Beginning around 2007, I started traveling through Scandinavia a bit.  At that time I was awarded a Fulbright and given an award to spend some time at the Peace Research Institute Oslo, where I have recently been made a Global Fellow.  At some point I will discuss what research I am engaging in there (I don't really like to talk about things while I am doing them - hint: it is about repression and contentious politics).  Regardless, with my travels to and through Norway, I began to notice some important as well as interesting things which brought out comparisons to the other places where I was spending time: US, India, Northern Ireland, Zimbabwe and Rwanda.  It was at this point that I started writing my "Tales of Norway".  This is the third installment.


The Old are not Wasted on the Young: Leonard Cohen in Oslo

“Care to go to a concert?” I was asked by one of the Havards (many Norwegians have this name which is kind of confusing sometimes).

“Who is playing,” I asked – skeptical but interested: 1) to see who Havard liked and 2) to see who played in sleepy little Oslo.

“Leonard Cohen,” he responded.

I was like, “the off-beat, crooner from the 1960’s with the golden voice?”

Havard was like, “one and the same.  He has a show tonight and tickets are available.”

“He’s still playing music,” I asked – innocently enough.

“Of course,” he replied, “he’s one of the most popular singers in Oslo.

This I could not believe.  “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, not at all,” he said quite earnestly.  Norwegians don’t lie.

We then rushed to get tickets at the post office.  Don’t ask, different story and when I got up to the counter, I paid my $102 for my ticket.  Now, I’m not quite sure of the price for one of the first rules of having a good time in Oslo is that you never, ever convert local prices to dollars: it’s just too depressing and psychologically draining (immediately one cascades into “how can anyone live here,” “who can afford this,” “why has the American dollar dropped so much,” and then about 15 minutes later you come out of it).

Tickets in hand, Havard 1, Havard 5, R, Cy and myself went to the concert.  At first glance, on the tram ride past the crowd, I saw that Havard was not lying.  I mentioned that Norwegians were truthful, right?  The crowd went on – seemingly forever, winding in and out of the cobblestone streets, into/around alleyways and far, far away from the outdoor stadium.  The crowd was shocking not only because of its size but also for its age.  I could not believe the range.  You had the older crowd (60+’s) but you also had teenagers (not with their parents or grandparents), twentysomethings and everything in between.  To be honest, I was expecting an older crowd or for them to be in the majority and an indoor venue.  But there was no majority.  The distribution was almost proportional (perfectly balanced) – like everything else in Oslo.

Once inside and even through the warm-up act, all I could was watch the crowd. 

“How do the young people know about Leonard Cohen,” I asked.

“They play him all the time,” I was told.

“On the radio… regular stations,” I probed.

“Yes, of course.  All over the air waves.”

I thought that this could not be true.  Leonard Cohen was an acquired taste in the U.S.; hell, if he had not been in the film Natural Born Killers (singing), most under 45 would never have heard of him.  He was Canadian afterall.  But this was immediately confirmed as the increasingly liquored up crowd sang song after song after song with/to/for Cohen.  They totally knew and got the man.  They felt his pain (as he bent forward to croon), long for his love, squealed with delight at every turn of phrase, tilt of hat, which Cohen delivered with grace, dignity, style and likely a little hair of the dog.

The show was truly phenomenal in its depth, showpersonship and finesse – somewhere between Robert Plant meets David Bowie meets Frank Sinatra.  At some point, I realized that I could not even imagine seeing him in the states – at least not like this.  There were no explosions, no breakdancers, no snakes, no naked breasts, no 50-person marching band, no video clips of random violence, no rockets, no red glare.  Just mellowness.  His soothing voice, some relaxed music, the coolness of the night(ish) breeze – it was July so there was no darkness coming any time soon and, of course, the constant flow of beer.  These people can drink.

I racked my brain for most of the concert, trying to think of who America would sit through at a comparable age and degree of mellowness at a similar size venue with this type of variation in the crowd.  A few names came to mind: Elvis or Michael Jackson (brought back from the dead), the aged U2 (U60?) and maybe the remaining Beatles.  Springsteen, Billy Joel and Barry Manilow still got some people to see them, but not this size. 

“What’s up with Americans,” I thought.  “Why do we eat and/or discard our old?”

Then I thought that maybe the Norwegian crowd was like Deathwatch 2008; everyone was there to see the old guy’s last hurrah.  Maybe they thought he wasn’t going to be doing this much longer and in that context every concert could be his last.  Wanting to be a part of the event, therefore, they came out – in droves.

That was the theory.  This did not seem to fit with the reality though of what I was coming to understand about Norwegians.  It did not jive with the audience’s participation (including the 4 curtain calls when Cohen’s age began to show).  They were really into LC (abbreviated to make him a little hipper) and they celebrated each note (however off-key), each sermon (however preachy or corny) as if it were delivered by a good friend.  And for their friend, they listened, they laughed, they clapped, they roared, they drank (of course), and they sang into the dark/lightness(ish) of the Norwegian end of day.

After the event (at around 10pm), we went to sit on the grass under the still blazing sun. Watching several thousand people walk their separate but collective ways under the watchful eye of two unarmed police officers, one whom was holding an LC t-shirt in his hand.   

There is something elemental about it.

At once, mechanical and transcendent;

Habitual and mystical.

It starts simply enough:

The sun emerges, light is shed and warmth is distributed.

            Wherever they are, Norwegians feel its presence.

            In the throes of the call, everything else is suspended.

            They move to open spaces, remove clothing and find their way to the earth.

This must be as I was; as it should be.

Nevertheless, I sit inside pondering the disjuncture – ever uncomfortable is the high-strung, new yorker

How could we occupy the same space but be in such different places?

They look at me and feel pity: “he does not share the sun with us,” they likely think.

I look at them and feel derision: “how do they ever get anything done with all the sun-             
            worshipping,” I definitely think.

We gaze at each other, through glass and several thousand miles of cultural differences, but we do not see each other.

I envision other sunny days, after I am done/after my deadline.

Then I will enjoy it – content with my completion and movement.

They see no other day;

            Remembering dark days and darker nights

            They run to celebrate it, now.

I seek to erect, chisel, carve a legacy one word at a time.

They seek to disassemble, curl, extend into the grass, one limb at a time.

Don’t ask them about it. 

The answers make no sense for the questions are senseless, baseless.

How could one not commune with brother sun, sister moon is coming and she is a lukewarm and tempestuous being?

“Tomorrow will come,” they tell you, “but there is no guarantee of lightness.”

“Winter will also come,” they tell you, “and it is without question going to be no light then.”

Just a dark gray, a cold that wraps around your spine and a slowness that rivals tree
growth.

I have not completely transformed but after several months, I now take my papers and read them outside when beckoned by the sun.

I now walk along a river when I take in the afternoon breeze and midday reflection.

And, I gaze at the sunbathers at 8:30pm to recall the feeling of grass underfoot.

I never thought of Norwegians as funky (i.e., into the music of Parliament/Funkadelic) but they seem to get it: Everybody’s Got a Little Light Under the Sun!

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.


Karinne (as usual not her real name) appeared to be into everything.  She was in three educational programs in five different countries.  She was co-Director of two centers.  She was writing several articles for journals and generals alike on women, democracy, civil society, new media, public spheres, genocide, women and genocide, democracy and women, civil society and genocide, truth and reconciliation, reconciliation and genocide – you get the point.  Unfortunately for Karinne, she did all this poorly.  Stretched too thin, all efforts seemed to be half-hearted. 

Now, this is not to say that Karinne was incapable of learning or alternatively teaching.  Rather, she had no interest in learning how to do anything correctly because that would just slow her down and cut into her profit margin.  All Karinne had to do was a little of everything regardless of quality because in Rwanda at the time there was a lot of nothing - not nothing nothing for there were a great number of initiatives underway; just nothing completed or completely working.  In addition to this, there was a lot of people, sympathy as well as money coming to the country in order to help get something, anything started.  And it came from all corners of the globe, it came – almost daily via envelopes, packages, Western Union, UPS, Fedex, Horses and Buggies. 

The desire to send was clear.  Individuals felt guilty about not doing anything. Collectively we had failed to do anything about the violence. We could not sit back and not do anything about the aftermath. Individuals also wanted to be part of the redevelopment.  But where should their support go - I mean where exactly do you send the check?  Rwanda was still a mystery to most of the world.  They knew killing fields but nothing about survivors and their institutions.  As a result, two areas became focal points of attention: governments and universities.  The reason was simple: both had webpages and could easily be found.  In a vacuum of misunderstanding, guilt and ignorance, those with these resources COULD clean up.  Karinne was one of them.  

Hers was a no limited enterprise.  Indeed, her reach was global.  She pimped all masterfully and in the most fabulously adorned outfits imaginable – day in and day out.  “Need an interpreter for your survey?”  “No problem,” in Yellow.  “Need some researchers to do some archival work?”  “No problem,” in Green.  “Need a little essay on women?”  “No Problem,” in Purple and Red.  “Need a little lecture to be given in Norway or Belgium or Toronto?”  “No Problem,” in Pink.  It just kept coming. I have seen some deep closets in my day.  My childhood friend Kadeem Hardison's mom ran a modeling agency so you got to see all types of clothes - on models, in designer's studios, in draft form, on the floor - everywhere.

Now, this all stood out prominently for slowly emerging from the ravages of civil war, genocide, regime change and chronic underdevelopment, Rwandans were generally broke.  Actually "dead broke" would be the more appropriate but less sensitive phrase.  The average Rwandan was partially clothed, shoeless and struggling to survive.  If they did not have clothes, they were either obtained from the local market which carried a limited assortment of designs, materials and colors or from a group swap-meet which offered a slightly greater variety.  In context, the clothing and general attitude made sense and it was also quite reasonable that folks kinda did what they had to do in order to do what they had to do.  Much respect.

Karinne was one of the better-off returnees however – representing a completely different Rwandan entirely.  She had some education, some life experience outside the country, some travel, some languages (more than the two or three that indigenous Rwandans had).  She also came with a West African sensibility: loud, colorful, boisterous, energetic and busy.  In contrast, indigenous Rwandans were generally mellow, subdued, noble, quiet – traumatized a little or just shy (not many have come this far into the continent).  It was almost my sixth trip to Rwanda before I heard a loud noise (that is the source of another story).  

Now the disjuncture between Rwandans did not go unnoticed. Because of the obvious gaming (playing all against all) and general inefficiency of Karinne, she developed quite an international reputation.  In airports in Amsterdam, cafes in Belgium and conferences in Maryland, stories abound about the colorful woman running the center and a private fiefdom at the University.  To the new and the men, she was inept but charming.  To the women, she was aggressive, dismissive but with flawless skin.  I heard of grant projects that were simultaneously being submitted to and funded by different organizations.  The same work with different funds.  We all just shook it off, acknowledging our naiveté, the price of doing business and figuring that sooner or later she would get hers.  She did this, consistently however – that is get hers.  There were no come-uppins though just go-downins to the endless pit that was her perfectly matching purse.  

In post-genocide Rwanda, there was always another NGO, another aid agency, another academic ready to pay for some information, another journalist wanting to do an expose on the striving Rwandan, another student, another intrepid soul seeking forgiveness for having stood by when the horror struck this little country. Karinne was able to suck all of them up like some empathetic vortex.  Out of the other end, we came out simultaneously warmed that we had attempted something, pissed that we did not achieve what we wanted, confused at where all the money went, relaxed that more time, resources as well as energy was not spent and frustrated that we were not able to complain to any one – accept those at the bar in Kenya who recently escaped Karinne’s grasp. 

All this for me was very familiar.  Karinne reminded me of every kid back on the block in New York city in the 1980s.  Afrika Bambatta said it best: 

• Looking for the perfect beat (Searching for the perfect beat)
  
• Looking for the perfect beat (Seeking for the perfect beat)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  

Or, you could go the New Jack City route.  Same vibe.  Different medium.

It was all home to me though.  As one looked out into the city - a fierce creature that waited either to reveal some wondrous vision and/or to rob you blind, one got very adept at looking for the vulnerable, the confused, the lost.  This made "transactions" a little easier.  I recalled one of my cousins rolling up on me at one point in the Bowery where I was not used to hanging out (I went for a pair of jeans around Canal Street but ventured to far in).  He stepped in front of me while two of his "associates" pulled up on the side and back of me. Given my height, I was completely hidden.  He looked me up and down and asked me for my watch.  I thought that I would get my ass handed to me by my father if I gave it up, as it had just been given to me and although scared to death, I would rather take the ass whipping from them. While they searched for their next move, I looked up and thought that the person looked familiar.  I then said his name and the two associates immediately walked away.  I was like, it's me, your cousin - your mom's sister's son.  

After that, it was as if the weather changed.  His face turned into a bright smile of acknowledgment and then he told me to watch out because there were folks who would take advantage.  He then pulled me over to the side of the street just in time to observe his associates helping a lost soul return their wallet to the "rightful owner".  For the next few hours, he schooled me on why he chose me and how I was walking through the street.

Karinne must have had the same sensibility of my cousin.  She smelled us coming off the plane, walking into the cafe and popping up at the University.  Fresh meat.  Mark.  You had to admire her though.  Game respects game as it were and she had plenty.  Of course after a long day of coding something or having an interview with someone that massacred their family, I wondered who would have come out victorious if Karinne were to meet my cousin, kind of like some non-celebrity death match show.  An international Hustlers ball.  I think she would take him.  H-U-S-T-L-E-R…..

I have been around gay men my whole life.  Specifically, gay black men.  The reason: my family was and is in the arts: e.g., dance, TV and film (my mother was respectively in things like Alvin Ailey, the Ed Sullivan Show as well as The Wiz) and music (my stepmother ran a record company or two). And, yes, in line with the stereotype, there is an abundance of gay males in general and gay black males in particular within the arts (luckily, in my opinion).  We all benefit from their light, talent and energy. 

Now, because of my upbringing, very early I developed what is referred to popularly as “Gaydar” -- the ability to detect a gay man.  I am not as gifted with detecting gay or bi-women, which would have been helpful while clubbing in New York City in my younger days but with a guy: give me about a minute and I'll tell you what the deal is (or not).

Now, I go into this because there are many brothers within Rwanda that are ummmmmm…. "closeted" (in the shade/shaded), in my opinion. These brothers are not "in the jungle" or "in the bush", to be clear - suggesting some crass primitivism. The logic of this position is straightforward: the continent is not the best place for homosexuals and, in my opinion, in Rwanda there is a whole country that's trying to keep the reality of gay Rwanda hidden.  Indeed, I have heard and seen denial before but the degree of resistance to even the possibility of homosexuality in Rwanda during my travels there was astounding.

When asked about the idea of a gay black man in Rwanda, I was told “no, we don't have THEM here” and “no, they’re are NONE in Rwanda.”  Yes, like it was the plague or something.  Direct quote.  Hand to the universe. On my travels, I constantly heard this.  Pushed to the edge of reason and thinking about what every gay, black, male friend of mine would have said to such an assertion, I pushed and finally had one person admit that there might be at least one or two homosexuals in the whole country but that was a major admission after some alcohol. Right after my colleague said this though he added: they had better not to get caught.  Seriously.  Truth be told, the conversation caused my colleague to get mad at me, like I was calling him a "barbarian" or "underdeveloped" or something because of how they (he and his country) were handling their homosexuality issue.  It was like he was Archie Bunker on crack with a side arm, walkie-talkie, explosive, machete (of course), a german shepherd and access to more of the same.

The evidence for the possibility of a few homosexuals in Rwanda was clear - at least to me.

First, men and women do not generally show affection to one another -- especially in the rural context. No hugging, holding of hands or kissing.  Men and women however can show affection within their respective groups.  Men, in particular, can and do walk hand-in-hand as well as arm in arm with each other down the road in the center of town without anyone caring. This practice was particularly problematic when Rwandans traveled abroad. For example, in America (where the last Tutsi king lives), I am told that he is often seen walking arm in arm with one of his “friends.”  Of course to those in the US, it was simply assumed that they were a couple.  Not that there's anything wrong with that but this is how it looked to neighbors. This was also problematic when someone I considered a friend, naturally swooped their hand to mine and started walking down the street.  Now, while I agree that we were friends and appreciated the Rwandan acknowledgment of such, I still was a bit uncomfortable about what it meant in my context and what it meant to the other mizungus.  This was not an issue of being homophobic (which because of my upbringing I am not).  Rather, it was an issue of being seen as having “gone native” – something especially frowned upon by non-anthropologists.  To have an air of legitimacy in the academia and as a researcher in the field, one had to have an air of empathy, sympathy but also a little distance.  But, I digress. 

My second piece of evidence for the gay Rwandan is that there was an observation of the occasional male prostitute hanging out with the female ones, eyeing the male mizungus. How did I know he was gay?  Well, I mentioned my Gaydar was pretty good but, aside from this, the mascara, swishing of the hips, slicked back hair, crotch-hugging jeans and glossy lips were a big hint.  Leaving with the gay white mizungu was another one.  The gay mizungu was even easier to identify.  Also, on this one particular occasion, there was a straight male prostitute standing right next to the gay one and the comparison was pretty simple to make.  Presumably, if there's at least one gay prostitute for mizungus, there must be at least one gay man in Rwanda.  Just saying.

Third, men hang out with one another all the time and are quite comfortable with one another, everywhere and at occasionally high levels of intimacy.  It does make sense as far as I'm concerned that relationships would emerge.  For example, men chill in saunas buck naked and real close.  Men constantly rubbed oil on each other at the pool and dancing with each other at nightclubs where women would never go unless they were prostitutes. Now, I do not believe that every woman is a prostitute but mizungus are a constant draw for this type of woman and they always appeared to be wherever they congregated.  In addition to that, single women never seemed to go to such places, leaving the environment all male, all the time.  Now, I am also not saying that every man dancing together in a Rwandan nightclub is gay.  Heck, by that category everyone dancing at Danceteria, Area and the Paladium back in New York when I grew up would be gay - which actually might be possible (except for me as well as my club buddy at the time - Parnell) and thus that is a bad example but hopefully you get my point. 

The epitome of the comfort/familiarity/intimacy phenomenon of which I speak is observable by watching men occasionally sit on each others laps in a bar.  Again, this in and of itself does not suggest homosexuality but the response to such familiarity and comfort did suggest homophobia, which I took as an indication that homosexuality was possible. How can you be homophobic is there is no homosexuality? See what hoops one has to go through in order to address the topic.  For example, one evening I pointed out to my Rwandan host two men at some bar and asked him if sitting like that was common.  To this question, it was first denied that the man was sitting on his associate’s lap - at all.  This, however, was clear to everybody. There was no other place that would be as proximate to the individual's chest and groin that did not involve the lap. Now, you say: "of course, non-gay men could be sitting on each other's laps and hanging out".  Well, as I mentioned, my gaydar works pretty well and I could just tell: those brothers were GAY and fabulously so!  Upon acknowledging that my observation was legitimate, and this one guy was indeed sitting on his friend’s lap in a slightly gay-like manner, my Rwandan associate stood up, walked over to the host and complained. Several minutes later, there was no more lap sitting.  Shortly after the initial complaint, the two gentlemen were approached by the host (who whispered something to them) and they left the bar entirely.  After they left and my associate seemed to beam with a little tyrannical, homophobic pride, I wondered about whether or not and how badly I'd put the two guys at risk with my little observation. I had merely attempted to learn a bit more about Rwandan society, but quickly realized that there were just certain things that Rwandans did not want to know themselves or have visitors probe. At that point, I realized that "outing" in Africa was both possible as well as potentially dangerous. 

To be honest, I found all of this completely fascinating except for the two guys being asked to leave, which I found a bit horrifying.  (Note: I actually looked for them over the course of the next month to make sure that they were ok but never saw them again). The identification of Rwandan gayness as well as the denial was in large part interesting because it revealed important differences to the United States. The image of old-school, hyper-masculine aggressive youth with weapons, military fatigues, attempting to mount every female in sight still existed in the US but it is also countered by an equally open, flamboyant, bold, triumphant gayness which no one (at least not openly) would label as anything but male. One sees this in the amazing celebrations during gay pride celebrations in New York and San Francisco - perhaps some of the best parades and parties offered in America.  In Rwanda, however, gay men were not even allowed as an idea, let alone reality. There are no parades there but only charades. On this dimension (and perhaps a few others), the country wears the mask that grins and lies. Indeed, the strength with which they were denied their existence was perhaps as indicative of the tenuousness of control over the society as the openly, hyper masculine aggressive young men with weapons and military fatigues attempting to mount every female in sight which was not only clearly observable in Rwanda but largely celebrated.  Just as I could not imagine an America without its fabulous gayness, I could not imagine a Rwanda with one. 

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
 
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of traveling around Rwanda is the ghost of the genocide.  One might not know the particulars of what took place in a particular place back in 1990-1994 but one quickly gets a sense.  Before going to the country, I read all the books, articles and memoirs I could find.  I also saw a tremendous number of pictures of dead bodies – partially buried or floating.  I even saw the brief video made by Belgians traveling with the Rwandan Patriotic Front or RPF (the Tutsi rebel organization invading from Uganda) which showed the chaotic, sporadic and highly communicative behavior of those involved in the violence.Individuals came out of the jungle, would say something to one another (likely chiding each other on), a person would hack on a body for a while, walk off, have another screaming match and someone else would hack.  They would then walk away and you could see that the body was still alive.  What the hell were they saying?  Why didn’t they just kill the person?  Why did they do it at all?  What kind of sick f@%er hacks someone?  Who films it, and why didn’t the RPF have some snipers?  How can you hack someone? [Note:  Like so many artifacts, this video now appears to be lost.  If you know where it is posted, please let me know.]  

While the genocidal and non-genocidal violence is yet to be explained, part of the explanation needs to be that Rwandans practiced all the time: machetes were everywhere.  They were used to hack fruit from trees, to hack limbs for firewood, to hack meat (no butcher, just a blood-red wooden stub); they were used on the side of the road, on the side of a building, in markets, at restaurants, in bars (for lemons – for real), in hospitals, in schools.  In fact, I cannot think of one place where I went and did not see a machete. 

This reality made one feel surrounded by 8 million potential axe murderers.  Sorry to say it but that's the deal.  Now, I knew that I did not know who specifically had hacked anyone: even if someone was in jail, had confessed to the crime and sat there in a pink prison outfit (given to those involved in the genocide to embarrass and emasculate), you never quite knew which end was up. People were just arrested because their neighbor wanted their property, because they owed someone money, because someone wanted their spouse or because they had challenged the government.  You never knew.

Why confess?  You seen Law and Order.  Well add machetes.  I’m surprised they didn’t have more confessions just to escape the random machete carrier.  I suppose there were plenty of shivs in the prison but still.

As a result of this situation, it just seemed easier to me to assume that everyone was guilty – to err on the side of safety.  Now, this is no way to interact with folks, thinking everyone is a murderer.  In some strange way, however, growing up in New York was good preparation for Rwanda.  In the city (well, the one I knew in the 1970s and 1980s, not the new Disney thing on 42nd Street), you thought everyone was trying to "jack you up" – I wasn’t even in a bad neighborhood and this was the opinion.

Still, it is different navigating Rwanda because every time you hear a distant chop or thump, you shudder and wonder.  Every hand you shake, you reflect on how hard the callouses are, how strong the grip is.  Chop.  Then, you wonder if they could have done it.  Every pair of eyes you look into, you wonder what they see; what they saw.  Chop.  Every chicken or goat you see beheaded, you reflect.  Chop.  Every child you saw, old woman, young man, old man, young woman, you wonder.  Chop.  How can you have peace when the mechanism of piece creation is around you constantly?  People do not seem to check their machetes when they go places, like a hat.  They carry them like Handbags, or is it Teabags?  Casually, matter-a-factly, constantly, urgently. 

In this context, your eyes move constantly.  Checking out the most proximate hackers, machine guns, bands of children.  You do this at the same time you try not to move your head and body, which would communicate far too much uneasiness, marking one for the taking.

The result: you get physically and psychologically exhausted after being in Rwanda for a while and resolve yourself to your fate and/or faith.  Yet another thunderous hack is heard in the distance. 

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them. 

I had seen bars on windows, houses with gates as well as armed guards, even a dog or two at an opening of a fence, but Rwanda was quite different.  For those that had and wanted to keep their stuff, there were armed guards with machine guns and bats with nails in them and the walls were eight to ten feet high, topped with pieces of broken glass as well as barbed wire.  Now, these were not ordinary pieces of glass; they were immense shards, jagged and multicolored of about two by three inches a piece.  They stretched upward from the wall like a thousand little knives, sharpened to pointed perfection. 

The combination of all the factors struck me as bizarre but especially the last.  Would not the barbed wire do so much damage that the glass really served no purpose, I thought?  Well, yes, probably but this was not the point.  Barbed wire was not part of the average Rwandan’s life whereas most would be familiar with what broken glass could do. 

On entering a wealthy Rwandan home, one would see immense lawns, the shadow cast over the remaining wall – moonlight bouncing off the shards in between the beams of light like a prism of (in)security.  The house was huge but sectioned off – more defensible spaces I suppose.  We were led to the living room, greeted by the Ms. (not the Misses – different house, different story) who was adorned in a stunning shock of color and excess.  While we could not see the rest of the house and were offered no tour, one could see eight doors on different sides of the room.  We were in the center of the maze, very fitting I thought.

The house was elegant, tastefully sparse, decorated with a few masks, fabrics, paintings and pottery from different parts of Africa.  Before sitting down, Mason, myself and Francis (another colleague from Maryland on the project) to see the different pieces of art a little closer.  At some point, the Ms. excused herself (she needed to check something in the kitchen), leaving through one of the doors.  We looked at the handmade crafts (the chairs, table and bowls) and then looked at each other.  By any standard, this place was amazing.  The Ms. blew in and out about five times in one door and out another.  By the time we turned around the table was filled with food of all kinds – the ripest of fruit, the tenderest of meat, the sweetest of smells, some potato-like dish and something else that I had never seen.  Very quickly, we knew that we were in for one hell of a meal.  The four of us started eating out of the handmade bowls, later being joined by others – emerging from the different doors.  Every now and then I glanced though the window and out to the wall, seeing someone with a machine gun walk past. 

The next day we walked through some street in Kigali (the capital and home to the hotel in the movie Hotel Rwanda), closely navigating near the restaurant fronts whose guards kept the hundreds of beggars and money-changers at bay. One could see several hundred more in the cracks of the city (between buildings, in alley ways, on the hills).  The street was a buzz with activity, as always.  There were a million and one colors, smells, accents, faces and outfits.  Some wore three-piece suits, some wore only an old piece of African cloth.  Interestingly none wore shorts, despite the ridiculous heat.  This was considered rude and left for Mizungus.  Given the heat, being viewed as an outsider essentially sucked on every dimension but this one.

As we walked, three cars blew down the street, moving faster than anything else.  One of them seemed to miss everyone by inches and then as quickly as it turned onto the street, it turned and moved toward the bank.  Never slowing down, the car came to a screeching halt.  Guards came up on either side and someone in a fabulous two-piece suit stepped out.  If I had to guess, I would say Armani - all black, well-tailored.  More guards showed up and now with about six people on either side the man walked toward the building.  After he was inside, more guards came out, opened the door to the car and then three more individuals came out – one looking more important than the next.  Greetings were made and then they all entered the building.

We asked our guide: who was that?  To this, he only responded: “there are many in Rwanda with a great deal of money. That was obviously one of them.”  We looked at each other and smiled.

Sitting down for lunch across the street from the bank, behind an open fence, three guards, two machine guns and a big stick, I tried to pinpoint my feelings.  I had felt all this before but could not find the moment.  Then I remembered.  On one street in New York city, a homeless woman walked up to a bank deposit drawer, opened it, pulled down her pants, leaned back and furrowed her brow as she took a dump.  At the same time, some guy with an equally beautiful suit and amazing briefcase under his arm walked out of the bank and into a limousine.  The two most likely did not see one another but through me they occupied the same space and that cohesion as well as tension was tremendously unsettling.  How could the two exist in the same space?  What was I supposed to do with that information?  How was I supposed to ignore it?  Why was I allowed/guided to see it?  How could such stark differences exist?  Did they?  How could the car pass through the crowd like a ghost?  Which one was dreaming – the one or the other?  Did it run through the crowd or over it and I just was not able to see the poorer victimized?  What would happen if the bars were not there or the guards or the glass?  Would there be some Hobbesian “free for all”?  Was I not seeing one already? 

Too much thinking.  Where the hell is my tea?

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

The hotel in Butare (the college town of Rwanda and second largest city) was sparkling white and it seemed the staff was bent on keeping it that way – literally.  They seemed to constantly be on their knees.  Every day they washed the floors, the walls and windows. As I walked down the hallway, porters and cleaners busily went about their business.  One needed sunglasses to walk by so as not to be blinded.

Breakfast was always the same.  Upon reaching the dining room, I made eye contact with the host, found a seat and within seconds was brought a pot of tea, milk as well as a bowl of white and brown sugar on a tray.  Now, interestingly, in this hotel you could never just get a cup with no milk and no sugar.  This was how they served it and there was no deviation.  If there were two of you, then you would each receive the same tray: a pot of tea, milk as well as a bowl of white and brown sugar.  There was no sharing: one pot, two cups.  I tried several times to modify the practice: identifying that the two different people could share the milk, the sugar and even the pot; noting that they could save their resources.  All this was to no avail, however; the exact same trays kept on coming.

The breakfast itself was pretty simple.  Pretty bland as well: white bread, jam, sweet bananas and some kind of peach-like fruit were available on a table in the center.  One could also order some pancake-like substance or some eggs – as long as they were boiled, you were ok.

The other guests seemed to arrive in shifts.  If you were an early bird you caught the older crowd: businessmen, military personnel and seasoned travelers getting a jump on the day.  The Rwandan work day is pretty short.  Also, if one wanted to get anywhere in Rwanda (avoiding the perilous high-speed journeys by moonlight), then they had to get started as soon as possible.  Later birds caught the younger crowd: tourists, idealistic anglo do-gooders from the far corners of the Western world.  After a relatively late night with some bizarre drink from Uganda, this morning I was sitting with the latter.  Alas, I have identified a third group: those who are recovering.

This day, I immediately noticed a new group of young people – they sat at a table in the middle of the room.  I sat at my usual corner table, started to pour my tea before getting some bananas.  Several glared in my direction – trying to ascertain my background but they were thrown off by my Kinyarwandan greeting to the host.

At that moment, Prof. Robert Bates (from Harvard) entered the room.  Now, in many respects Bob defines the stereotypical Africanist scholar to a tee: white hat, white suit, white person, upright, astonishingly aware of history – specific parts of it, people – certain classes and policies – most of them.  In other respects, he was about as different as it comes: he was kind, engaging, personable and interested in understanding the world around him.  Despite sticking out like a single grain of rice on a sea of black beans, it was clear that he was comfortable here.  It was also clear he was totally different from everything I had seen in Rwanda up to that time. 

Indeed, after leaving Kigali one rarely saw the color white at all – in any of its forms: skin or clothing.  At the Milles Collines (the hotel in the Hotel Rwanda and main spot in the capital), it was almost as if a white suit was the official costume (as if communicating that regardless of location, I will still be unsullied/untouched by the dirtiness of the place).  Bob seemed very untouched, floating into the room and toward his group of students.  We caught a glimpse of each other quickly and immediately he gave me the warmest of greetings.  He then turned, introduced me to the students and we all sat down.

The group was nothing short of amazing.  Evidently, Bob had been talking to his class about the Rwandan truth and reconciliation effort – Gacaca.  The students had decided that they wanted to help, they had contacted Rwandan authorities, generated some cash, got Bob’s assistance (who admitted to doing very little) and they traveled to Rwanda to assist in the process.  The group was diverse – I mean, they were all white and seemingly with means but there was some diversity among them (kinda).  One had lived in numerous African countries, another had never been to Africa before.  Most spoke English, French and a few other languages.  All had engaged in some kind of activism/advocacy before.  Compared to most of the kids I taught at the University of Maryland - where I has a Professor at the time (many of whom had never been out of the country and who engaged in little to no activism), I could hardly believe my ears.  The upper-crust arranged field trips to Africa.  The working-class slept in my political film class and haggled about when assignments were due. 

Now, clearly this is a simplification: I think all students haggle and I know for a fact that many of my students at Maryland upon hearing about Rwanda wanted to do something, anything.  They just did not take it to the level that these students did to find out what could be done and then make it happen.  They also did not/could not tap the resources of the school, parents, friends, multinational corporations in their family/circle or the Harvard alums to bank roll it.

I just sat there hating and admiring Bob's students while at the same time hating as well as loving my students.  As they rattled on about what they were doing and what they saw, I could only see and hear my kids – wondering how they would respond if they had the same opportunity, what they would see, what they would tell the others at home.

Now, exactly what the Harvard group would do to be helpful was unclear.  Hell, at that point, the Rwandans themselves were still trying to figure out what they were doing with Gacaca.  But all the students believed in it (some intensely), and their attitude was at once refreshing and alarming; Refreshing because the exuberance they showed made me happy to be alive and an American, which was rare; Alarming because, despite seeing many flaws, no guarantees of honesty or protection of witnesses, no investigation into anyone’s testimony, no coordination between sessions, the lack of evidence necessary to bring someone to court, their optimism seemed unqualified. 

I then thought that my students would not have been duped like this.  Their conception of the world was somehow more realistic about such matters.  Perhaps the water is clearer from the bottom of the pool. 

Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

Image to left by Jean Michel Basquiat


Ever meet someone who in every aspect of their being exuded something regal, above but not with effort, prideful but not egotistical?  This describes Jasmine to a T (bag that is). 

We met through one of my research contacts: she was one of our local logistics people, who handled everything as well as everyone.  Her English was impeccable as were her demeanor and appearance.  Weekly she had a new haircut – dramatically shortened one time, amazingly braided and longer the next, Kid n’ Play another.  It was like having a one-woman BET (Black Entertainment Television) session or would it be AET cause she was African?  Daily her outfits were astonishing – linen was her thing which came in every color and every design you could imagine, pressed as if it has just come from the dry cleaners.  Nothing impressed you about Jasmine as much as her smile.  When her face would light up, clouds would part and somewhere music chimed, like a good soundtrack should.

As the Rwandans we generally met were closed, reclusive and quietly hostile, Jasmine was engaging, open, helpful, charming, kind, commanding and pleasant.  The difference could be explained in part because she was brought up abroad – like many who had recently returned.  The local culture had not gotten to her yet. 

Now, this said, Jasmine was not overly any of these things.  She would explain but never give too much detail.  She would assist us but never fully deliver.  She would take us somewhere but never quite all the way and when things got tight/tense she would dismiss us from the room, leaving us with glimpses of the secret world she occupied but little understanding.  It was like we were Diane Keaton in the Godfather when the door closed, except they weren’t Italian and this was no movie. 

The regality of which I speak was revealed clearly one day in seemingly the smallest of instances. Jasmine would hold a pen as if she never held one.  Not the award way that Bush Jr. tried to check out at a supermarket but rather the way that one imagined a great writer would hold an instrument. She would walk as if she was nailed to a board – perfectly straight like 6 o’clock.  She seemingly knew everyone or, at least, everyone that we needed to know and equally as important they seemed to know her. 

We went to lunch one time – a new Rwandan place and invariably she would be stared at and someone would approach her.  It was not quite as over the top as the scene in Coming to America with Eddie Murphy when a former subject bows and stuff but it was clear that something was going on and that they were not socio-political equals.  The conversation was short, the head slightly tilted below Jasmine, eyes cast downward.  Something was up, but what? We could never quite figure it out and banana beer was not helping.

Another time, in front of the Milles Collines, I saw her get out of an automobile that made a Hummer look like a Volkswagen Beetle.  The man in the front seat played for the Pittsburgh Steelers (I believe); not just one player but the whole defensive front line.  I saw him/it/them walk around and open the door for Jasmine, who delicately stepped out.  As she left, you saw the window go down, some face peered through smoke (which filled the inside) and then it pulled back.  The window then went up and the truck/tank/airbus pulled off, dragging the surface of the earth with it. Now, because of my family I have seen a bunch of celebrities in a wide variety of settings. Met the late Michael Jackson before all the cosmetic changes and again later after he transformed. Met En Vogue, the late Whitney Houston. Heck, I even met Robert Flack, Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow as well as a host of Hip Hop artists you have never, ever heard of, but this was some next level blingy type $h@t.

Yet another time, some man approached Jasmine in a restaurant when she had left our table to go to the counter and order.  She seemed to be somewhat familiar with the guy but did not really acknowledge his presence.  The guy’s look was priceless.  Remember when the character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon looked at his friend like a hot dog?  That was the look.  In response, we saw an amazing switch; Jasmine turned from her normally pleasant and engaging self to some off-putting, curt and rude person.  To this, the man appeared to move in close and say something. 

Responding, I thought in a natural and somewhat chivalrous manner, I stood up to assist our host who appeared to be in distress.  My traveling companion and friend, Al (Stam) immediately grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down.  “Do you really want to get into something here?”  He continued, “Do you have any idea what is going on and who is involved?”  He was, of course, correct. I had no idea.  We rarely did.  Who was this guy?  What was the nature of his relationship with Jasmine?  How many guys did he have with him (we later counted 5). 

Part of the strangeness of the situation was derived from my knowledge of what happened during 1994.  Another part of this was Rwandan culture.  It was eerily quiet there – too quiet.  Everyone walked around, worked (usually hacking or pulling something in a field), talked and/or scowled at passersby.  Think of a Brit, add in some Scandinavia and then multiply. Actually, the only time you heard a loud Rwandan was when banana beer and music were involved – a combination that was quite unsettling on more than one dimension.  I always found myself simultaneously more relaxed at seeing Rwandans finally unwind and more fearful at the same sight; did I really want to be present when they let loose?  Nope, is the answer.  Once was enough. 

At the same time, I was frustrated by Rwandan unity and their us-nosity; juxtaposed against my otherness and outsider status. Indeed, I don’t think that I was ever in a situation where I felt that if you called someone out that a whole bunch of people would show up to kick your ass.  This was far, far worse than the time I got off the wrong stop in South Boston (in the 1980s), making it look more like Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.  Heck, it even made New York’s Alphabet City where Hell’s Angels used to hang out (again in the 1980s) look like a lil bike club. Just something in the way they moved…

I supposed this is the reason that Jasmine stood out.  She was one of them but not.  And every one seemed to know it.

Despite our pleasantries, however, Jasmine and I had one repeated tension.  Because of how she carried herself and interacted with folks, I would constantly call her Princess.  Poking fun, I would go out of my way to open doors, stand up when she left a room and all the rest of the chivalrous package (cue Hugh Jackman in that movie with Meg Ryan, which no one but me seemed to see).  Whenever I did this, Jasmine would get serious and would tell me not to “do such things.”  As it seemed to bother her in an odd way, I continued to push the issue and did it continuously.  I’m just kind of like that (as you have gathered by this time).

One day, Jasmine had come over to remind us about bringing our water bottles – one must continually hydrate when in country.  After she left to check on where our driver was, some person sat down next to us and mentioned that we were lucky to receive such treatment.  Thinking he uttered a sexist remark (with the woman bringing the men some beverage) but unsure, I said “yes, she is very nice.”  Pushing the issue, the gentlemen repeated “no, you are very lucky to receive such treatment from her.  Royalty in Rwanda never performed such duties (pause) historically.”

At that last remark, Al and I looked at each other and I said, “Excuse me?”  The man went on to explain that Jasmine was part of the old Tutsi (my bad - Teabag) royal family who because of the current context kept a low profile.  Some in the country wanted the monarchy to return to power.  At the time, the deposed king was hiding in the Northeast of the U.S. 

But, I digress.  When told that Jasmine was royalty, we couldn’t believe it.  At the same time, it made perfect sense.  Al immediately started laughing and repeatedly did so during the trip because of how many times I put my foot in my mouth. 

Upon being confronted with our new information and asked why she never told us, Jasmine blushed and said that she thought we knew.  I said that I did not and apologized for any discomfort/danger we put her in.  As she said, “it was alright”, she tried to put a happy face on the whole thing.  Al continued to laugh and in fact he did this for months, unable to believe how incredibly stupid I had been and how simply hilarious the situation was.  We literally got the royal treatment and in many ways at once.

Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
 
The meeting was set. We were picked up by Innocent and a rather well-built gentleman driving the car also named Innocent – I mentioned that this was a common name, no?  Greetings were exchanged which took about 15 to 20 minutes and then we were off. 

There was little chatter on the ride. All eyes moved in different directions but our minds were clear. We were going to meet one of the leaders of the largest Tutsi survivor organization: Ibuka. The group that formed shortly after the violence was completed -- bridging makeshift support groups, church organizations, NGOs and politically oriented individuals across Rwanda. Given the significance of the victimized group -- has told, they were the primary targets of violence in their numbers dwindled to basically nothing in the short time of it because they were killed but they had to flee.

After driving for quite a while we pulled up to a wall. The driver signaled to some guy with a machine gun, who in turn signaled to another individual in the metal gate retracted -- slowly and loudly. Once the door was open enough, the car pulled in -- revealing about 5 to 6 armed guards, several trucks and about a dozen people mulling about. No one pays any attention.

Out of the car, we walked up some stairs, through a door, down the corridor and up into another area. Here the guard stopped. Innocent, the first one, walked in with us and he then sent down -- gesturing that we should join them. The anticipation was immense: what is the leader of a Tutsi survivor organization like? What was he before the killing? What is he now?

I don't know who I expected to walk in but it was not the man who came through the door. He was small, old, meek and with a set of front teeth that could best be described as a free-for-all. Catching myself it occurred to me that perhaps America warps one's sense of leadership. The men had no suit, no manicure, no hairdo, seemingly no charisma at all - at least by my as yet unidentified but evidently existing standards. That said, he was one of the leaders of the organization so there must have been something there. Perhaps I just couldn't see it. After lightly shaking our hands, he sat down, the back of the chair seemingly swallowing him as he crouched into it.

Jumping right in, he told us of the beginning of his organization. There were hundreds of small groups all over he said. One by one we started bringing them together, giving us our voice. He then spoke of the current government. Smiling devilishly he said, “we disagree on a great many things but they have made great strides.” All the while Innocent, the first one, sat there obedient, quiet -- I've not seen him this way previously. Normally he had such a commanding, powerful presence. In front of us. However, now he was a different individual entirely. It made me think of some of the ministers of the Nation of Islam on their own as opposed to being in front of Farrakhan or some other leader. No smiles, no bow ties, no side conversation, just nods of approval and looks of seriousness.  Every now and then a guy with a machine gun would show up to inquire about beverages and refills. We always said no. No need to bring him back too much, I thought.

The leader then spoke of the government efforts at truth and reconciliation – Gacaca.  “These are flawed, very naïve strategies” he began. “There were not even created with such grave activities in mind -- historically. They were community level courts that address small grievances like theft or property violations. How do you go from one to the next? How do you go from stealing a chicken to killing family?  Very poorly,” he said.  “Very poorly. We watch all of these things. But quantum. Talk to the government about our concerns. Write about them. We have hope that there is a way to go.”

“And what is it that you wish to do,” he said to me, almost shocking me with his return to a two-way conversation. I started to explain but shortly into our conversation he began to say that “it is important -- your work.  The truth must be known. If we can help, we are more than willing to do so.” He gestured to Innocent, the first one, identifying him as a useful collaborator. We then chimed in that we would like to take the study that they conducted in Kibuye (a house by house survey of who was left and how individuals died) and replicate that throughout the country. He had clearly been told about our interest and smiled, crookedly. “Yes, that would be nice.” Quickly he added, “but be careful though.” At saying this, he stood, walked to a bookshelf, pulled out a book and put it in front of us. “This person sought the truth. They provide one of the most thorough investigations of what happened in the relevant commune. Very good. Very good work.”  Looking at his watch and beginning to move toward the door, he said both quickly and directly, “the author died – unfortunately.  Be careful.”

With that, innocence stood (the concept not the man), the door opened, we were escorted out and driven back to the Milles Collines by a different driver – we did not get his name either.  Sitting down in the car, Al (Stam) and I looked at one another and looked out the window. We did not speak. After we got out and wave goodbye, we went in to get a drink but ended up having about three. We were not exactly sure why we needed one know what happened at the meeting but we felt that after meeting the godfather of survival one needed to toast one’s own.

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.


I had admired a honey pot in innocent’s house which she quickly gave to me as a gift (I learned later to watch what I admired openly as it would be taken as an opportunity to [a] graciously provide the guest with a nice present and [b] serve as an excuse to get some new stuff).  When inquiring into where it was made, innocent smiled and said that we would stop there on the way back to Kigali. 

On that trip, we took the usual rocky, roller-coaster from hell that is the Rwandan interstate.  Traveling is always memorable.  You bolt along at untold speeds - the speedometer’s broke, with untold amounts of gas - the gas gauge broke too but the driver’s spend so much time with the car that they just know when its time.  Cars approach, you flash the lights to acknowledge them. Cars wish to pass (for the interstate is two-way), you wave them along when it is safe – i.e., when they can squeak in front of you with at least five inches before they hit the oncoming automobile. 

While Death Race 2003 is taking place along the roadside you see people trying to get a ride (signaled by holding the right hand upward as if to say – “well”).  There are cows being led by children with sticks.  Elders follow behind.  There are people hacking trees, selling tomatoes, selling clothes, baskets, gum, soda – everything.  People carry gas cans filled with water.  People carry buckets filled with metal, rocks and plastic.  People carry each other on skooters, wheel barrels and bicycles.  Then one passes a hill with several huts making the sharpest of turns seemingly at full speed.  I am told that we are almost there. (I'm always told that we are almost there.) 

Expecting to see some kind of storefront, I look out the window.  All I see are rows of mud houses.  We turn up a steep hill (the kind where you are sure that you will have to get out and push).  Then the hill leveled off but the paved road went back to the highway, leaving us to our own devices.  At this point, I saw something quite shocking. 

I saw three handicapped people (two with missing legs crawling and one with a missing arm walking with the other two).  They had just come out of an open area which contained hundreds more individuals with missing limbs.  This site was shocking not because of who was there.  I have obviously seen people with missing limbs.  It was shocking because it occurred to me that I had not seen any handicapped people anywhere else.  It was as if all had been brought to this spot.  Just as quickly as I saw this, the truck rumbled off still further.

We then pulled up into a seemingly empty courtyard. Everyone got out and the driver went to a huge metal door – banging on it like in some old horror film.  Some Kinyarwandan was spoken and the huge doors were opened.

As we walked in, we were immediately sized up by a group covered with black dust who were taking a break.  Next to them were huge, unfinished pots.  We passed small buildings no bigger than eight feet by eight feet, each containing something different – plates, mugs, sculptures – in between the building children and women began to observe us. 

Upon a small clearing, we were led up to a series of buildings, the doors were open and our guide stepped back.  It was like the King Solomon’s mine of pottery.  They’re were pieces all over the place, in all corners of the room: mugs, statues, plates, bowls, pots for honey as well as stews, vases of all sizes and fishes – in room after room. 

The prices were unreal; it was essentially free.  Indeed, the only restriction on how many purchases that we were going to make was the weight of what your luggage would be or the security of the items from being crushed or stolen. Now, the former issue was problematic because each piece weighed a ton.  The pottery was formidable with an interesting glaze placed over a wide variety of colors.  The latter was problematic because it was clear looking behind the doors and in between the guards moving back and forth that the luggage going through the Rwandan system would not be treated delicately or with much concern for anything.  If you put it through the system, the system was going to go through it.  The key was to select something that the system didn’t really like.  Alternatively, one could through an old timex in the bag to distract the baggage handler (these are a dime a dozen in the states but a Rwandan piece of pottery;.

As my associates wandered around, looking at different pieces, I looked at how the pieces were made.  Huge open areas on top of fiery bricks were used to heat the pottery.  You could feel the heat from 15 feet away.  The pots cooled in the open air – steaming, unglazed, unfinished.  At all points along the process, one saw the same faces – we toil for you mizungu being the message. 

Stepping in between two buildings I realized that the village we saw earlier was only part of a larger structure.  A series of houses moved along down a path coming from the hill top.  One could see people moving up and down the walkway – children playing, children working, women carrying children, women working, occasionally a man would be seen – drinking (I never saw a woman drinking in Rwanda in eight years of traveling there).

The houses at the bottom of the hill were not nearly as nice as those which displayed the pottery.  The whole scene reminded me of Mullet Bay in St. Martens – an old spot where my father used to take the family to fish, gamble and frolic (I was allowed the first and the third) as eviction notices awaited our return.  Mullet Bay was an amazing resort – new buildings, immaculate beaches, pristine dining and excellent service. On the plantation, all was good. 

One trip however (after leaving the Playboy club with my friend Adam), we ran across the cropier that had befriended us.  He would throw a game our way now and then so we had some extra dollars for lap dances.  Being kind, he invited us to his home for a drink.  Upon reflection, the whole thing was a small form of rebellion to show us how things really were in his country. 

As we walked, we saw the dramatic shift in just about everything: road quality, the disappearance of the color white and lights, the reversal of smiles that were seemingly plastered on everyone’s face to frowns (a natural response to what we saw around us), an increase in the number of people sitting outside, the size of houses, the volume of the music increased.  I felt like the girl in Dirty Dancing who was shown the underside of the Catskill resort scene.  What we saw in no way shape or form was comparable to where we stayed on the island.  At the sight of his home, meeting his daughter (who couldn’t wait to work in the hotel) and wife (who already worked their as a waitress), all I could think about was burning down the hotel.

At the strong smell of a cow washed over me, I was brought back to Rwanda.  It was not actually one cow but a small procession of several emaciated ones.  They let the cows go through the middle of the pottery barn.  I thought of the phrase regarding a bull in a glass shop but there seemed to be no problem as the cows seemed to know where they were going as well as how to get there. Here, there was a connection between the community and business unlike that seen on St. Martens.  Both were built by outsiders but the distance (physically, socially and economically) was negligible.  The two worlds were always a few yards away, traversed by voices, children and cows – repeatedly.