you thought? - It ain't gonna' be so!"  This often combines with intermittent temporal anomalies.  Where Time slows down or rarely speeds up in unpredictable ways. Also a factor is the African Amnesia effect - Just because you really should have known better does not mean that you do.

Resting comfortably at Chez Zarembka, I was told that I would need to go back 60K to Eldoret to catch the overnight through bus to Kigali.  This despite the fact that the through bus would pass right by the road to our village. But they knew the "Good" coach company, and it would be the  big bus, not the matatu, once I got to Eldoret. Much better to be on the express than the local line.  It should be about 5pm on the Bus and in Kigali by breakfast time.  Dave and Gladys needed to be about other business on my departure day, and this made Gladys a bit concerned as she wanted to see me onto the right bus, but Dave and I had spent a day swapping travel stories, he being a 40 vet of the region and he decided that any woman who had done the Congolese border crossing on her own without French could manage a bus in Eldoret.  Being, as it was, Africa where you just don't count on doing more than one task in a day, it was decided that I should get my ticket a day ahead. But being, as it was, Africa I didn't actually need to do this myself, and there were several young relatives at loose ends who could be assigned the task. So two young nephews of Gladys, Pat and Mike, were sent to Eldoret  with a handwritten note from me requesting a ticket and my money.  They came back about dark successful, with a ticket clearly marked for the next day, 5pm, through to Kigali with no layover in Kampala. Supposed to be 16 hours.

Now a diclaimer:
Why I will never be a photo journalist. 
When things get interesting, I get engaged. I get interested. I get involved. My memory clicks into hyperdrive - albeit in a story-teller, sometimes 'pert-near true form. And I completely forget that I own a camera.
So there will be no pictures till Kigali.
But I wrote it out immediately upon reaching safety.
And that it what you will get next.
Serialized.

Gospel Ministry was never supposed to be all resorts, and salt-water pools, and flowers, and speedos, so on the fifth of July I disembarked Mombasa for the trip across Kenya. It got African fairly quickly as I snagged the opportunity to hitch a ride across country with David Zarembka and his wife Gladys. This meant the  first 900 kilometers (1mile=1.6k) would be in the back of Dave's pickup which is equipped with a secure cab and bench seats. Sharing the back with me were four Mzee (seasoned) Baba (father) pastors from the Lugulu region. They were only going as far as Nairobi, (having as they did good sense) but they were good company. 

You pack a truck cab thusly: most senior closest to the cab as the potholes are ferocious and sneaky, and the lift achieved is greater the farther back you go. SO, I was back by the tailgate, which gave me air and the ability to see forward, and the need for those things, as I am a famous puker. With the Babas, and their luggage, and my luggage, was some nursery stock one of them had acquired, and of course we stopped several times for road side produce.  The Babas were amazed at my ability to snatch a tomato out of the air while myself airborn. When the road was smooth enough to permit conversation we shared stories. We found common interests in obscure Biblical references and Botany.

Neither Mama Gladys nor the pastors were drivers, and Zarembka had a bad leg, so when we were good and clear of Mombasa with at least 200k to Nairobi, Friend Z stopped the truck for the another round of the territorial marking of the countryside that old men seem so fond of, and announced "Your turn Peg."  I said to the Babas, "What did the captain of Jonah's boat say to the crew and passengers?"  "Pray to whatever Gods you have!"  chorused the Babas. "Good advice" I said, "I'm going to drive!" Much laughter. Booyah! the girl drives!


Gladys took a turn in the back and Zarembka coached me in driving at high speed on the wrong side of the road. I liked the outside edge of the road but he fueled my courage and insisted I take an inner line, as the worst of the potholes seem to be edgewise. After a few passes of petrol lorries within a foot without my screaming, we settled in, and I did my 200k. On that stretch I saw zebra, baboons, a lone giraffe and many camels. On the far outskirts of Nairobi, I gave it back to Z and rejoined the Babas. They cheered my efforts and claimed that I was very good at sparing their spines. They asked if I had ever ridden a camel, I had not,(neither had they) but told them that I was an experienced horse woman.  One of the Babas exclaims "Truly - I love you!" And they all tried to convince me to delay my departure for Burundi with a tour of churches in the Lugulu region. It is mostly kindness, but I think they envisioned tomato juggling on horseback, followed by preaching, and it's true, you don't get that every day.


When they deplane, half-way through a three-hour gridlock Nairobi, I know its am going to be lonely in the back without them.

And it was the dry season...
Flowers don't really start blooming until after the fall rains start in September.

Star flower

"running" star flowers

Lily-like flower with Hosta type leaves

Amaryllis

Hybiscus

unknown Cluster flower with "Rhoadie" leaves

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I love that in Kenya, all signs are "kind."













Sorry, Friend T. V. Palmer, you may not swim at the Sun N Sand Resort.











Mombasa was intended to be jet lag recovery and cultural adaptation time. The first worked beautifully, the second was delayed by serious surrealism.  I did end up doing some God-work. Turned out that a trauma healer was a useful thing for our group and I did a hastily scheduled trauma healing workshop for 30 Kenyan women which was well received. If I had been able to alter my schedule I could have done a tour of USFW groups in Western. They were VERY hungry for information about how women can help women heal from trauma.