From 2007-present I have been visiting Norway, collaborating with individuals at the Peace Research Institute in Oslo or PRIO (facilitated by a Fulbright and an award from the Center for the Study of Civil War) as well as traveling around the country a little. These are some of my stories from those days.


Strawberries went bad (lasted 3 days)

            Back to the store to replenish

Bread went bad (lasted 5 days – barely)

            Back to the store to replenish

Milk went bad (lasted four days)

            Back to the store to replenish

Welcome to Norway!

When describing what I had learned of Norwegianess, I mentioned shopping more than once.  My conversational partner (a Norwegian who [as usual] will not be truthfully named but will be called Thor), called me on it:

            “Why do you associate Norway/Norwegianess” with going to the store?”

I laughed, noting that: 

“Everything keeps going bad (getting spoiled) and I have to get more, which in and of itself is one thing; the exorbitant cost makes it quite another.”

Somewhat defensively, but not really (for the speaker was Norwegian afterall and they are seemingly never defensive), they replied:

            “Well, this is because the food is fresh.  There are no preservatives.”

“Well then,” I replied, “give me some preservatives back so that I do not have to keep walking to the store, so I can get more work done.”

As is frequently my way, I was half-joking.  One part of me found it an imposition that I had to break out of my work routine to walk up the street (well a few blocks) and get to the supermarket before it closed (6-8 depending upon the day and the type of store).  I had a book to write and was on a schedule.  Accordingly, I wanted my bread for a week or two; my milk and strawberries for the same (they were all in the refrigerator for goodness sake).

The Norwegians had no problem with any of this.  The store was outside afterall – their preferred domain.  They had things to see and absolutely nothing to see; Things to do and absolutely nothing to do; places to sit, conversations to have, drinks to imbibe, deadlines to ignore.

This well captures the people and the place.  I loved them for it but at the same time despised them (well as much as you could an angel of humanity - they are generally kind as well).

Just the other day, the magnitude of difference between Americans and Norwegians came to me.  I was talking to someone from America about the three t’s: trying to write, trying to get grant money and trying to get some reading done, and a colleague from PRIO (Odin we will call them) came down to tell me that their inquiry on my behalf regarding access to some data was delayed.

            “I could get no response,” they said.

Looking at my watch, I remarked:

            “well, it is after 3” (it was 4:05).

Without missing a beat, they said

            “life is short.”

In a moment of intense duality, I thought, “yes, it is short.”  

Although we had used the same phrase, the moment was divided however because part of me understood about taking the moment, going outside and doing something or doing nothing at all.  The other part thought that “one is not remembered for their walks, laying in the grass or drinking beer.”  I was then puzzled for I wondered if we should be.  I then wondered if my metric was off.  Instead of thinking about the time after I departed this life – using it to build some pyramid of paper (a memorial of reflection and/or wasted effort), perhaps I should be thinking of the time during this life.

Then I was like, well – they could not be so relaxed without the oil money.  The cash allowed them to take to the streets, parks, motorways and mountains.  Like a country full of lil Budhas they now had the wherewithal to find enlightenment in the hillside or in the beer glass.  Almost immediately I wondered if this was not the essence of hedonism – a reification of the flesh, of the immediate.  Indeed, if everyone took off at 3, with an hour for lunch, what could be accomplished?

Well, of course, the immigrants kept the Norwegian wheel greased and moving.  They had their shops open most of the night – a light in the dark or a dark in the night (given that they were generally people of color in a sea of whiteness).  I could not even dislike Norwegians for this because they were seemingly kind to the newcomers.  Well, at least until their numbers increased too much – then we would see (Cheikh Anta Diop would note). Strangely though, I would bet on Norwegian kindness.  My optimism troubled me.

I then started to wonder about whom the hedonists back in the day were fighting with.  What was the argument against living in the moment and not indulging every whim/desire that one had?  My thoughts were disrupted by two things: 1) whoever the hedonists fought against was irrelevant at the moment (I seemingly embodied their competitors position); and, 2) whoever won, I had 10 minutes to get some milk at the store. 

From 2003-2011 I was engaged in a research project that took me back and forth to diverse parts of Gujarat, India.  These are some of my stories from those days.

We traveled far into the deepest recesses of Gujarat; far from Ahmedabad, the mega-city that it was.  Our journey took us to places where blacks (African Americans) had never been – at least not physically.  They were represented in some manner, through the television and radio - even the internet had not yet made it here yet.  Exactly which African Americans made it out there (i.e., were known to the locals) was the subject of the next story.  Interestingly, my presence resulted in a bizarre chain of events as we evidently had someone running between the villages announcing that … "Mike Tyson" is coming.

In the first village, I was asked if I was Mike Tyson (the boxer once known for knocking everyone out in 5 seconds but later known for biting a piece of Evander Hollyfield’s ear).  I said no.  My name is Chris.

In the second village, it was assumed that I was Mike Tyson and I was asked how my fighting career was going.  I said that I did not fight and repeated my name.  They did not buy it.  They just thought I was trying to be low key.

By the sixth village, I gave up the Chris business and played along and, asked to do something, I threw a jab and everyone smiled, cheering “Iron Mike, Iron Mike, Iron Mike.”  I wondered how they knew the phrase.  You are never quite sure what gets where or how.  Regardless, the crowd was happy; the former world champion had visited their village. 

At the tenth village, someone asked me if I would stop a local bully.  It was said that he looked like me.  I was a little scared and even a little tempted but I did not pursue the matter.  Although everyone around me seemed 4 foot 3, you never know what the Indian Iron Mike would look like or what he would do when challenged.  

At the thirteenth village, it was said that I bit the ears of my opponents when I fought.  I denied it and said that when I fight, I fight clean.  These were just rumors from those that feared me.

At the sixteenth village, it was thought that I just bit off people’s ears when I wanted to – in and out of the ring.  The children would not greet me and the older folks kept to themselves. 

Upon our arrival in the seventeenth village, we found that it was completely empty.  Having heard that Mike Tyson, the man-eater, was coming the villagers had vacated.  Realizing where this was going and that it could only get worse, we headed back to Ahmedabad.  



Note: I admit that the last village was not completely empty and that it was due to my presence.  There had been some local incident and people had moved to do something.

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. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and those less so).

Right off the plane, Mason (not his real name) and I went into a car, immediately blowing by individuals walking along the road, trees and winding hills.  Straight we went to what would be my first of perhaps 110 cups of tea that I would have.  The reason is clear: 1) its water – which was needed to check hydration, 2) it was boiled – made it relatively more safe.  After this I slept for a day or so.  When I woke up, I walked around a little; not too much at first. 

I had been in Rwanda for about a week before anybody mentioned it.  Up to that point I had just been drinking tea (did I mention that), getting used to the climate and meeting individuals from different organizations (the U.S. embassy, Human Rights NGOs and diverse government personnel).  We then went to meet our partner institution – the National University of Rwanda in Butare.  On the long drive we each just looked out the window on our respective sides of the car, watching the centuries roll back.  Upon arriving, we went to our rooms, got unpacked, drank some tea, met some university professors and the Rector – the university president. 

That night it came up as four of us sat at the bar: Candace (a white woman that had been in Rwanda for about a year), Mason (my potentially Asian colleague from the university of Maryland) and Frank (a potential white guy who was managing a U.S. AID project) and myself. 

Leaning in and lowering his voice, Mason mentioned it first.  “Of course, no one talks about it. It’s illegal for goodness sake. When I first came here and asked about it, they just kind of looked at me – offended.  There are no differences between us, they told me.  We are all Rwandans.”

“Yeah,” Candace jumped in.  “Actually, it gets so frustrating.  You can see it everywhere. The person you met today was one of them.  Actually, there is no one affiliated with our project that isn’t.”

Reluctantly Mason chimed in, “This is particularly annoying because our effort is supposed to help resolve conflict.  All we have done is re-establish the same differences that we were attempting to challenge. “

“Um,” I began, “what the hell are you talking about?”

Mason responded, again in a whisper, “ethnicity.”

“Oh,” I continued, “really?  But, if no one talks about it, then what do you do?   How are you supposed to reference the unreferenceable?”

“Well,” Candace whispered, leaning in, “I have a code that I use.”  She leaned closer and halted as the waitress showed up to give us more tea. 

As she left, Mason went to the bathroom and Candace continued: “I use Handbags and Teabags.”

“For what?” I asked.

“To discuss the situation… Hutus and Tutsi… the identities of the people we are observing.”

“You’re kidding, right?”  I said.

“Nope.  For example," Mason continued, "I would say to you that I think the waitress is a handbag or needs to get one.  Then you would know what I was saying without them getting upset or knowing what we were talking about.  It’ll all come in handy later – believe me.  The people I know use it all the time.  Things just keep happening here and unless you talk about it, you would just go crazy.”

Handbags and Teabags. What the heck... Ever creative are the outsiders (Mizungus) or, referencing an earlier story - Oh, those crazy mizungus.

Now, while it sounded strange, it pailed in comparison to the Rwandan oddities that I observed.  For example, people would mention “the genocide” all the time; given that I was there to study this, it was one of my areas of expertise and people knew these things, it came up all the time.  People would not talk about Hutus and Tutsis, Handbags and Teabags, however, nor when the political system would open up.  At the time, one could not go for 10-15 minutes without seeing a roadblock, machine guns were everywhere, there were dozens of different uniforms – representing distinct military organizations (some in green, some in dark blue, some with guns, some with sticks). 

The Handbag and Teabag thing came up frequently as you needed confirmation of the ethical political dynamics.  Bank teller? Handbag or Teabag?  Farmer? Handbag or Teabag?  Military officer, foot soldier, Bank President, craftsman, university administrator?  The question is everywhere.  It was like navigating the deep south but you could not readily tell who was black or white (except by the position held in society) because everyone looked alike. 

For a while, I thought it was like a fairytale thing.  For example, if you stuck me in a room with a bunch of African Americans, I could tell who was from the north and south, who had a white relative and perhaps who was confident or insecure as well as their political orientation, hair style, clothes and jewelry.  If you stuck the average American in the same room, however, they would not be able to detect any difference; indeed, they might just appear to be a bunch of black folk.

In some contexts, I can even tell when a white person has spent time around blacks and how familiar/intimate that context was – it is all in the body language.  Now, the Handbag/Teabag thing was somewhat similar to this because blacks had invented their own language to talk about this stuff and it was not discussed in front of someone else – unless similarly coded.

I thought that maybe I just couldn’t see the difference because I was not from there.  I’ll be damned if I didn’t try.  Candace couldn’t tell any difference and she had been there for a year.  Others confounded this: those there for 5, 10, or 30 years; those that had lived in Rwanda their whole lives; and, those that just came from abroad recently.  All saw it but none could name it.  This was important not only for understanding who you were talking with and what kind of take they might have on the political violence that took place as well as their opinions about the post-conflict situation.  It was also important for understanding the conflict itself.  A major part of the conflict involved ethnic tension.  If everyone looked the same, however, then how could that be part of the explanation? 

As commonly discussed, it is believed that a group of extremist Hutu (members of the Rwandan Armed Forces [FAR], Presidential Guard, national police, the “Zero Network death squads”[i] as well as affiliated militias: the Interahamwe[ii] and Impuzamugambi,[iii]) targeted their ethnic rivals – the Tutsi, and systematically engaged in their abuse and killing. This readily and appropriately led to claims of genocide – the systematic attempt of political authorities in Rwanda to eliminate, in whole or in part, members of an ethnic group and, indeed, some observers referred to the events in question as the clearest example of the concept since the Holocaust. Indeed, the only variation in these discussions was exactly how many people were involved in the bloodshe: some highlighted a small clique whereas others highlighted a large proportion of the Hutu population.  But if ethnic identification was so difficult, then how could this explanation be correct?  This is especially the case when most of the population was running as refugees/internally displaced.  Local knowledge (what many relied upon to identify folks) ain't valid when the whole country is on blast/speed/fast fo(ward).

Other questions abounded as well.  For example, if one cannot really tell who somebody is, then are Teabags running things, if no one calls them Teabags?  I think so but there is something in not naming a thing.  It creates a reality of its own – the nothingness of it all. 

In line with this development, we acknowledge that we had no Handbags on the project but knew at some level that without them our work would likely fail.  The gaze from our teabag kept us on something of a tight leash.  We were led everywhere, introduced to everyone and the only time that I think I saw a handbag in a bookstore, I was watched by our teabag like a child in kindergarten – something that immediately made the unconfirmed handbag uncomfortable and further increased my desire to understand what was going on.  In fact, when I asked the guy for some reading material about what happened during the period of violence beyond the “usual stuff,” he took me around the corner and told me I should try to come back to see some readings that he would pull out special for me.  Concerned with being watched, he peered around the corner upon spotting my Teabag looking for me, my unconfirmed Handbag shut up and walked back to the front of the store, behind the counter. 

I never could get back there without an escort.

The shepherded feeling was immense.  It was like: “here is the reality of the situation, don’t bothering looking to the left for there is nothing of importance there.  They are there.  Looking.  Carefully.” 

But what kind of reality is it when you are guided through it as in a tower?  One might personalize the trip like Philip Gourevitch (the New Yorker author who wrote a highly readable but largely misguided as well as one-sided story about Rwanda) that made it seem like they traveled around the country unescorted, interacting with Handbags and Teabags wherever, whenever and however they wished but this was not the case.  The Handbags and Teabags that one saw when they went through Rwanda were perfectly laid out – organized, consistent and symbolic.  Prices were clear as were the brands.  Locals were all over the store but they weren’t buying it.  Their interest lay elsewhere.



[i]  This was noted by the study undertaken by the International Panel of Eminent Personalities (57).
[ii] This is the name of the military wing of the National Republican Movement for Democracy and Development.
[iii] This is the name of the military wing of the Coalition for the Defence of the Republic.

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.

We wound through Rwanda like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now (cue the appropriate Doors song), but overground in an SUV and not a boat.  We had traversed most of the country on the way to lake Kivu – a huge mass of water at the westernmost part of Rwanda. To get there we drove seemingly forever.  The actual distance itself wasn’t that long.  Rwanda is actually pretty small.  The distance is magnified however by the amount of back and forth that one has to do in order to go a little way forward.  Rwanda is definitely the land of a thousand hills – small ones.  Rwanda is also the land of 500 turns and a million shadows. 

As you pass one locale (a hill or one person), you are seemingly held in place as your path winds around them.  Imagine sitting in a swivel chair as your landscape changes.  There, see the partially covered hut on the left, then a door and a banana tree, then quickly you see someone carrying a bucket, some movement in the bush and a cow, then behind the hut are 15 people carrying boxes up another winding path. 

Rwandan travel is almost like telling someone to observe what you can as best you can.  Fathom it, you will not.  What is contained here had defied all others. 

Clearly, I did not expect to go there, see things and understand.  I was skeptical of this political ethnographic approach.  New York had taught me that people were duplicitous, self-serving, lying fuckers as did the time I spent with my father after I was sent to get an idea of life from a man's perspective (another story).  I was well aware of the many tales spun by African Americans when academicians showed up to comprehend the negro like in “All Our Kin” (the problematic book by Carol Stack).  It is quite different to see it though; to look at something that you know you will not fathom – in the flesh.

We paused on the roadside at one point, exhausted and sore. We had just passed the part of the “road” where the Italians had stopped and the Chinese began.  This was one of those stories of development, high politics and intrigue where one international developer was brought in to do a job at the same time some other international developer was brought in to do another, each completed their roads up until a certain point.  Between the two stretches, was an earthern, rocky section that lay prepped for someone to finish but no one was coming.  Around you, you saw Rwanda in its splendor: hills, ridiculous vegetation (anything seemed like it could grow there).

At some point, we began a descent; like in a plane you could feel the pull of the decline.  You knew that the earth had selected a direction and you were following it.  Through the hills, down the roads, past the people, past the cows and past the trees. 

Then, just as quick, we passed a military base.  The hardened faces of hundreds rolled past us on the side of the road; hungry, angry, dirty, exhausted and armed to the teeth.  We were looked over thoroughly.  I was shocked at the sight – both theirs and mine, but it all happened so fast.

Moreover, any thoughts I had about who and what we had just seen were soon overwhelmed by the sight of lake Kivu.  It was immense, quiet and set against a large hill/mountain.  Imagine some Lord of the Rings like shire with a lake and that should do it.  Don’t forget the base of Orks nearby.

At the lake’s edge, before the pier, was a front office of sorts and to the side one could see a disparate collection of small buildings. Once we got to the front desk, we had the usual greetings.  Keys were distributed from a jar – seemingly random but after everyone had grabbed one it was clear there was nothing random about it.  We found ourselves all over the compound/resort, seeing each other walk off in different directions.  One there, one there, another there, one all the way over there and one there.  We were either being given space or being spaced.  These were matters to be pondered later.  It was midday and hot as hell.

In ten minutes, we were at the lake, ready to jump in.  I hesitated for a moment, looking at currents, floating stuff and huge insects.  If there were ever a place where great man-eating turtles from the 8th century or prehistoric times existed, this would be it.  Why are there no guests here?  Where are the Rwandans?  Additionally, if there were a group of people who seemed like they would let you swim in a radioactive or prehistoric playground, to be riddled with cancer or eaten, I would put the guy in reception at the top of the list. 

Now, truth be told, I was very sympathetic to the foreign sacrificial lamb idea; "get the freak out of my country with all your wealth, attitude and strange ways", kind of made sense to me.  It reminded me of the time when I was in Bimini and wanted the residents to burn down the local Playboy hotel and casino in disgust after I saw how the people working there were treated.  At the same time, I was not up for being sacrificed.  I was the sympathetic accidental tourist scholar activist outcast representative of the Western world.

As I stood there in my shorts, baking in the afternoon sun, Mason, Jenni and Candace (not their real names) jumped in.  They had been there before and had evidently overcome any fears.  After I saw that they did not get eaten and two Rwandans went for a dip, I felt that it was alright and jumped in.  The water was beautiful, warm and soothing.  At one point, I thought I felt something rub against me but I was just getting out anyway, so it was cool.  Looking back, I did not see anything.

Later, we had some local fish and then went to our rooms.  It was late, I was exhausted and somehow unsettled.  The room was boxlike with a small window in the bathroom; enough for my head to stick out but nothing more.  To get in and out of the room, you had to use your key. You could not open the door even from the inside without it.  I found this odd because it meant you needed to know where your key was at all times.

Now, I have stayed in some pretty messed up rooms in my day.  There was the red roof hotel in Atlanta with Darren Davis back in the day before we got tenure complete with bullet holes, stained bed-covers and thieving porters who waited for you to go to dinner so that they could rifle through your luggage.  Never, however, did I feel like the structure of the building and the physical landscape was constructed to get you.

With these thoughts weighing on me, I managed somehow to get to sleep (holding the key in my hand).

At about 2:30am, the key fell from my hand and bounced on the floor – waking me.  Chest heaving, I moved my legs over the side of the bed and in the distance, I heard something. 

There were drums, singing and occasionally screams or was that a yelp.

My heart raced as I rose to put on my clothes (in the dark, not wanting to signal my location).  I felt that I had to get out.  I looked for the key in a frantic 45-second interval. 

The sounds coming from the distance continued to grow.

I ran into the bathroom, remembering there was a window but forgetting the size.  Realizing that I could not get out that way, I returned to the front room. 

The drumming grew louder. 

I fumbled around, trying to find the door and then the keyhole.  After a few minutes, I opened the lock, pushed open the door and ran into the woods – directly next to my cabin.  Once there I knelt, feeling around for a stick or anything I could use to protect myself and listened for the attackers.  If they came, from which direction would it be?  Where is the parking lot?  Where is the water? 

A scream in the distance – gutteral, pained. 

I couldn’t believe I was going to go out like this.  There is no phone.  I couldn’t remember the way back to Butare, so even if I got off this compound, I had no idea how to get back.  There is no swimming across the lake.  It is absolutely huge.  I am completely screwed.  Man, I thought, there is so much that I wanted to do but I had to be all let me help humanity like and go to Africa, to get killed in some backwater, lakeside cabin.  Never go to the empty lakeside resort, never go to the empty lakeside resort – I chastised myself.

More drums.

Then after what seemed like hours of reflecting on my life and the paths chosen/not taken, I wondered: what’s the difference if I get out of here?  I am on the other side of the country. 

More drums, more screams. 

What the hell is that?  I have no Kinyarwandan and if I did know any my accent would give me away.  I have little money and a big Mizungu tattoo on my forehead.  Mosquitoes started in on me.

Wow, I thought, no one will find my body out here.  How will they recognize me?  With that thought, I went back into the room for my passport – for identification purposes and perhaps to escape to another country.  Stealthily, I ran, leaned up against the wall and snuck into the room, felt around for what I needed and slipped back out to the woods.  I repeated this again for my money – for bribes and a new identity to escape the dragnet.  And, I returned to the room a final time for my jacket – it was actually cold (surprising to me because I was in Africa after all). 

Damn, I thought, which way do I go?  At that point, I really wished that the boyscouts in Manhattan had taught me something other than how not to get beat up in Central Park.  I started out to go find the others, but realized that for me to save them, I would have to go from room to room.  On top of that, all the buildings looked alike.  I could be looking for quite some time.  Oh, they are also likely locked in.  They would all have to find their keys to let themselves out. 

A gun shot. Then laughter.  I pushed back further into the bush, squeezing my little stick and what was left of my dignity.

I turned further on myself even more. Why was I there?  Why did I come to such a place?  My heart continued to race.  Should I try to swim?  Where does the bush lead to – along the mountainside?  Are there lights anywhere?  It was pitch black.

Trucks were moving toward the compound.  Another shot and some screaming.

I took a deep breath, swatted a mosquito that hit the motherload of blood circulation.  I then got really quiet and wondered if this was how it had been back in 1994 when individuals heard people coming for them.  I had considered every possible way out of the compound and took none for I was paralyzed with fear.  Individuals back then would have known more about the local terrain but they were also cut off and isolated. 

The trucks continued to get closer and then they seemed to pass by, without incident.

Listening, I could hear talking now, music (other than drums) and I saw the distant glow of lights.  The soldiers were just letting off some steam and partying.  It must have been horrible back then, I thought, standing upright for the first time in hours. 

After some deep breaths, the coolness of the breeze and the passage of time, I returned to my room.  It was 6:48 – damn.  I closed the door, locked myself in, splashed some water on my face and settled back into bed – fully clothed.  I had made a mess and things were all over the place in the room but I figure I would just deal with it later. 

When I woke up, the second time, at about 8:30, I was exhausted from my early morning activities.  I then realized the source of my rambling thoughts and delusions.  There sat my malaria medicine and very clearly I remember someone saying that it gave them vivid dreams.  At the realization, all I could do was laugh, unzip my combat gear and prepare to go for a dip in the lake.  Damn the creatures below.

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 was exhausted as I felt my feet throbbing from all the walking that we had done that day.  Five of us from the University of Maryland (where I was working at the time) and US-Aid in Development sat at a little Mizungu (see story for definition) hideaway, tucked in the middle of Butare - the college town and second largest city in the jungle that is Rwanda.  The restaurant and bar was something of a café, brothel, five star motel, lottery spot, cell phone distribution point, major dining establishment and meeting place for the powerful, aspiring, traveled and the lost.



We sat outside, ordered some beer and appetizers, relaxing into the twilight.  The scene was the same as always: scattered individuals walked by, guards stood in between the roadside and the entrance to the restaurant, buses stopped next door every hour or so and taxis waited for the lazy, scared and/or drunk Mizungus trying to get home.



As one of the people at the table began to discuss the latest insight into Rwandan politics, I was completely distracted by a sign across the street.  Now, Rwandan advertising is a bit odd: most people cannot read and thus many if not all the adds are for Mizungus or elites, the images are boldly colored – frequently they are drawn with cartoons – and the phrases/jingles are quite funny - normally.  This time I was not amused.  As I sat there, basking in my mixed feelings about being in the motherland, sitting at a café in Africa with four white people, protected/guarded by black soldiers with machine guns at the premier establishment in the city which was run by a white Belgian guy, I was shocked to see a store called the “Made Niggaz Hair Saloon.”  Yeah, you heard me.  Ok, truth be told, I had seen some other saloons or salons: “The Nigga Boyz Hair Saloon,” “Niggaz on the cut”, “Head Niggaz” (not to be confused with the Head Nigga in charge), “Niggaz 'R US”, “Jungle Niggaz” and “Niggaz on the Prowl” but these observations were always made at about 60-70 miles an hour - screaming down the road from one place to another.  This one, however, was upfront and personal.  



Seemingly none of my associates noticed or cared to notice - likely dismissing it with the thought that “Niggaz here too.”  I was struck though to realize that Niggaz were in rural East Africa.  I felt betrayed, somehow embarrassed, curious and a little outraged.  One second I was sitting there, visiting Rwanda trying to represent - my family, my people, DC and then I had to see this thing.  No matter how far you go, it comes with you - “world Nigga law” as Mos Def would say.  I immediately thought of a line from the film Malcolm X that appeared to capture the moment pretty well, appropriately modified to fit the context: “we had a perfect trip until some Niggaz showed up and destroyed the whole thing.”  



No longer interested in my spaghetti bolognaise and banana beer, I excused myself, walked across the street between machine guns, 14 children calling out “my friend”, one cow, one jeep, 10 baskets, a bus and a man with no legs dragging himself across the street.  What the hell were these brothaz thinking?  What the hell were these brothaz doing?  I just had to check it out.  



As I walked up to the store, I saw the sign in greater detail.  It was straight old school ghetto, like the cover of some bad rap album or fake velvet poster.  Under the title, two brothaz kneeled down with parts in their fades, fat laces and a little gold chair in between them that they pointed to.  The message was clear.  If one wanted to get "made", then they would go in, sit down and be "brothered" or "brothad" (to be consistent with the phrase above).



Stepping up, two B-boys on either side stood up with Zig-Zag patterns shaved into their headz, fat laces and matching kangaroo jackets.  They appeared to be surprised at my presence - looking at me from the side, trying to figure out who I was.  I smiled, pushed open the door and stepped in like a Clint Eastwood film.  As the doors swung back and forth behind me with a screeching noise, all activity stopped like when Eddie Murphy walked into the Western bar in 48 hours.  There we were: me, five people getting shaved/cut/shaped, five barbers, eight people waiting, one cassette DJ and 11 Hip-Hop posters from the '80s (Tupac, Public Enemy, Run DMC and Kwame - the polka dot rapper).  I stood there in my B-boy stance, trying to take it all in and what was at first an awkward moment of silence and posturing, dissolved after I identified myself with “I am Chris from New York, what's up with you Niggaz?”  Actually, I was serious about the question.  There was no pause in between “what's up” and the rest of the sentence.  Nevertheless, they all laughed, the music started and we greeted each other in the middle of the dance floor (I mean shop).  



As DJ Innocent put on “I know you got soul” (by Eric B. and Rakim) two brothers brought me a chair, one brought me a coke and three brought a series of questions: “how big is New York compared to Butare”, “why are you here” and “do you have any music with you”?  I told them that there are probably 1000 Butares that could fit into “the City.”  I was there to study Rwanda and learn about its wonderful history. Note to efolks: never admit ones true purpose to someone who calls themselves a Niggaz with sharp objects all over the place.  And, finally, no I did not bring any music; something that I would never do again.



The next 30 minutes was a blur as they showed me haircuts they had, haircuts they were getting, haircuts they saw in old rap magazines from France and Belgium.  They had a copy of the Source - the black Hip-Hop magazine, which they treated like the Holy Grail.  DJ Innocent had to put on “Rappers Delight” to signify the occasion.  Several of the brothers started busting moves - old ones.  The head Niggaz walked me around the store to show me posters as well as other artifacts: afro picks, laces and hoodies.  



Near faint, I sat down in an empty chair on the left side of the store.  One of the barbers stepped beside me.  Someone brought me another coke.  Another pulled up a chair and several others sat around me on the floor.  It was like the “Chronicles of Riddick” and I had fallen into the chair of the king, holding court.  The faces of the brothers combined with those on the wall: Tupac, Biggy, Kwame (yeah, the polka dot guy), Rakim, Too Short and Fat Joe who stood out because it would have taken about five of the Rwandans to equal one of him.



Getting somewhat overwhelmed by the African time warp, it then hit me why it all seemed so familiar: this was no hair salon.  This was my room from 1985 - somehow migrated to Rwanda and spread out over the space.  I felt Sankofa-ed with a twist.  All that was missing was the Prince “Controversy” album cover on the wall; this is the subject of another story however.



At some point, the growing entourage stopped to ask if they were saying things by their right names.  At that moment, I became the “ghetto authenticator” - a Hip-Hop aficionado, come to their salon to give them the boogie down stamp of approval.  They brought out object after object, to hear the American label.  It kept coming as there was seemingly an endless stream of gear emerging from the back room.  For a second, I slowly came out of my fog, remembering where I was.  Under a Shante Moore mix, I heard some radio station with someone talking angrily.  Not Hip-Hop.  Real stuff.  Realer than real.  This only lasted for a second because seeing me, the back door was closed and I was back to authenticating.



All the buzzing and movement stopped, however, when I remembered why I had come into the store.  “I had a problem,” I said.  They all stopped mid-pop to hear me.  It was a KRS edutainment moment as I felt Malcolm, the Furious 5, Busy Bee, Cold Crush and SPoony-G course through me.  “You know that the word Niggaz is derived from Niggaz which is an insult from whites?  They did not.  “The “a” replacing the “er” was an attempt to shift the emphasis and actually empower the user but I think that the experiment failed.  Niggaz are now distortions, creations, parodies of the true state of Africans in America.  There might have been some true gangstas at some point and the hostility, the anger, the frustration in the music taps a certain aspect of the reality that blacks are subject to but what Hip-Hop has become, what you have on -the wall, what you look at, listen to and take in here is what a warped version of Hip-Hop has created.”  



They didn't hear me.  They couldn't.  I could not get across to them how one-dimensional the music they had was, how they missed Hip-Hop and how Hip-Hop missed them, needed them (desperately).  I couldn't tell them that they didn't need Niggaz over here - at least not the Niggaz they thought they needed. I couldn't tell them that there were really no Niggaz at all, just niggers and those that tried to survive.  I was saddened that all that made it over there was haircuts, some pictures, some really, really small medallions and corny rap songs - not even whole tapes but mixes at that.  They had no graffiti (no readily available spray paint and machine gun totting, fit police not donut-totting, slightly overweight ones), no break dancing (head spinning on rocks?), no Malcolm, no Baraka, no red, no black but plenty of green.



They looked at me, perplexed. A few started to whisper and look at each other.  DJ Innocent, who had stopped playing music, frantically searched for something to change the mood.  One brother walked up, B-Boy stride and said, “You don't like our shop?”  Trying to be honest but sensing the tension, “I said no, I love what you have here.  In fact, you have brought me a strange ray of hope.  Mos Def said once that “the Invisible Man got the whole world watching” and you all have shown that.  The reference was lost.  They were still in the 80's maybe the late 70's and barely.  “I just don't like what you have named your store.”  “But, we are Niggaz,” they replied.  “The Made Niggaz,” several chimed in with pride (some B-Boy stances returning).  



As if on cue, one of my colleagues from across the street walked in and in a second, the place transitioned into something else, somewhere else.  The Niggaz went back to their corners, the eyes glazed over.  Hair cutting resumed, the dancing was replaced with sitting, and DJ Innocent turned his back and put up his hoodie.  The openness, excitement and smiles that I saw just seconds ago turned to the then standard Rwandan scowl.  We wear the mask that grins and lies in Rwanda too.



My associates told me that they had finished and were about to walk back to the hotel - something that you did not want to do alone.  We were also leaving the next morning and I had to pack.  I tried to say goodbye to the brothas in the saloon but once again I could see that I was Mizungued - pulled away by otherness.  On the way out, DJ Innocent had evidently found what he was looking for.  As I pushed the swinging doors to exit and step through, I heard Run DMC saying, “It's like that and that's the way it is.”  Ain't it the truth, I thought.  Ain't it the truth?  



I left thinking that I needed to construct a Hip-Hop educational packet with some African American history to help.  Forget bandaids and old laptops.  These brothers needed some Kool Herc and Funk Master Flex - STAT!  They needed the Klan (the X variety not the Ku Klux one).  The repackaged Zulus.  



Of course, just as I thought of it, driving by a few dozen kids sifting through trash, the stupidity of the whole thing came back to me.  What these brothers and sisters really needed was something more basic: some food, a place to live, some regular education with readin', ritin' and rithmetic’ - The same stuff that all brothas and sistas need (just realized that I saw no women in the shop/saloon).  



As we pulled away, I realized that no matter how far you go, you always home - kinda.  Keep your heads up brothas. Let some sistas in.  

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 a farm in Africa.” 

I swear this is how Rosamond Carr began her story.  We had traveled to one of the farthest points in Rwanda to see a genocide site, and we were told that if we were going to be over there, we should stop in and see Ms. Carr who ran an orphanage.  She was well known for she was the oldest consistently present white person in the country (even Pres. Bill Clinton buzzed through on his visit).  Over her 30+ years spent there, she had lived through a great deal: regime change, revolution, civil war, genocide, poverty, regime change, revolution, regime change and civil war. Recently, her plantation/farm had been taken from her during one of these events.  She currently lived in a house provided by Anheiser Busch – the beer people. I have no idea why.

We actually had a hard time getting to Ms. Carr, having been directed to another old white woman in the region.  This was pretty embarrassing - actually.  As we rolled up and were introduced to the roar of several hundred kids penned up behind a fence and playing soccer (for their protection or ours), we knew from Ms. Carr’s picture on the cover of her book that we had the wrong white lady.  She seemed to realize this immediately; with a shrug she said that Ms. Carr was up the road – pointing dismissively.  So as not to offend her, we asked if we could visit with her anyway.  Surprised, she gestured to her man Godfree (not his real name) and we had some tea.

Evidently, she too had been there for quite some time (not as long as Ms. Carr but for a while).  Her orphanage was larger than Ms. Carr’s.  But, lacking a best-selling book and the attending cache, her facility was less well-funded (Ms. Carr received large sums of money).  Interestingly, she was not bitter. 

After touring the facility, we pushed on, laughing about the fact that to Rwandans one ol’ white woman might be the same as another. 

Meeting Ms. Carr was a different matter entirely.  She was from a different era.  She came to Rwanda from a high-profile socialite family on the East coast of the United States with her husband.  He later left her.  Stubborn and not yet ready to leave the country, she decided to stay.  I swear this sounds like Out of Africa, the more I think about it.  There didn’t appear to be any more passion between her and her husband than between Meryl Streep and Robert Redford who were both a bit too stiff for my taste but I digress. 

As for the meeting, Ms. Carr had it all down to a tee.  You came in, met by her man Godfree (not his real name either) – a polite gentleman with white gloves, a white coat, black pants and no shoes (I kid you not).  We introduced ourselves and then were invited to sit.  Godfree brought tea and Belgian chocolates.  By that time, we had been in Rwanda a while and needed a shot of sugar, so we politely wolfed them down.

The drill was simple.  Ms. Carr literally turned to each of us and said “tell me your story” – we evidently were supposed to skip the boring parts.  Each of us complied and she delicately sat there, sipped her tea and actually appeared to listen. 

It was all pretty routine for her until someone in our group talked about where he was from – New Hampshire.  At that moment, the whole interaction changed.  It was as if there was a secret door that had been opened and only Ms. Carr and our colleague went through as the rest of us watched outside the metal gate.  It was classic: he dropped a name or mentioned a store (secret handshake noted), which caused her to glow referencing someone/someplace and they provided additional information about how it changed or stayed the same.  Never before had I seen the Northeastern uppercrust recognition dance/ritual revealed.  Ms. Carr seemed overjoyed that she could once again touch the shores of home with “her” people – she had not been back in quite some time.

Hearing it all, her stay in Rwanda had been quite something.  She talked of the troubles she had lived through and she would occasionally let something slip about how “they” (the Rwandans) needed “our” (Western/civilized) assistance or how “they” tended to have difficulties with one another.  Every now and then, Godfree would check on us.

Godfree invariably brought me back from Ms. Carr’s romantic meanderings.  Indeed, I sat there somewhat overtaken by the whole affair.  Part of me wanted to slap this ol’ racist woman; part of me wanted to listen to her tales of violence and survival; and, part of me wanted to have another piece of chocolate.  I took the latter two options. As I mentioned, I had been in the country for a while by then and needed a lil’ something sweet, a fix; my sense of righteousness was thus depleted.  Hard to fight “the man,” or “the woman” in this case, while hungry, hot and tired.

Truth be told, I was also caught by Ms. Carr’s charm. She seemed vivacious despite her age and it was infectious because she appeared to transport all of us back to her time – well, not completely for I realized that if we went back too far I would end up with Godfree in the kitchen looking at da company as well as da chocolate from a crack in the door. 

When she was done with us, Ms. Carr rose, Godfree appeared from thin air, and we signed our names in her book.  We requested photos, which she granted, posing demurely, gracefully and professionally as though she did this everyday (which, of course, she did).  Mine is provided above. 

Walking out the door, you realized that while she was in Africa, she was very much out of it.  In many ways, the world she had known changed.  Now, the weapons were bigger, migration on a larger scale, desires for rebuilding after the violence more grandiose.  At the same time, it was clear that the world she occupied had not changed at all.  Godfree had probably been serving her for years and she had a beautiful home in the middle of an amazing valley – on lease from a multi-national corporation.

She had a farm in Africa; now the farm seemed to have her.

Come to think of it, we never did see those damn kids.  Makes you wonder.


Note 1: I am sure there were kids and an orphanage.
Note 2: Ms. Carr passed in 2006.

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 never thought I was a white man or that people could ever see me in this way.  Well, there was that one conversation with my friend Wycuie at age 14 when I stupidly said that “my people” were French – Huguenots to be precise.  This was the only family history that had been passed to me and not knowing any better, I just mentioned this to him in the heat of some conversation.  To this, Wycuie just looked at me, said nothing about my not being French and left it alone, kinda (Wycuie had a quiet scream that he could wield against you).  I was lost then and he figured that he would let me find my way. 

I was and am an African-American..... well, mostly.  My great grandfather on my father’s side was a Choctaw or Cherokee Indian and my great grandfather on my mother’s side was white (victimizing his servant in the tradition of Strom Thurmond and Thomas Jefferson).  All of the other folks were black and thus, after my Wycuie intervention, I normally stuck with the majority.  So did all the people I interacted with throughout all aspects of my life.

This changed when I went to Rwanda.  There I was Mizungu (Me-sun-goo) – alternatively meaning: a white person, a foreigner, an outsider, money, a mark.  Now this was news to me.  I did not know I was a Mizungu until we pulled up to an orphanage in a remote part of the country.  As we got out of the car, children in the hundreds ran up from where they were playing, screaming “Mizungu, Mizungu!” 

The name/label/insult did not seem threatening.  Somehow I knew it wasn’t “hi” or “nigger,” but I did not know what it was and my interpreters were not telling me.  This was not like the time I was called “Shvartze” by Adam at Junior High School 104 in New York City and all my Jewish “friends” wouldn’t tell me what it meant as they giggled, but it was pretty damn close.

Following that experience, I picked out the word quite frequently from the babble of language that surrounded me – muttered underneath the sound of cars passing by or stepping into a market or café. 

I finally got it one day, however, when we were trying to figure out where we would have lunch.  One of my hosts started to suggest one location, but they quickly withdrew the idea, saying that I would probably not want to go there because it was Rwandan.  I responded that I was in Rwanda and why would I not want to try their food.  They said that some other Mizungu didn’t like it.  I said, “who was that person and what the hell is a Mizungu?”  They then went on to tell me that a Mizungu was someone not from Rwanda.  The other definitions came over the next few minutes.

Now, I was offended because the other person they were comparing me to was a white man from Toronto.  I went off at that point, likely overreacting because of exhaustion, mind-altering medicine and recovering from 400 years of slavery.  I was like, “do you have any idea how insulting that is to an African-American.  I may not have come to Africa to find myself but I sure didn’t come here to get lost.”  [note: I have no problems with either white people or Toronto]

We then had a long conversation about race relations in the West.  Although white Canadians are generally better than American whites on many dimensions when it comes to racism and discrimination, it is still offensive to tell an African American that they are like some anglo-canuck.  “I mean damn,” I continued, “you all are going to have one hell of a time incorporating into the global market if you lump together black people from Manhattan with white people from Toronto.”

Accepting the point (after several days of returning to the issue), my hosts and I went through different ways of qualifying Mizungu to allow for some nuance (otherness with adjectives, as it were).  The top contenders were: NeoMizungu, Blazungu (my favorite) and CocoaMizungu.   Acknowledging that Kinyarwanda is a bit more resistant to innovation than English, we laughed and they said they would try to accommodate my request.

Later on the trip, we were at a museum of Rwandan history and art.  After greeting the attendant, the host paid and walked through the little gate.  After greeting the attendant in the proper Rwandan manner, I pulled out some money and then asked my host some question about someone that we were supposed to meet later.  Upon hearing me speak English, the attendant looked kind of pale and asked my host if I was Mizungu.  He smiled and said yes, afterwhich my fee was tripled - literally, in my face.  Immediately I was pissed, talking about how that wasn’t fair.  Evidently, I greeted the attendant so well and they were used to people coming back to Rwanda from all over the world, I was briefly able to pass.  When I realized that for a second I was an African, I corrected my tone, gladly paid the high fee and went in to see some ancient huts, the Tutsi lineage as well as some assorted historical artifacts from the region. 

Although we both kind of left the topic alone, the Mizungu thing stayed with me; how could it not?  I heard it daily.  As is my way, I started to ponder the idea and make jokes about it.  Actually, after a while and observing stupid little things that foreigners did in Rwanda, I thought that a good comic strip in the locale paper could be called “Oh, Those Crazy Mizungus.”  The show would be set in a school or a bar, hotel, around a travel guide or interpreter who would interact with a wide variety of Mizungus.  As they interacted with them, they would invariably do something inappropriate and when that happened, the whole cast would stop and say “Oh, Those Crazy Mizungus.”  It couldn’t lose.  Several episodes came to mind: working through lunch, coming to places on time, tanning by the pool or misunderstanding the logic behind effective bargaining for a mask. The sheer number of episodes was a source of constant amusement. The thought of this almost made me forget that for a while they thought I was a white man... almost. 

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.

We pulled up (Kelly, Carola and myself), like we did to most places in Rwanda.  Twist after twist, went the land of a thousand and one hills.   Along the way, one saw faces, cows, some hacking of weeds (which kind of sent shivers down your spine when you thought about it), someone sitting underneath a tree and then, without warning, the jungle parted and then you are shot out into a clearing.  Before us lay a flat area but, as always, we are surrounded by about 40-50 hills of different heights, inclines and distances, dotted with little huts and revealing different agricultural plots. 

Getting out of the car and walking up to the first building, we saw something akin to afro-industrial housing: scrap metal ceilings, brick walls, old wooden doors with new metal locks.  Except for the first building (the one we were approaching), all were lined up in 3 rows of 4 buildings – grouped in a square plot, with a few scattered buildings at the periphery. 

Our guide told us that was a memorial here honoring those killed by genocide in 1994.  This was why we were there and, after reading hundreds of testimonies, journal articles and books, I eagerly approached; to see, to feel, to record, to begin to understand.  After walking closer, I saw a [plaque]: on this site, 11,000 people were killed (on April 11th).  The magnitude of the killing was on the larger side of what took place during the 100 days associated with the genocide and interstate/civil war (subject of another post perhaps).  That such a peaceful place could be associated with the murder of so many people however seemed unbelievable.

At the plaque, we were approached by a man.  Dressed in a brown long sleeve shirt, grayish pants and no shoes, he limped toward us, his body significantly contorting with the left step.  To keep his balance, his right arm shot out at an angle – never quite in the same place.  What came to mind was one of the zombies, the undead, you see in old horror films: slow, misshapen, edging forward by sheer force of will.  Unlike the movies, however, this character was very much alive. 

As the man came closer, our guide greeted him and then we were introduced one at a time (his name was Innocent – a common Rwandan name).  Innocent was very soft spoken and thus you had to lean in to hear him. Although he spoke Kinyarwandan with almost no English, he talked directly to us, prompting me to pay attention like I understood what was being said. 

Innocent’s most noticeable feature, after the soulful eyes and a radiant, if haphazard, smile was the scar that moved from the top of his head around to the top of his throat.  Seeing it, you just jumped back inside thinking, “wow, his head was almost chopped off.”  We were told that Innocent was one of the people who survived the killing here, left for dead.  He stayed in this place to show others what had happened.  He stayed because he had no other place to go.  After a second (waiting for the translation to be completed), he looked at us – one at a time, turned and walked to the first building next to where we were standing. 

We followed, unsure.  Our guide said he would wait for us by the entrance.  “There would be no words,” he said.  The three of us just looked at each other wondering if he had misspoken, if we misheard or he was perfectly describing what we were about to experience.  

Innocent moved quickly, opening the door to the first building.  As he turned the lock, he motioned for us to go in and he moved on to the other buildings.  There is just nothing that describes the contents of the room.  Standing there, your senses were just overwhelmed.  There were rows of petrified white bodies (skeletons covered with lie), caught in what appears to be their last position in life, now death.  It was like the pictures I had seen of the victims of Pompeii but you knew that this was recent and that unlike Pompeii the earth here did not convulse and destroy the beings that lay before us.  Rather, it was other humans that did this, some of whom were still in the vicinity.  The positions of the bodies varied.  Some were covering their heads.  Some were gasping (jaws open).  Most were completed bare but some still had little patches of black hair attached to their skulls.  All were curled up in some way – into themselves and some into each other as if embracing.  It was a sea of death contained in a room no larger than 10 by 10. 

Gazing at fingers, arms, heads, hips and feet, I became lost trying to ascertain where one body began and where the others ended.  After a while, I no longer tried.  Later still, I remembered to breathe and at the inhale, the stench of the lye flooded my mouth, lungs and soul.  Set to vomit, I had to return my eyes away, looking upward.  There, serving as the back wall and affixed somehow to the ceiling and the side walls, I saw a UN light-blue tarp. As the tarp blew upward with the breeze, the bodies just sat there, unprotected, open (telling in so many ways).  At this moment, I also realized how many more rooms there were and that I had not even moved from my first step, into the first room.  Innocent could be seen busily moving from door to door – opening everything. 

After what felt like hours of this, we all walked back to the car not nearly as spryly as we had arrived, not nearly as innocent or young.  I have not been innocent or young for quite some time but I have never been so thoroughly tainted and aged in such a short time than on that day.  As we reached the exit, Innocent asked if we wanted to sign “the book.”  Although numb and in some type of shock at the time, there was something about how he asked – something like a desire for acknowledgment and solace that moved me back from wherever I was.  “Of course,” I said and he went off to get it.  The three of us stood there awkwardly, avoiding each other.

Upon his return and seeing the book, I must admit that it was not at all what I expected.  Clearly someone had spent a great deal on it.  It was not old, small or handmade; rather, it was new, about 1,500 pages and very well crafted.  Turning the pages, looking for an empty one, the names and places were not limited and geographically concentrated.  People came from all parts of the globe.  What individuals wrote washed over me as they were all similarly influenced by the place.  Somewhat taken aback, I could think of nothing to write but one word – “love”, then another – “one.”  I was then caught trying to figure out how to best capture what went through me at the moment which was not a Bob Marley song or something that Richard Bach had scribbled.  To do so would have been to trivialize it, this, me as well as Innocent and the others.  This was some cathartic experience where my being called for some significance, some verbal monument, some marking but I was unable to express anything. 

I stepped away from the book as if it had offended me in order to allow the others to write something, which they did.  As tears rolled down my face, my mind moved back over the buildings, the bodies and the smell.  In the distance, I saw others begin to approach where we were standing, the hills literally coming alive.  As I stepped back to the book, I did the only thing that I could think of: I outlined my hand and wrote “One Love.” 

Upon reflection, Marley and Bach did not trivialize the moment.  Rather, they were the moment and I was denying it.  These individuals had touched me, giving me the vocabulary to see and sense.  When my being sought an expression to communicate, to commemorate, it made sense that it would bring them forward.  They were, like the words in the drawn hand, contained within me – imprinted.  They remained and now they would be remaining. 

As we turned to go, I saw the people from the surrounding hills getting closer, then closer.  I must admit to having mixed feelings about this.  On the one hand, I wanted to meet them, ask them questions about what happened here, what they had gone through and what they had done.  On the other hand, I was scared to death of what their answers might be, what questions they might direct to me in turn, but perhaps what troubled me the most was that there appeared to be far too many machetes still lying on the ground.  


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.