Dream, Plan, Travel, Repeat.

I’ve been feeling a bit blogged out lately. Too many countries, too many experiences. Is there such a thing as blogger fatigue?But, for all those interested, here’s a brief note that will hopefully be supplemented by a larger post soon. Matteo and I are now in Egypt (Kwa heri East Africa), and are currently looking to rent a room in the city for a month or two so we can rest, learn some Arabic, and finally focus on those pesky graduate school applications. Cairo is wonderful– a big, global city with lots to do; good shwarma sandwiches for $1; outdoor cafes where you can sip mint tea or fresh strawberry juice while watching the world go by; beautiful buildings reminiscent of early-20th century British and French architecture; and a friendly population that’s out and about at all hours. I’m really looking forward to staying for awhile. (A cute note on “friendliness”: I recently told an Egyptian that I loved Cairo. He replied, “And Cairo loves you!”) And no, it’s not as hot, as polluted, or as crazy as everyone makes it out to be. Either Matteo and I are becoming quite used to chaos or we embrace city life far better than most people. (But then again, while attempting to cross a clogged street yesterday, an Egyptian girl whom I was using as a human shield against the cars turned to me and gleefully said in broken, but fully understandable English, “I’m going to die!” Maybe she wasn’t from Cairo.)I’ll get around to a better post later…

At 5PM today—after four long days of watching cheesy instructional videos, reading a textbook, completing four quizzes and one final exam, scaring hotel guests as I sat in full scuba gear at the bottom of their pool, and going on four amazing dives along Zanzibar’s western coast—I officially became (drumroll please!) a card-carrying PADI Open Water Diver.The dive center also gave me a dive log, which I can present to other dive centers around the world as proof of my experience. The log requires stamps, and reminds me of my passport pages—I’ve become addicted to getting visa stamps on my passport, and now, given that diving has been one of the most incredible experiences I’ve had, I imagine that I’m probably going to become a dive stamp collector as well. My brain is filled with plans to go to the best dive sites around the world—and my next stop will most definitely be Egypt’s Red Sea!Under the water, I’ve seen gorgeous coral reefs, tiny shiny fish, big triangular fish, huge fish whose eyes look like googly cartoon eyes, blue starfish, sea urchins with long spikes that frightened me as I hovered above them, sticky anemones, and so many other things living in an entirely different world of their own. (Happy sigh.) I can’t wait to see more.For the last four days, I’ve even been consumed by thoughts of the water on dry land. Such intensive training really messes with your head. Whenever I close my eyes to sleep, I begin to feel as if I am descending into the water. When I sit still, I imagine the rocking of a boat. Above water, I’m aware of each breath I take, and have been breathing slower and deeper than normal, because below the water that simple action dominates my thoughts.So now I find myself busy conquering land and sea. Maybe I’ll learn to fly next…I’ve got to keep things interesting, right?

I like the way the name of my current location, Zanzibar, rolls off my tongue when I say it aloud. Try it: Zzaanzzibaar.From the first moment I saw images of Zanzibar’s palm-fringed white sands and turquoise waters on Google, I counted down the days to my arrival. Now I’ve been here for nine days and, having found that it is exactly the type of island paradise I dreamed of, I’m not interested in leaving. Sorry mainland Tanzania– I’m going to have to see the rest of you on some other trip.Zzaanzzibaar. Really, just try it.Years ago, Zanzibar belonged to the Sultan of Oman and traces of Arab culture remain throughout the island– men in robes and embroidered caps, women in headscarves, mosques, windows with onion-topped arches. Narrow, pungent market alleyways and intricate carved wooden balconies– so similar to those I saw in Delhi and parts of Rajasthan– and the prominence of Indian shopkeepers also reveals the proximity and influence of the Indian subcontinent. Intermixed within all of it are the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of tropical Africa. Huge segments of the world come together on this island. A global blend. I love it.Besides wandering around and enjoying all of these people and their surroundings, my daily life on the island involves eating massive quantities of delicious food. (Sadly, this comes at the same time that I spend most of my days on the beach, wearing a bikini.) The best place to eat is Forodhani Gardens, an oceanside outdoor night market beloved by tourists and locals alike that is lined with dozens of inexpensive street vendors grilling seafood and meats, frying vegetables, and displaying juicy slices of fresh fruits. Matteo and I have fallen into a routine– first, we head to “our” seafood vendor (a lovely man who doesn’t try to charge foreigners extravagant prices), where Matteo orders grilled barracuda skewers wrapped in chapati bread and I have crab claws with plantains. Next, we make our way to “our” juice man, who pours us fresh glasses of sugarcane juice seasoned with ginger and lemon. Then, despite protests from our full bellies, we head over to “our” kabob man, who gives us a plate of beef and fries drenched in spicy pili pili sauce. Afterward, groaning but unable to control ourselves, we’ll have some ice cream, or a crepe with bananas and chocolate. (Best of all, the whole meal will cost us about $4 each.)A good way to digest all of that food is to spend hours lying on the beach and reading. After some time, swimming in the warm, clear ocean also helps. So, after traveling up to a beach on the north of the island, and renting a cozy bungalow with a porch overlooking the ocean, I did that too for five wonderful days.Now, lured by the promise of colorful tropical fish and coral reefs hidden beneath the water’s surface, Matteo and I are back in Zanzibar’s main town, enrolled in a four-day PADI Open Water Dive course. (I’ve read that there’s also wonderful diving in Egypt’s Red Sea, so I think this may be the beginning of a long relationship with scuba equipment.) I spent all of yesterday studying dive theory; today, I wore scuba gear for the first time and took my first breath underwater in a hotel swimming pool. Tomorrow, I go on the first of the course’s four ocean dives– I can’t wait.Once I finish the dive course, I may travel to another beach on the east coast of the island and stay there for a few days. And then, despite my longing to stay here forever, I (probably) will leave Zanzibar to return to Nairobi. I have a flight to Cairo booked for August 7, and the excitement of traveling to another region of the world is beginning to run through my adventure-addicted veins.

Yes, the title of this blog entry is excruciatingly boring, but I couldn’t think of anything clever (or even “clever”) and I’m running out of time at the internet cafe. Sorry.At this moment, I’m in sunny Dar es Salaam, a large city on Tanzania’s coast that Lonely Planet describes as “the country’s capital in all but name.” (The actual capital of Tanzania is a rather dull inland city called Dodoma– southern Californians will understand the two cities’ relationship if I compare Dodoma to Sacramento and Dar es Salaam to Los Angeles.) Tomorrow, if I can survive the awful touts swarming around the ticket offices, I will take a ferry to Zanzibar. And after that, you may never see me in the United States again because I will take up permanent residence on that island paradise and spend my days drinking coconut milk and gazing at the turquoise ocean from my swaying hammock.So that’s what I’m up to at the moment. But I also need to write about the rest of my trip in Rwanda— I hardly want to leave all of you with my robbery story as your final impression of the country.During my last few days in Rwanda, I visited some of my former organization’s rights education classes for their female program participants. The classes, which I attended both in Kigali and in a small rural town located several hours east of the capital, were conducted in Kinyarwanda; thankfully, a wonderful woman who works as a vocational trainer offered to translate for me. Topics discussed among the groups I visited included business etiquette (such as the importance of marketing, self-presentation, and honesty in trade), the value of women’s work at home (or, why unpaid work still contributes to a family’s prosperity), and reproductive health (which initially involved lots of giggling by women with babies on their laps who were too embarrassed to say “vagina,” but later developed into earnest conversations about menstrual cycles, pregnancy, and infertility.) I found the women’s discussions fascinating—and, through our enthusiastic translator, they seemed to have found me pretty interesting too. Besides being asked if I was married, if goat meat was popular in the United States, and how Americans spend their summer days, I was asked questions related to the classes, such as how business was conducted in America and if my father helped my mother with housework. (Ted, they applauded when they heard that you cook and help clean up the house.)What sticks out the most in my memories of meeting these women, though, is the appreciation with which they spoke to me of their ability to participate in the organization’s programs. At the end of the classes, it was common for women to provide me with testimonies of how their lives have improved since they joined the organization—using money from their overseas sponsors, one woman has built herself a kitchen, another sends her children to school, another has a small garden plot of tomatoes, and yet another has purchased bricks for her future home. Some came to the classes holding letters or pictures from their sponsors. All the women who talked to me—all of whom had experienced innumerable tragedies and obstacles over the years—spoke of hope. And that was wonderful to hear.Other brief memories of Rwanda……I saw the president and his motorcade of black and gray SUVs speeding down a village road, scattering children and animals out of their way. While I have great respect for the progress Rwanda has made while under the president’s leadership, I really question the necessity of his driving (as my driver estimated) some 200 km/hr through a busy countryside……I recently received an e-mail that asked, “Can you tell who is Hutu and who is Tutsi?” The answer: no. And very few people that I met volunteered this information. I think, with the government’s strong encouragement, people are doing all that they can to erase the divisions of the past and re-define themselves as “Rwandan.” On that same note, I often found myself looking for evidence of the genocide; to me, it didn’t seem obvious that genocide had occurred. But then I would hear bits and pieces about others’ past—how some had come to Rwanda at the end of 1994, returning with their families from years of exile in nearby countries; how so many young men and women have AIDS; how 14 and 15 year-old boys were studying at a nearby school for orphans; how a woman who once had nine siblings now has only two. It’s clear that scars run deep through the society, and while so much progress has been made, there is still so much work to do to make Rwanda whole again.…for my final night in Rwanda, I had a delicious dinner (or really, a feast with a dozen dishes or so) with David’s aunt, uncle, and cousins. I was so happy to be invited to their home, and felt equally thankful for all the opportunities I had while in Rwanda to interact with Rwandans—to dine with them, and to hear their stories and debates while sharing some of my own. I think I learned more about their country while among them for a week than I could have learned as a typical tourist in a year.And that’s all for now. Once I get my hammock arranged, I’ll write from Zanzibar.

Last night, following five years of travel through sixteen countries, it finally happened– I was robbed. Goodbye, digital camera. I’ll miss you.It was the perfect scenario (for that bastard robber, I mean). It was dark, I was alone at a crowded bus station in Kigali, and my hands were full while my camera bag, strapped across my chest, dangled at my waist. I think someone grabbed it out of the bag while I was swept into the mob jostling outside the bus.When I sat down in my seat, I noticed that my camera bag was suspiciously flat. Damn it. Afterward, I announced my ill luck to the bus passengers in English, and then in broken French (which was a little hard, but now my vocabulary has expanded to include voleur, or “thief”). People were furious that someone had stolen the camera (and that there was possibly a thief in their midst), but had little specific sympathy for me. White people can buy more cameras, of course.There is a silver lining to this mess, though. Yesterday morning, I was showing photos from my travels to a woman who runs the guesthouse where I’m staying. In the process, I switched photo cards. The photo card that has my most recent photos on it, beautiful pictures from my Lake Turkana safari that haven’t been transferred to DVD yet, was the card I had taken out of my camera and left in my room. So, while I lost the camera, my photos were saved. My sincerest thanks to the gods for that one.

Today, I visited the Kigali office of an organization I worked for in Washington, DC. In my former position, I spent so much time writing about the organization’s overseas programs and listening to other staff members talk about them that it was an incredibly gratifying experience to finally see them in person. I was so impressed by the neat, spacious, and bustling office; the warm reception I received from staff, and from the country director in particular, with whom I had wonderful conversations; and the focus and commitment of the many program participants undergoing different job training sessions – knitting, sewing, basket-making, and beadwork—around the grounds. So much of it was familiar—the green and orange logo that greeted visitors as they entered the office, the products made by the participants, the bulletin board with the employee code of conduct, and even a DC staff photo that had my picture in it!—and I felt pride in knowing that I had recently been part of this office, providing them support from the other side of the world.Also at the office, a program graduate told me the story of her life during the 1994 genocide. I’ve read terrible accounts of individuals’ experience in war before but it was particularly—physically—painful to sit directly beside a woman as she looked me in the eyes—or, as her brave expression and cheerful talk fell away, as she turned to sob behind a crumpled handkerchief— and told me about the horrors she endured and how, 13 years later, they continue to affect her present life. I’m not going to recount her story here, because it’s deeply personal and I don’t believe it’s mine to share with everyone on the internet. (I remember her saying that before she joined our organization, she told her story to other organizations who had promised to help her; she never received assistance and she thinks they used her story for their own gain.) Despite the difficulty in hearing her story, though, I am grateful to her; I think it’s a story that will stay with me for a long time, and one that reaffirms my support for my former organization. There needs to be a reaction, a response, to the violence in the world, and something to provide survivors with hope for the future.Later this week, I’m going to return to the Kigali office as well as to a satellite office outside the capital to visit additional programs. I’m looking forward to seeing and learning more.

I fell in love with Rwanda at 20,000 ft. From my airplane window, I stared at the gorgeous countryside surrounding Kigali—rolling green hills divided into thousands of rectangular garden plots edged by banana trees that, from the sky, look like stars. Black paved roads—impressive for this part of the world—and tidy red dirt roads crisscross the hillsides, running past neat clusters of simple square homes with tin roofs.Things were even better on the ground. As I exited the plane, I was welcomed to the country by a Rwandan named David who had been on my flight; soon, I discovered that he had met a friend of mine from Washington, DC several years ago in South Africa. Small world! David invited me to join him and Sarah, his traveling partner (an American girl who goes to school in my hometown, Los Angeles—smaller world), at a guesthouse in Kigali. I accepted, and was thrilled to discover that the woman who drove us there (the mother of one of David’s friends) has a sister who works for the Rwandan office of the organization I worked for in Washington. (Really, these personal connections were getting ridiculous.) I had come to Rwanda alone, and was expecting to spend the weekend wandering around Kigali by myself, but then I suddenly found myself at ease among a wonderful group of people within minutes of my arrival.Yesterday, I left the guesthouse with my new friends around 10AM to explore the city and we didn’t return until midnight. David, to my delight, turned out to be not only a wonderful conversationalist and all-around interesting individual but also a networking king; we spent the day meeting Rwandans and foreigners at downtown shops, an afternoon BBQ, a posh sports club (where I drank incredible Rwandan coffee), and a beautiful Indian restaurant. I had great conversations with a presidential bodyguard; interns and employees from government and non-governmental development organizations like USAID/PEPFAR, World Vision, and Project San Francisco; a widely-traveled Air Force officer (David and Sarah had first met him at the UN in New York); the General Manager for the Rwandan branch of Macmillan Publishers Ltd; and a Ghanaian student studying international relations and law in South Africa. We talked throughout the day about traveling, the challenges and successes of development in Rwanda and in Africa generally, and post-conflict reconstruction. I was in my element.What else? All Rwandans speak Kinyarwanda, but they communicate with the international community through French or English. French is more common, so I’m really enjoying the opportunity to practice the language. (To my relief, three months of exposure to Malay, Hindi, and Swahili haven’t pushed the French I learned over the last year and a half out of my brain.) I’m also filled with graduate school research ideas right now—besides the gender and conflict issues I’ve considered for the past few years, I’m also thinking about yesterday’s many debates from Rwandans on overpopulation and land usage. And finally, after witnessing the glamour of Kigali, I’m curious to see if Rwanda’s post-war development efforts have reached those rural hillsides I saw from the plane. I have a lot to think about, and a lot to see later this week.

I visited the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda today, the Arusha-based court established by the United Nations to try individuals alleged to have participated in the Rwandan genocide of 1994.Over two hours, I sat in on two different cases. In the first, the prosecution was examining its witness, a Hutu man. A thick curtain hid the man from the public to protect his identity. I only heard the last hour of his 6-hour testimony, but his responses to the prosecution’s questions were interesting. The man’s mother-in-law was a Tutsi, and he claims to have protected her during the genocide. The witness denied that he had participated in the killings (I imagine that’s common), but also – when asked by the prosecution how, given the witness’ claims to have been protecting Tutsis in the community despite the ire of his Hutu neighbors, he managed to survive the genocide—the man replied that, in those days, you did what you could to help others but you also had to show your support to the government. The prosecution didn’t press the man further, but his response gave me the chills—how did he “show support” to a government that was actively murdering Tutsis?In the second case, I watched a different set of prosecutors examining another witness, and was introduced to what I’m sure is only one of many difficulties in international trials. The main prosecutor was an African woman who spoke in English, and her questions were translated in both French (for other members of the legal team, as well as some Rwandans) and Kinyarwanda (the language spoken by both Hutus and Tutsis). The witness responded in Kinyarwanda, and an interpreter relayed his statements back to the prosecution in English. When I entered the courtroom, it was obvious that the prosecutor was impatient with the witness; the interesting thing, though, is that while the witness’ statements in Kinyarwanda were pretty monotone, the English translator’s tone sounded very defensive. Indeed, when you watched the translator in his booth, his whole body language was defensive—at times, he’d even throw his hands up in the air. I wonder if his English translations were partly responsible for the prosecutor’s poor attitude—communication is so much more than words and translations that ignore things like tone and body language can be incomplete.After an introduction to Rwanda’s past, I think that—pending a travel agency’s confirmation of my flight—I’m flying to the country tomorrow to see what it’s like in the present-day and, by visiting some NGO projects, what its possibilities are for the future. I’m very excited, and will be sure to update you all on my experiences soon.

When I wrote “July 7” in my last post, I guess I really meant “July 11.” Sorry.The last time I posted, I was in Kenya preparing for an eight-day safari to Lake Turkana, the world’s largest permanent desert lake. Since then, I’ve gone on the safari (which I’ve written about below) and traveled onward to Arusha, Tanzania, where I met up with some friends I made on the Kenyan coast. And, now that I’m just starting to get used to a new country, I’m planning to take a quick trip to another—Matteo left this morning with our friends to climb Africa’s tallest mountain, Mt. Kilimanjaro, and I’m hoping to have my own adventure later this week by visiting former colleagues in Kigali, Rwanda for a few days. (For those of you wondering why I’m not climbing the mountain as well, it’s because I decided that while I like the idea of being able to brag that I climbed Kilimanjaro, I dislike not only the idea of actually having to climb it but also paying someone a very large sum of money to subject myself to that kind of torture.) But Rwanda is still up in the air, pending the response to an e-mail I wrote to someone I know there– hopefully my next post will confirm that I’m going! Otherwise, it’s relaxing in Arusha and getting caught up on some personal business until Matteo returns and we move on to Zanzibar, my eagerly-awaited Swahili island paradise.Enough updates. On to the safari.Very few travelers journey to northern Kenya. Some years ago, violence sparked by cattle raids, robberies by bandits from unstable neighboring states, and local ethnic conflicts deterred visitors. Things have since quieted down, but the region’s reputation for lawlessness remains. The horrible “roads”– alternately narrow dirt paths covered with volcanic rock and holes, or soft desert sand that swallows the wheels of all but the hardiest vehicles, which are often referred to as some of Africa’s worst— that cross the region also keep outsiders away.But, as the saying goes, with great risks come great rewards. Traveling to Turkana was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable experiences of my trip so far.It takes several days to travel to Lake Turkana from Nairobi, and you’ll never reach it unless you have the right equipment. Our safari company supplied us with an enormous opened-sided truck that looked like it belonged in a military convoy—even so, we had a couple of near-breakdowns that probably would’ve been disastrous if our talented driver wasn’t also a skilled mechanic. Paved roads end within a few hours of Nairobi, and I spent the rest of the trip shaking and bouncing in my seat. Each day’s drive, though, was entertaining; besides gazing at my ever-changing surroundings, I had a dozen interesting individuals from England, Ireland, and the Netherlands to talk, sing, and even play (magnetic) chess with.After traveling north all day on the first day, we spent the second on game drives at Samburu National Park. I saw nearly every kind of animal that there was to see– zebras, giraffes, elephants, impalas, ostriches, cheetahs, baboons, buffalos, and even, in two particularly gratifying moments, lions! The lion story is fun: we first saw a lion and a lioness during our afternoon game drive on the second day, but they were semi-hidden in the grass and a good distance from our truck. That alone was exciting, but the sighting seems — in retrospect– fairly dull after an amazing experience that we had as we were leaving the park the following morning. On our way to the park’s entrance gate, we came across a beautiful adult male lion. He, like all animals used to the constant parade of safari vehicles, took one look at us and began walking away in opposite direction. (It’s so hard to get photos of wildlife that are actually looking forward!) But just then, another safari vehicle, having heard about the lion over their radio (you wouldn’t believe the kind of gridlock that can occur in parks when “special” animals have been sighted), pulled up on a road opposite to our vehicle, effectively cutting off the lion’s escape route into the bushes. Undaunted, the lion turned his back at the new vehicle, and began walking straight toward our truck. Hundreds, or possibly thousands, of great photos and ooohs and aaahs later, he passed us and disappeared into the bush. Happiness all around– except, perhaps, for the passengers in the other safari vehicle.The next three days were spent traveling long distances to various campsites in increasingly northern locations that appeared to have been unchanged since the beginning of time. Nairobi is surrounded by lots of cool, lush green hills, but as you travel further north, the hillsides (which, at times, strangely remind me of rural England) give way to thorny bushes dotting dry savannahs with eerie-looking, isolated mountains bursting from the earth’s surface; then, as you approach the Chalbi Desert, there are fields of black volcanic rock and, later, miles and miles of golden sand. We began to see mirages in the distance– at one point, I swore that there was a pond ahead, because I could see the reflection of desert plants on its surface, but then we just passed another endless field of dirt.As plants disappeared in the landscape, so did many people. Most “towns” were no more than overgrown villages of round, thatched huts and a few bare cement-block buildings for the local mosque or church. Settlements outside of towns would be tiny clusters of 10 homes or less.I was (and still am) amazed by these places. Few homes were located near water. There were no gardens in sight. (Incidentally, I learned from a man in one of those towns that the one desert plant that I thought could be edible was in fact deadly. I was hoping that I had an inner survival sense tucked away in some deep, ancestral recess of my brain; I don’t.) Meat from camel herds seems to be the most reliable source of food, but judging from the blond hair of several children I saw and the prevalence of food cans with a picture of the American flag, it’s clear that life is rough for the region’s inhabitants.More amazing was the fact that, after driving miles and miles away from these settlements, we would suddenly come across a young man tending to his herd of camels, or an elderly man wandering across the desert toward a distant village. (One man approached us when our truck became stuck in a sand dune; he hitched a ride after tossing his spear in the back.) I tried to imagine a life of walking hours and days through nothingness, of possibly seeing no more than 100 people throughout my lifetime. The thought is so far removed from my own reality.On the evening of the fifth day, we arrived at Lake Turkana, whose green-blue waters seemed even more beautiful after days of driving through savannah and desert. We stayed the night in traditional Turkana huts (which may sound more romantic than it was; some huts—mine excluded, thankfully—were already occupied by really, really big spiders), and then spent the following day exploring the area. We traveled around the lake by boat in the morning and – after we were hilariously rained-out in a region that probably only experiences rain once or twice a year—went out later again in the sunny afternoon.At mid-day, we toured a village nearby the lake. The pre-arranged visit struck me as a pretty uncomfortable experience—it wasn’t clear to me that all of villagers approved of the tour (I might be annoyed as well if someone entered my home and wanted to photograph me making my breakfast) nor was it apparent that the money that we paid to our safari operators would actually be used on inclusive and desired community development projects. Who knows. After answering questions about America with a couple of English-speaking boys, though, I did manage to glean some interesting lifestyle information from them. One boy, for instance, is currently saving for a dowry so he can marry a girl in a neighboring town. The dowry is no less than 30 goats, 10 donkeys, 12 camels, 2 sacks of sugar, and 2 sacks of coffee. I asked him what he currently has and he replied that he owns 10 goats. That’s still a long way to go. Another highlight of the village visit was when I asked that same boy how old he thought I was. He peered into my eyes for a minute or so and then confidently said, “35.” Ouch.The seventh and eighth days were spent returning to Nairobi through a different, but equally beautiful and bumpy landscape. More Wild-West-Meets-Africa towns, oases, mirages, and desert sunsets.Are you really still reading this?In short (well not really, but summarizing has never been a strength of mine), my safari was a unique experience that brought me in contact with unforgettable landscapes, gorgeous wild animals, and unbelievable little villages and towns that are home to some of the toughest people on Earth.And now I’ve drained my brain and am starting to stare stupidly at my screen. Time to go.

…but I’ll have plenty of stories to tell when I get back!