Digging Up the Past

As you can imagine, Thanksgiving is not exactly a big holiday in Rwanda. Fortunately for me, though, because we are an American NGO, I got Thursday and Friday off from work. Theodore, our Camp Manager from Nyabiheke and my housemate, suggested that maybe the US Embassy would invite me over for Thanksgiving. No chance. The closest I came to celebrating was seeing a group of muzungus on my way back from the store. I said Happy Thanksgiving; sorry, they said, we’re Canadian. Oh well, I enjoyed my Thanksgiving feast of oranges, cereal with whole milk, rice, and goat.

The real celebration was actually on December 1^st in camp – World AIDS Day. World AIDS Day is a worldwide celebration of everybody’s efforts to stop the spread of HIV, and to take care of those already infected. We started the day with traditional Congolese Dancers marching through camp, holding a banner that said World AIDS Day in Kinya-rwanda. These guys danced all the way into camp with spears, shields, and headdresses of white hair, and were a perfect act to attract curious people to our celebration in the Multi-Use Hall. When they arrived, the local agencies involved in camp, UNHCR, Save the Children, MINALOC (local government), and of course, ARC, addressed the crowd (probably about 1000 people). We then had sketches about HIV/AIDS from our Anti-AIDS Club, as well as dances from the Congolese Women and the Modern Dance Group. Although it was a logistical nightmare to organize, I think the day garnered some momentum around HIV and Voluntary Counseling and Testing in camp.

In addition to the activities inside, we ran some soccer and volleyball games for the kids. Because the permanent soccer field is not ready, we made a small temporary field for the day. The kids used the jerseys donated by Gotshalks Soccer, and they were so happy. Each team did warm up dances, and a lot of people came out to watch.

But, amidst the preparations leading up to the day, there was another shocking reminder of what it is like for people in this camp. We printed t-shirts for the day, but we only had enough for about 180 people – enough for our performers on the day, our staff, and our guest speakers. When we were giving them out to the people, we just couldn’t control the crowd. It turned into a free for all before we knew it – people who weren’t in the clubs trying to get them, people in the clubs trying to get two. And it wasn’t because they are greedy, and it certainly wasn’t because the t-shirts were of the highest quality; a t-shirt really helps these people. As I thought about it, I remembered that these people were forced from their homes, after which their homes were probably destroyed and they took only what they could carry. Can you imagine living in a place where a single t-shirt goes such a long way?

Well, about a week after World AIDS Day, I started to feel a little sick to my stomach. I went to the health center to get tested; well, the nurse came back a few hours later, and said in French “Don’t worry, it’s not malaria, and it’s not worms.” Oh, that’s good. “You have mushrooms in your stomach.” Oh, great, mushrooms in my stomach. It turns out that it is just a sort of fungus that grows in your stomach from bad water or bad food, not too serious. I took medicine two times a day for about a week, and I think the mushrooms have been killed. I hope.

After the mushroom incident, I knew that it was probably time for a break from village life. And over the past few weeks, here are a few other things that convinced me it is time for a break: as I was sitting in Nyabiheke, a lizard fell on my head and I just brushed it off; five minutes later, a mouse ran from the dining room into the kitchen, and I just said oh well; yesterday, I felt something in my shoe, reached in to get it, and pulled out a hairy caterpillar that left stingers in my fingers; I am only allowed one half a squirt of face wash per day so I don’t run out; I forget what a hot shower feels like, seriously. Lucky for me, I am leaving for Rome tomorrow to see my girlfriend and my mother. I have never been more excited for a vacation in my life.

In other news, we officially broke ground on the soccer field. We hired about 90 refugees to come level the field with hoes, pickaxes, etc. They started on December 9^th, and we are scheduled to finish just before Christmas. The good news is that the field might cost less than we had planned, so we will be able to put in a volleyball court and a basketball court as well. Hopefully we can get a whole playground for these kids for less than $5000. But, we have had some setbacks, although they were a little different than setbacks we might have had back home. For example, on the second day of digging, the workers found a few human bones in the dirt, and what started as a few bones turned into a pile of bones. We had to call in the local government to take care of it, but work continued as usual. We don’t know, and we really won’t ever know, if they were victims of the genocide, but I think they probably were. In fact, as they were digging up the bones, a group of kids were standing on top of one of the sand piles. I thought, in a more symbolic sense, that in trying to make a place for these kids to play, we were digging up the tragic past of Rwanda. I watched the kids as they watched the bones surface, and I hoped the playground would be everything it needs to be for these kids.

Okay, I am leaving tomorrow morning for Rome, so I have to cut it short here. I come back to Rwanda on January 3^rd, and I will be writing more frequently then. I have some nice pictures of the field and World AIDS Day but they are not uploading for some reason - I'll add them next time. Happy holidays everyone – thanks again for reading.

Home Again: Some Stories

It’s been a long time since I’ve written; here are a few stories about the lives of people here in camp:

This week, we are doing the government required PMTCT/VCT (Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission/Voluntary Counseling and Testing) Training. Every morning, the 18 staff members from both Nyabiheke Camp and Gihembe Camp gather in the Multi-Use Hall (a bigger building used for performances and large meetings). But before they get here, I come at 8:00 to talk with Jacques, the young man in charge of opening the hall. Last week, he wasn’t around to open it, so I went with someone to find him at his house.

We walked in, and he was sleeping; but in the twin bed with him were also his mother, and his two younger siblings. I felt bad that I had woken him up, but he thought it was funny for me to be in his house. As we were leaving, he told me his mother was sick – I greeted her and wished her well. But on the walk back to the hall, he told me that she has been sick for two years. I paused, waiting for him to go on. He quietly revealed that his mother had been raped two years ago by the Interhamwe. Come to find out that not only was she raped, but she was thrown into a ditch after the rape, paralyzing her for life. She was lying in bed because she can’t get up. I told Jacques how terrible that was, and that I was sorry. He said, of course, “C’est ca” (That’s that).

Jacques is paid for tending to the hall, and he uses that money to support his mother and his siblings. He is probably no more than 19 or 20 years old – for all intents and purposes, this was a child headed household. In him I could see both resignation and inspiration.

After we eat lunch everyday, the floor is covered with 20+ soda bottle caps; Coke, Citron, Orange, Krest, Sprite. A group of kids waits outside the door, and when we let them, they rush in and collect the caps. It makes their day to find some new caps, and they create games with them. In fact, I know that when I come home and try to give a kid a bottle cap, I will be surprised when the kid is disinterested and his mother scowls at me for trying to give him trash. Anyway, we started playing games with these kids the other day, and I was absentmindedly singing to myself. The kids were laughing so hard at me singing (remember, anything that muzungus do aside from walking and talking is hilarious) that I challenged them to sing so I could laugh at them. Here is what they sang, in perfect English:

My home again
My home again
When I shall see my home again
When shall I see my mother and my father?
Never I forget my home

My brother is there, my sister is there
When I shall see my home again
When shall I see my brother & my sister?
Never I forget my home

I didn’t know what to say. I mean, they sang the song with a smile on their faces, which made me ask myself if they really knew what they were singing. They had learned it in school. But, the song had legitimate meaning. I was thinking, this is a song that kids back home might sing when they are at summer camp. But here, these kids are actually wondering when they will get to see their homes again. And what’s worse, the man responsible for running them out of the DRC is the frontrunner in the presidential race. If he is elected, I don’t see much hope for these people. A woman in camp told me the other day that they feel like they are going to have to fight when they go home. What a terrible feeling that must be – knowing that when you finally get home, if you ever get there, you will have to fight to stay there. It just seems to never stop for these people.

About a week before that, Theodore had a friend from Uganda come visit. As they were catching up, the woman mentioned that one of their old friends was sick; with what? HIV. Theodore said that was terrible and that he hoped he would seek treatment, and that was pretty much the end of it. As they kept talking, I thought to myself that their perspective on disease, and specifically on HIV, was so beyond what we have in the US. If one of my friends contracted HIV and didn’t have much longer to live, I would be completely shocked. Theodore didn’t seem to be, and not because he doesn’t care, but because that is the reality of a life where HIV prevalence is so high.

As many of you know, one of the highest risks for transmission of HIV is from a mother to her child during pregnancy or birth. Fortunately, drugs have been developed that can reduce the risk almost to the point of transmission. So, about ten months ago, an HIV+ woman came in to the clinic and explained that both she and her husband are HIV+, but they desperately wanted to have a baby. They were worried that the baby would be HIV+ and live only a few months. Our head nurse assured her that it wasn’t a problem, and that if they wanted to have a baby, they should go for it. The woman gave birth last month, and I happened to be at the hospital after she delivered. She asked me to take a picture of her and her new baby.

Last week, I saw the mother in the clinic with the baby. The little girl was sick with malaria. Three days later the little girl died. The woman came to me and told me her baby had died, to my surprise, with a smile on her face. It wasn’t a smile of happiness, but a smile of acceptance, like she knew the whole time that this could happen. She asked me politely if she could have the picture that I took of her baby. And I thought, there are times here when I shouldn’t use a camera; either because it is not appropriate, or because sometimes it is better to just appreciate with your eyes. But, if I hadn’t been there and taken that picture, what memento would this woman have of her baby? She wouldn’t have her sonogram print out. Her husband didn’t videotape the birth. They didn’t decorate the baby’s room in pink. I will give her the picture as soon as I can, and I hope it brings her some comfort.

Time here really is flying by. I have been here more than three months, which is hard to believe, and I have started to think about what I am learning.

Well, you know, in Nyabiheke, we have no electricity during the day and for three hours at night. So, in the times that I am not working, I am by myself really. Even if there are other people, and I mean this in the most harmless way possible, both language and cultural barriers often prevent us from relating. In other words, it is a lot of alone time, away from distractions that we have at home. I am reading more than I have ever read in my life, writing a bit, and taking some time to reflect; all things that, in the everyday rush of school and relationships, I just couldn’t find the time to do at home. I am sort of forced to simplify my life and I can’t explain how nice it is. I would say that it is something everyone should try to do at home, but it is of no use. There are too many things that get in the way. So, instead, I think everyone should take at least a 6 month sabbatical from work and take off.

But aside from reflection, there is some good news as relates to work. I received the grant I applied for to build the soccer field for the kids here ($5000) from a special charity out of Kingston, MA. We are going to employ about 100 workers from the local town to start digging into the side of the mountain. The money will pay for that construction, two goals, a fence, and salary for two coaches for the year. More than anything, I think these kids need a place to just play, where they can escape the reality of their homes; desperation, hunger, boredom.

I have also started being trained in improved cookstoves. As I have mentioned, these stoves save firewood, which means that not only do they save time and diminish the workload for families in collecting firewood, but they also heavily decrease deforestation. With the old stoves, it was easy for kids to knock them over or spill them and burn themselves; it is nearly impossible to do with the improved cookstoves. We will train the women to build these stoves out of clay, dirt, sand, and straw, which is empowers them in this environment where building is traditionally left to the men.

As I said, the PMTCT Training was last week and is almost finished now. After we finish this training, we can get the VCT Center at Nyabiheke up and running. With the center up, more people will come in for testing every month, and we will get a more accurate picture of HIV prevalence in the camp. More accurate statistics could lead to more funding, and certainly to more treatment to alleviate the suffering of these people living with HIV. The process is arduous, but things will move faster as soon as we get certified.

That’s all for now. I leave for Nyabiheke today – you know, I am here in Kigali pretty much once every other weekend and it is starting to feel like a vacation spot; electricity, stores, hot water, a refrigerator that runs all day. This coming weekend I am staying in Nyabiheke to run a training for Traditional Birth Attendants (sort of like midwives) as well as to learn woodcarving from an artist in camp. I’ll be back in two weeks or so. Be well, thanks for reading.

Adventures in the Congo

Jotham was our guide this weekend in Goma; he is our Program Director (although this was not an ARC trip), and he has family from the Congo, so we knew we were going to see the real Congo. I’ve learned it is always better to go with people who have relatives or know the area well. We met at 6:30am on Saturday to take a mini-bus over to Goma, which only took about three and a half hours to get there. On the way, Jotham says “Oh yes, I talked to a friend today and we are going to a wedding today, it’s at two.” A bit surprised, I told him that I only brought one nice shirt for church tomorrow; he said that what I was wearing was fine (t-shirt, jeans, and filthy sneakers that I wear in camp, to a wedding).

After we crossed the border into Congo, we spent about three hours just roaming around looking for a hotel and seeing the sights. The hotels really showed us the nicer parts of Goma; as I said, it is right on the coast of Lake Kivu, which looks more like an ocean than a lake (actually, the best part about it is that there are no crocodiles or hippos because of the volcanic ash from the eruption – safe for swimming). The water and the nice weather seemed to make it a perfect vacation spot, and it was for a lot of people (I saw a lot of muzungus vacationing at the hotels). But, only a few miles from these pristine coastlines was horrible poverty, people living literally on top of volcanic rock. What makes this so difficult, for example, is that you can’t farm on volcanic rock – you can’t get into the ground. It also means that latrines, which are usually created by digging a hole in the ground, have to be built on a small cube of volcanic rock. In these circumstances, it almost seems impossible to live in any condition but poverty. Jotham explained to us that this extreme poverty in such proximity to the beautiful coastal area is one of the biggest problems in Goma. People can easily forget the lives of many poor Congolese Gomans while relaxing by the lake.

After we finally found our hotel (and after Jotham tried to convince the hotel receptionist that Hillary was our sister despite the obvious race and age differences – a good effort to save money by getting only one room), we went to see the volcano that had erupted. Jotham told us that when the volcano erupted, it was “sending lavs” (lava) all the way down in to the city, and created these huge fields of volcanic rock. Luckily the lava was moving slowly enough for people to flee, so very few if any died from the immediate effects of the lava. We finally decided that maybe it was time to go to the wedding and started on our way. But, when we stopped for gas, the car wouldn’t start. Jotham started laughing and said “it is always an adventure in Congo.” Because this happened once before in Rwanda, I got out of the car and helped a few guys push the car backwards. The trick is to get it rolling, either forwards or backwards, and then the driver slams on the brakes and gives it a quick start. I’ve seen it work.

Unfortunately, Jotham had never seen it before, or it just wasn’t properly communicated to him that we were trying to do that. So, two guys from the gas station and I are pushing the car around the lot, and Jotham is just going in circles around the gas pumps like we are playing a game, until he finally pulls out into the middle of the road and stops the car. I looked at the guy next to me and asked what Jotham was doing; the guy said he had no clue. That plan failed; luckily, another guy (who I’m pretty sure had been drinking) came over with a better plan and told Jotham to pop the hood. It’s okay; I’m a driver he said.

I am not too familiar with cars, so I wasn’t too sure what was going on at first. The guy unplugged a tube in the hood and put his mouth on it, and started sucking on it, searching for liquid. I asked another guy if it was water in there, and he said no, it was gas. The guy was sucking gas up a tube into his mouth, and then spitting it out onto the engine (then I was certain he had been drinking). And of course, he stops paying attention for a second while sucking gasoline into his mouth, and voila, he sucks up too much and swallows a bunch. He starts coughing and howling and dry heaving, and without a moment’s hesitation, the guy next to him takes the tube and starts sucking up gasoline into his mouth. This guy doesn’t eat the gasoline, and eventually replaces a small filter. The car starts, and we were on our way to the wedding. Always an adventure in the Congo.

By this point it was about 6:00pm, and the wedding had already passed; we were only going to the reception. Jotham explained to us that in the Congo and other parts of Africa, weddings are open to the whole town rather than those people who are invited, which made me feel a little better about intruding on this wedding. Jotham was busy taking hundreds of pictures outside (like the bridal party car), so Hillary and I walked in and took a seat in the middle rows of the hall. There was really no hiding us because we were the only muzungus there, but we thought it would be respectful to sit in the middle rows. Maybe 5 minutes later, a few ushers asked us to move our seats; they brought us to the front row of the hall, next to the parents of the bride and groom.

The ceremony itself was very interesting. When the bride and groom arrived, they were preceded by a line of young girls dancing. The 8 girls danced down the aisle (traditional Congolese dance I think), and the MC announced Mupenzi and Alina, the happily married couple. When the couple finally reached the front, they settled onto a couch together. The MC got the crowd riled up by saying things like “Hey young men – see this girl here, Alina? Well starting today she is not available anymore.” Sort of different to me, but they loved it. Then the MC called for the traditional part of the ceremony; the sharing of a Fanta Orange (orange soda). A woman brought out one orange soda and two glasses. The maid of honor popped open the Fanta Orange, and Alina poured a glass as the MC narrated. She brought the glass up to Mupenzi’s mouth and he took a sip from the glass. He poured the second glass, and did the same for her, and everyone went crazy for it.

Finally, they brought out the food for the reception, which was brochettes, some vegetables, fried bananas, some meat, and a whole unidentifiable bird (it was still whole with its head on and everything, like it was about to run away). As I am looking at the food, I hear the MC say something (in French) about muzungus and praying. I thought he had invited us, the muzungus, to pray, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked around to see if I had translated correctly, and everyone in the hall is staring at me and Hillary. I look at Hillary, and then at the people, and then at the MC; they are waiting for us to come up and pray for the food before we eat. So, I walk up slowly, trying but failing to look nice in my dirty jeans, muddy sneakers, unshaven face and plain t-shirt. The guy hands me the mic and everyone is staring at me. Keep in mind, I don’t know a single person in the whole building (which was actually better because I realized I would never see these people ever again). So, I say in French that I am going to say the prayer in English because it is easier for me; but Hillary, hearing me speaking French, thought that I was saying the prayer in French, and ran back to her seat. Now I am up there by myself, trying my hardest to bring myself back to the days of high school, hearing a prayer before class everyday. I cleared my throat, blessed myself, a delivered a prayer blessing our ability to be together as a community for this wedding, and blessing Mupenzi and Alina as they start their life together. They loved it, thanks to that Jesuit education. Always an adventure in Congo.

The next day, we went to church at Jotham’s parish. As this was in the poorer part of Goma, we were walking on lava rocks all day. Jotham is actually the bishop for this church in Rwanda, so I think it was a great honor for him to come back. Although there is no electricity in this town, the church had a generator, which was used to power a few electric guitars and four microphones. The walls were draped in purple cloths, and the benches were made makeshift, locally done, made of wood. On top of the benches were noise makers, which were steel boxes filled with beads or corn. They were made out of USAID Vegetable Oil cans, which was funny for me to see, as those cans (and so the noisemakers) all say “Brought to you by the American People.” Noisemakers brought to the Congo by the American people. The church didn’t have any stained glass windows, statues or monuments. There were no cushioned kneeling pads, or painted ceilings. No mahogany benches. It was refreshing to see people celebrating their beliefs in a normal environment, without having spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on superfluous decorations.

Jotham was the guest at church, so he gave the sermon. When he started, he introduced us, and asked us to come up and say something about ourselves. You think that after yesterday, he would give us a warning that we would be speaking at church, but he didn’t. No big deal though, just our names and where we were from. But then, after maybe three minutes, he asked us to come up and speak again about how the President of the United States uses the bible in his governance of the country. My first thought was – well, inappropriately, but I knew that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Luckily Hillary knew, and explained that he swears into office with his hand on a bible, and says that he promises to serve God and his country (she later told me that she wasn’t sure if that is what the president says or if that was what the girl scouts say). After hearing from four choirs, which was great – the children’s choir, the young person’s choir, the older person’s choir, and the university students’ choir – mass ended and we headed back into town. Always an adventure in Congo.

The end of our trip was a tour of a previous ARC site in Goma. The genocide was brought to a near end when the Rwandese Patriotic Front (RPF), a largely Tutsi military faction, invaded Kigali and seized power from the extremist Hutus behind the genocide. Many of these Hutus fled to Eastern DRC (then Zaire) seeking shelter and a place to plan their counterattack. However, Hutu families from Rwanda who were not involved in the genocide also fled to Eastern DRC, fearing retaliation from the Tutsi population and RPF. The combination of the Hutu extremists and the Hutu families was about 1,000,000 people; the facilities were insufficient, and the water was infected, which eventually led to a cholera outbreak that killed tens of thousands. We saw where all the facilities were set up and how everything worked when ARC was there.

That night, we took a mini-bus back to Rwanda. On the way, we were driving along these windy roads on mountain sides in the dark, and we saw a man lying in the middle of the road, on the opposite side. We stopped, and our driver stepped out to see if he was dead. The guy was unresponsive, and nobody knew what to do. For a little while, we thought it might be a set up for a robbery or something. But all of a sudden, the guy gets up, looks around, and runs away. Probably drunk. Always an adventure in Congo, even on the way back.

Work here is going well; I have applied for a grant to build a soccer field for the kids down here, and I think we will get it. If that comes through, construction will start next week, and hopefully be done by mid-November. We just submitted our first PEPFAR report, which is a relief because we won’t have to do another until January.

I’m in Nyabiheke all this week learning to build improved cookstoves out of clay, straw, and mud. I’ll run a training for trainers in the camp for the greater population to use them – maybe when I get back, I’ll run a training for everyone at home. I’m telling you, these stoves are pretty useful. Thanks to everyone for writing and reading, I really appreciate it.

Go Big or Go Home

All last week, I was in an Environmental Training Workshop put on by UNESCO, the teaching branch of the United Nations. We talked about different practices in the camps that lead to sickness among the refugees, and how we can create messages to teach them about said practices. For example, the containers people use to collect water, called Jericans, get dirty very easily. So, the water they bring back from the watering hole is contaminated, and if consumed, could cause diarrhea or other gastrointestinal diseases. People need to boil that water before drinking it to kill the germs, but the problem is that they don’t have a lot of firewood to burn. If they don’t know exactly how important it is to boil their water, they will probably choose to save firewood rather than use it to boil the water. Therefore, a sample message for this might be (in Kinyarwanda): Keep our families healthy by always drinking boiled water. The focus of the workshop, though, was more on the phrasing and design of the message than it was about the actual issues. It was an attempt to get people to thoroughly consider the phrasing of these messages, and test them by surveying in the camps, rather than just sitting in an office trying to guess what would be best.

For me, the most interesting part of the workshop happened at lunch on Wednesday. I was looking in a shop just down the road from the classroom, and I saw these cards (like stationery as you would use to write a thank you note) of different animals and Rwandan cultural scenes. Very simple, carefully constructed cards. There were birds, lions, and hippos, as well as people in boats, sunsets, and mountainous landscapes. The cards are homemade from flower petals, leaves, and banana fibers, sort of pasted together into scenes. I was thinking that I would buy a bunch to send home, but then I read the back of the card; it says “Made by and for widows and orphans of Byumba Diocese, Rwanda.” I asked the storekeeper to explain what this meant, and he said that the Byumba Diocese was right next door, and that I could go see for myself.

I walked next door, and eventually found a woman sitting in a small room with some knives and leaves, making the cards by hand. She directed me to another woman who runs the program, Meg Guillefaud, who is actually a muzungu, English by heritage. She has lived and worked in Rwanda almost her whole life, except for the period of the genocide, and speaks fluent Kinyarwanda (funny to see the reactions of the locals). She explained to me that the cards are made by widows and orphans of the genocide, and that they sell them throughout Rwanda to raise money. So far they have been able to pay for installing roofs on the houses of 7 widows and for the school fees of a number of orphans.

Even before I knew that these cards were made by orphans and widows for a good cause, I thought that they would be a big hit back home. Meg explained that she sells them in England and Germany, but as fate would have it, has been looking for a US market to enter. I told her that I know a woman back home who likes to write notes very much, and that this woman might be able to find a vendor for these cards (looking at you mom). So, if you happen to run a stationery store and are reading this, get in touch with my mother about selling these cards to support the widows and orphans of the genocide, if you are interested of course. If you are not a stationery vendor, look out for the cards at your local stationery store. I think we could raise a lot of money to help these women and children out.

This is all part of plans I have been making in keeping with a concept I talked about with my dad a few days ago. I think that there are so many people back home who want to help people down here, and in all impoverished parts of the world. And, there is so much need for that assistance. What’s missing, though, is a good bridge between these two things. As my dad said, people want to help, but they don’t want to just give money to the UN when we don’t know where they are spending it. There should be a way to contribute without overhead fees and all that bull – no bureaucrats, just your money straight to the people who need it. I’m thinking about starting a program (no bureaucracy) to put as many kids as possible through school here, but I haven’t worked it out yet. I’ll keep you posted.

When I came back to Kigali after a week of environmental training, Hillary and I had a meeting with Barry, the Country Director, to give us an opportunity to ask him any questions. He gave us a general overview of the program, and updated us on the different reports we are responsible for; monthly report to UNHCR, monthly update on the HIV Program to headquarters, quarterly report to PEPFAR, quarterly report to OPEC, and quarterly report to GLIA. After the general overview, we asked general questions about the program.

I presented the following situation: a nice woman from home responded to my request for help for Sammuel by sending a t-shirt. The shirt has a soccer ball on the front; really cool for any kid. I asked Barry how to handle individual donations, and he said that I really can’t give it to him, because it would probably end up hurting him more than helping him. Puzzled, I suggested that maybe I could have Sammuel do some work for the HIV Program, and give him the shirt as a reward for his work. But, Barry told me that when you give something to somebody, child or adult, everyone else is left thinking “why not me? Why didn’t I get one?” This anger turns into resentment, and then it becomes “Oh, he got that shirt because he is Tutsi.” Or, “he got that shirt because his family is Hutu.” Or even, “he got that because his parents are HIV+.” It can create stigma surrounding a person, and cause tensions based on health status or ethnicity. It is hard to imagine, but in a place where everybody needs so many things, it is not that hard to see. It’s too bad, though, because any kid would love that shirt so much. Really then, I think it is an all or nothing type thing over here, like go big or go home. As in, unless you have enough for every kid in the camp, you really can’t do it. It has to be a systemic approach that attempts to provide for refugees based on the very principle of their rights as refugees; every person should be treated equally, with the same rights.

But, the donations are such a great gesture, and I want to say thank you to the woman who sent the shirt, and all the people who offered to help Sammuel. I hope the potential effects of individual donations don’t discourage anyone from trying to help.

Now, the pen pal idea for Sammuel will have to be initiated as a class project at school. I have been in touch with a teacher from Kingston Elementary School, and she had her students write letters to students here. But, if we are going to do it, it has to be a commitment for the year, because it will mean so much to the kids here (Caitlin, if you are reading this, what do you think about this? Is it possible to do it for the whole year?) It wouldn’t be fair to do it for half of the year, and not the rest. I know these kids would look forward to the letters every month more than anything. As you can see, I am learning a lot about the most helpful and effective ways to help people here.

In other news, last night at Nyabiheke two mice ran into the dining area after dinner. Theodore called in the guards and hunted them down, and I think he really enjoyed it (see smiling face while holding weapons). I don’t think it was Harold though, because there were definitely mice in my room that night.

The HIV Program is going well, but is still not up and running completely. We have trainings scheduled for the next few weeks, and are hoping to officially start Voluntary Counseling and Testing services by the end of October (the building is almost finished, see picture). I am being trained in building improved cook stoves early next week, and then I will train people to teach the population how to make them. This weekend, though, I am making a trip to Goma, one of the most well known cities in the Democratic Republic of Congo. It is right over the border of Rwanda on the northern part of Lake Kivu, and Jotham, our Program Director at ARC, is taking me, as he is originally a pastor from this area. Firstly, it will be an interesting tourist visit as Goma was covered in lava following the eruption of Nyiragongo Volcano in 2002. The eruption destroyed nearly 40% of the city. But secondly, more importantly, I think it will be interesting to see where a lot of our refugees come from; maybe it will help us relate to them. DRC is safe right now because it is in between election periods. Come three weeks, it might not be a good idea to go.

I have tried to learn Kinya-rwanda here, but it is so hard. The words are too long, and have too many Ks, Ms, and Zs all jammed together. But, I have learned a certain word that I think will save me in any dangerous situation, like a robbery. I have never felt threatened, but just in case, the word I learned is “Urahitqwa?”. It translates into “Do you have diarrhea?” I am thinking that if anyone is mugging me, and I ask them if they have diarrhea, they will have no choice but to laugh and let me go. I have tested it on the drivers here and they can’t stop laughing when I say it.

I’ll be back with more when I get back from Goma to tell you all about it. Thanks for reading.

Roughing It

Hi everyone – sorry I have been out of touch for a little while. I have been working in Nyabiheke camp for the past week or so, and there is no internet connection there, nor is there any cell phone service. The only landline phone is solar powered, so at night we are pretty much stranded. The power in the house runs via generator, and this week, wouldn’t you know it, the generator was not really working. We spent a few dinners and evenings using our headlamps and torches (flashlights). It turns out that a headlamp is a muzungu thing.

When I spoke with Barry Wheeler, the Country Director for ARC Rwanda, about coming to Rwanda and volunteering back in May, he asked me if I minded roughing it. I don’t really mind at all, and sometimes think it is sort of nice to live without everything at my fingertips. He mentioned that I would be living without electricity or running water, and I thought, no big deal, I can deal with that.

Well, as I said, the electricity is intermittent. As for water, every morning, I take a shower by pouring cups of water on my head from a bucket (full of water that has been heated up on the gas stove). And because there is really no running water, the toilets don’t flush. We have to flush them manually, which means after you are done, you have to pour water into the toilet from a bucket, and gravity pushes everything out. It’s not bad, unless of course you go to the bathroom and then realize that there is no water in the bucket. Even at that point, I guess it is worse for the next person than it is for you.

Then when I go to bed, it often seems like there is a whole ecosystem of creatures waiting for me in my room. The first is a gecko type lizard that crawls up the wall. I have been telling myself that it eats bugs and that it is helping me, so that one is fine. The second is what I call a “man-eating spider.” Yes, this is an unusually thick and quick spider that is sometimes on the walls. In fact, there is one directly above my head where I sleep that I think is dead, but I am not sure. If it falls down, it will seriously fall right onto my face. I saw a national geographic commercial last week when I was in Kigali that said every person eats about 10 spiders in their lifetime; I thought well I guess it is not that impossible if you are sleeping in Nyabiheke, on your back, with your mouth open. The third creature is what Hillary calls a “sausage fly”; I think of it more as a flying worm. These intelligent insects fly directly into lights at full speed, and hit them so hard that they fall to the ground and move in circles on the ground as they try to lift themselves up. A few nights ago, one flew into the light right above the dinner table (genius idea), and plopped down right into the small space between my cup and my plate of food. It squirmed and wriggled until finally it got away. The fourth creature is either a rat or a mouse I have named Harold. I thought that if I named it something that it might think we are friends and consequently not eat me in the middle of the night. I would name the spiders too but I have already killed one, and now I am sure they all know about it and are hatching a plan to get back at me. Also, we all know that spiders are inherently evil and don’t believe in making friends anyway. And of course, how could any of this be complete without this final creature; the malaria carrying mosquito. Thankfully I have a mosquito net, so these guys can’t really get me. And, I have that lizard on my side to eat them (I think).

Last night as I was lying in my bed waiting to fall asleep, I heard Harold rustling and squeaking somewhere in the room or in the walls. I thought to myself that I could live with these animals in peace (or rather, I really have no choice so I might as well). As Barry told me when I interviewed on the phone, I would be roughing it. He wasn’t kidding. But, I hope this doesn’t sound like complaining or anything; it is sort of nice to be living in such proximity to nature. This will be my attitude until of course one of these creatures crawls into my face or takes a bite out of my finger.

Anyway, I want to give you all an update on how work is going down here, especially since I haven’t had the chance to explain to a lot of you what I am actually doing. Hillary and I are the HIV Program Interns, and we are generally responsible for getting the HIV Program off the ground, and making sure everything goes smoothly in the process. The four program areas in which ARC is working right now within the HIV Program are Abstinence/Be Faithful Messages (AB), Prevention of Mother to Child Transmission (PMTCT), Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT), and Palliative Care for those people living with HIV.

This is all funded by the President’s Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief (PEPFAR), which is an initiative started by President Bush in 2004 to give $15 billion to AIDS relief in the world. They usually only give to villages or communities; ARC is the first organization to receive money for AIDS relief in a refugee camp. Quite an honor, but also a lot of pressure for ARC. ARC believes that refugees have the same rights as the millions of other people living with HIV in the world. Their political status should not restrict them from receiving US dollars for AIDS relief. In fact, you might see that many refugee populations are at a greater risk for HIV infection than populations in more stable environments. Fortunately, PEPFAR sees this and has given ARC some money to see what they can do. It is not a lot, but it is a start.

The controversy with PEPFAR is that it will not give money for condoms or condom promotion in most cases. I think this is a tricky way of sort of doing the right thing by giving so much money to AIDS relief, but also a sly way of pushing the agenda of evangelicals and making them happy. A smart political move by the Bush administration. It is unrealistic to expect that an HIV program that preaches only Abstinence and Be Faithful messages would be successful. We have to work around that.

Aside from the program areas, we are really trying to increase the number of people tested for HIV by positive messaging and other forms of encouragement. In hand with this is reducing the stigma of HIV in the camps, as well as providing the necessary assistance to those people living with HIV (nutritional support, as well as emotional and economic). The end goal is to empower the staff to do all of these things on their own when we are gone; Ann Kao told me one of the most valuable things she learned from Barry while here was that she was supposed to “work herself out of a job,” and that is what I am trying to do.

So, where are we then? At Nyabiheke, we are trying to finish the construction of the VCT center so that people will come to be tested for HIV. However, Rwanda deals with all of its HIV/AIDS issues through a central governing body called the Treatment and Research Center for AIDS (TRAC). TRAC mandates that all health staff in the camps go through a three week training regarding issues in PMTCT and VCT. They do need to go, but it is a logistical nightmare. We have to take 90% of the health staff out of the health center for three weeks. Nyabiheke will not be a certified PMTCT/VCT site until TRAC has seen that all these instructions have been followed. This is our main priority right now, but it has been a slow process so far.

In other news, I talked to Barry the other day and he told me that he hopes I can use this time in Rwanda to figure out what sort of issues I am interested in regarding public health (i.e. water, sanitation, appropriate technology, children’s rights, etc). So, he wants me to get involved in other projects, and I am glad to be invited. As I have already mentioned, I am working now on starting the soccer league for the kids. But I am also starting to work on another project regarding cook stoves. Every month, people are issued a certain amount of firewood to use to cook by a separate NGO. Still, they scramble to make it last the whole month, and you often see kids and women carrying big bundles of wood back to camp. The refugees use this wood to make open fires, and small children often stumble upon them or get too close and burn themselves.

So, about 20 years ago, Barry worked on this new type of cook stove that is made of clay, I think it is called Efficiency Cook Stove (if you want to google it). It is round and holds a metal pot on top. Wood burns slowly underneath the stove, and is consumed much more slowly than an open fire. It saves a lot of firewood, and kids don’t burn themselves on it. They use these stoves in the nutrition center, but most of the people in the camp do not use them. So, my job will be to find out why people are not using them, if they even know about them, and how I can teach people about them and help people build them. I think it is a cool appropriate technology project.

So, everything is going well down here. I was sick last week a little, but I am better now; I think I caught strep throat from one of the kids coughing all over my hands. But, as is the case whenever you get sick here, I had to be tested for malaria and other stomach bugs. Thanks to everyone for keeping in touch, I really appreciate it.

I’ll be back later this week. I'm trying to put some pictures up now - I hope it works.

A Goalie in Search of a Pen Pal

Yesterday, I was driving with one of the camp managers for ARC and, as usual, all the kids were yelling “muzungu! muzungu!” I was laughing and repeating the phrase, and the camp manager turned to me and said “yes it is this way for white people here, but isn’t it that way for black people in the US?” I laughed and told her “No not really, not really at all.” I tried to explain that it is not really appropriate or acceptable in the US, but it was too hard to do in French. She’ll have to find out for herself if she ever visits.

Anyway, I am still a muzungu to most of the kids in the camp, and to some of the adults. But having been here for almost a month, some of the kids have started to remember me. When I drive in, it usually sounds like “muzungu! muzungu! muzungu! Nicola! muzungu!” It’s nice that some are starting to remember me, even if it is only as the guy who gave them a new pen or an empty water bottle last week (they go crazy for both of those things).

But two days ago, one boy named Sammuel, about 8 or 9 years old, called to me from across the medical center in Nyabiheke. He chased me down, and when he caught up, he said “Bonjour Nicola.” He gave me a letter (written in French) and just stood there to see what I would do. I put it in my pocket and told him that I would read it later, in private. In the car on the way back from camp, I read it. Here is what it said:

“Hello – Greetings and I hope you are doing well.

I am a 3^rd year student at primary school in the camp, and I like to play soccer, and I am the goalie for my team at school. I would like for you to find a kid in the US so that we can correspond with each other (read – be pen pals).
I would like to ask you for a ball that can help me improve my game or something else to help me. Thank you.

Your friend,
Sammuel”

During lunch I could not stop thinking about this kid. And when we drove out of the dirt driveway from the house, he was standing at the end of the path, having walked probably 4-5km from camp. He was waiting for me to see if I had read his letter. I asked the driver to stop the car; I got out, and told him that I was going to find him a friend, and that maybe I could get him some goalie gloves for soccer. I could tell that he was happy that I had even read his letter.

To make the story even more heart wrenching, I ran into Sammuel again the next day. We started talking, and he eventually told me that his parents have passed away, and that he now lives with his grandfather. Sammuel said that if it is possible, he would also like a new shirt (the t-shirt he was wearing had a rip in it, and was covered in dirt). He forgot to include that in his letter. Later that day, I ran into his teacher, and he lamented that Sammuel does indeed live with his grandfather because his parents are dead.

So, I thought that there must be someone reading this entry that knows an 8-10 year old who would like to have a pen pal in Rwanda. In the meantime, as you know, he could also use a pair of goalie gloves and a new shirt. These things are hard because there are so many kids who need so many things, some of them as basic as school fees or their first pair of sneakers. But in this case, I think you’ll agree that this boy has an especially difficult situation as an orphan. I think there are some things we can do for him before my mom reads this and decides to adopt him.

If you are at all interested in the pen pal situation, please email me and we can work something out (nicholas.rizzo@gmail.com). And if you would like to send the goalie gloves or shirt, you could always call my mom (Mary) or dad (Mike) at home (781-582-2508) and they can give you instructions, or they could just put it in the next package they are going to send me. Either way, this kid could really use someone’s help.

In other news, I have taken a lot of pictures. Rwanda is a beautiful country, and very different from most images we have of Africa. It is mountainous and green all over. I just have to get back to Kigali this week to get my cable so I can put the pictures online. I promise they are coming soon. Thanks to everyone for reading – I’ll be back sometime late next week.

On Death and Leopards

A few nights ago, we had dinner at a friend’s house in Kigali. The dinner was spicy rice mixed with some meat (goat, I assumed), which is a pretty typical meal here. Right before dinner was served, the power went out, and we ate by candlelight (also pretty typical here, but I don’t mind it at all). Because the power was out, we couldn’t watch a movie or TV after dinner, so we got to talking. We started off with religions common in Rwanda, moved to our own personal takes on religion, but eventually shifted into more magical ideas.

What I mean by magical is this – the friend was telling us a story about a leopard that had frequented his yard about a month ago. The guard at the house would sometimes see the leopard strolling alongside the house at night. My friend said it is not all that uncommon to have animals in the yard though, because he lives right next to “the bush.” Sometimes a few monkeys will just walk through the yard, no big deal. But, he added to the story, maybe the leopards were just people who had transformed into leopards. He said it as if I would nod in agreement that that was a possibility, but I didn’t; I had no idea what he was talking about.

So, my friend went into a very long explanation about how there are some things in Africa that I just won’t believe. One of these things is that select people can turn themselves into leopards whenever they want. Other examples included people turning themselves into birds and flying to different countries in the night, and people taking part in a type of magic called Juju (not sure on the spelling) that renders them invincible to bullets or other harmful things. Potentially the most important element of this story is the credibility of my friend; he is a working man like I am now, and is probably one of the most intelligent and reliable people I have met here. I was especially interested in what he was telling us because of what I have learned in my anthropology courses so far and how this applied to what I have learned. I told him after he was done that I wish I could do those things.

But even more interesting than this was his perspective on death, and I thought many of you back home would appreciate it. He told us that when someone dies before they are meant to (read – before God has determined they should), they disappear from our eyes at that moment. But, they don’t disappear from the earth; rather, they travel around the world and do whatever they please, going wherever and meeting whoever. They are visible, perfectly normal looking to other people in the world, just not to the people in their lives before they died. Then, when the time comes that God had determined for them, they are disappear from the earth. Even if you are not really religious (I include myself in that category), I thought it was nice to think of people we have lost traveling the world, finally having the chance to do everything they had always dreamed of.

In other news, my bag has finally arrived, and everything is intact; not a single thing missing or broken. When I told people at the office that I got it and everything was there, they couldn’t believe it, they were sure that everything would be stolen. I was glad they didn’t share that attitude with me when it was still missing. Also, USAID (the US Agency for International Development) in Rwanda has enthusiastically volunteered to pay for the donated soccer jerseys to be shipped here – the soccer league for the kids should be off the ground soon. As a last note, Gotshalks Soccer (in Raynham I think) donated all the balls and jerseys; if you are going to buy soccer equipment, you might as well buy it from good people (wegotsoccer.com).

I will be in the field from now until Friday – talk to you all then.

Perspective

When I was in Gihembe (one of the two camps) on Wednesday night, I stayed with a friend of Jessica, Père Maurice. Father Maurice, a Jesuit, is the Country Director of Jesuit Relief Services in Rwanda, which handles the education services for children in Gihembe camp. He is from the south of France, but has worked in different parts of Asia, Africa, and South America. His house was great, and the meals were refreshing; among other things, we ate pasta, pineapple, salami, cheese, and bread.

Anyway, on Wednesday night, Pere Maurice asked if we would like to watch a movie that he had purchased that day in Kigali, Shooting Dogs. It’s a British movie about a group of Catholic teachers and clergy in Rwanda during the genocide. He had also invited two neighbors to come over and watch the movie with us. The movie itself was okay; I think Hotel Rwanda is better and historically more accurate. It was what happened after the movie that blew me away.

After it was over, Pere Maurice said in French-accented English “Let’s talk about these things because sometimes these things are difficult to see and we can talk about them.” We had to speak in French because the neighbors were not comfortable in English, so I was lagging in the talk. After a bit of discussion, Pere Maurice turned to the two women (the neighbors) and said in French “I hope this wasn’t too difficult for you to watch.” They both pleasantly smiled and said it was not. Later, the woman on the right said “Oui, j’ai perdu mon père dan le génocide.” Then the other smiled just as politely, and said “Et j’ai perdu mon père, ma mère, et mes deux frères.” In English, the first said “Yes, I lost my father in the genocide,” and the second said “And I lost my father, my mother, and my two brothers.” We had basically just watched a reenactment of how their family members were killed.

At first I wasn’t sure if I had heard or translated correctly. But, fearing that I had, I covered my mouth and sat silently as the rest continued the discussion. Father Maurice wrapped up the conversation, and told us that he had to take the women home. They walked out first, and as Père Maurice lagged behind, I stopped him. When the women were out of earshot, I said to Père Maurice, in English to make sure that I understood, “Did they just say that they lost all those people; her father, and her father, mother, and two brothers?” Completely straight faced, he said “Yes, there are many people here like that. It is not…uncommon.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say or think; I had read and studied the genocide, but it is so distant when it is just a part of your homework. I went to bed and thought firstly about how both of those women had spoken of their dead family members so candidly and openly, as if it were completely natural, and secondly, about how we can begin to reconcile what we consider pain with the pain these people have endured. I decided that it was a conversation to have with Père Maurice for another day. As he would say, we will sit and talk and drink whiskey.

PS – I have since realized that in my last entry I forgot to mention what Muzungu even means. It is the local word for “white person.” The kids are really yelling “white person! white person!” Not all the kids are happy to see me though; this past Thursday I waved to a baby a few feet away. It took a good look at me and started to cry uncontrollably. I am telling myself that it was just scared of me because I am white, not because I have an exceptionally hideous face.

Muzungu

Last week, it took us two hours to make it from Kigali to Nyabiheke, one of the two refugee camps I will work in. Nyabiheke camp is situated in a small town, called Nyabiheke, along a dirt road that seems impassable without a Land Rover (it takes us about 30 minutes to go 8 miles on this road). The town is northeast of Kigali, en route to Tanzania, and the camp in the town houses about 5000 refugees. I had seen pictures of the camp from Ann Kao before arriving, but even still, I had no idea what to expect.

It turns out it was difficult to notice anything on the way into the camp because I was so distracted by the kids. Almost every single one along the way leapt to his or her feet and ran after the car, waving to me, yelling “Muzungu! Muzungu!” I would just wave back to them and they would laugh or smile or jump up and down.

When I got out of the car, I met Jessica in the training room; she was running a session for the anti-AIDS club in the camp here on HIV/AIDS and reproductive health, something that I will be in charge of when she leaves in three weeks. After I was warmly welcomed by Jessica, and given lunch they had saved for me (rice, a green vegetable like spinach, cassava (a banana looking potato tasting thing), and goat), I got a tour of the camp. I saw the pharmacy, the consultation rooms, the female and male wards, the nutrition center, the training room, the isolation room, and the kitchen. All the buildings are made of basic wood with green plastic sheeting as the walls, issued by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). You will see all of those as soon as I can take pictures.

After the tour, I got to play a little soccer with the kids in the camp. They were laughing so hard at the Muzungu bouncing the ball on his head, but I don’t know why. I think it’s funny to see a Muzungu do anything around here. As I was walking away, the kids would not stop following me – I even tried to walk in circles, but that didn’t fool them. They were holding my hands and touching my arms, and I actually had to pull my hands away from them when it was time to leave. On the way back, I made sure to learn how to say “no more” in Kinya-rwanda for next time.

Unfortunately there is no word on my bag. And to make it even worse, I called the airport on Sunday to check, and the woman said “Oui, le baggage est la.” Yes, the bag is there. I thanked her and told her how glad I was that my bag had finally arrived. Oh yes, what a joyous occasion; we both rejoiced happily over the phone like two old friends. I have since thought a lot about this phone call, and even if I misunderstood her French, which I don’t think I did, we were clearly on the same celebratory wavelength regarding the arrival of my bag. Well, you guessed it, we went there to pick it up and it was not there. That meant back to not shaving and looking like a slob everyday when I meet new people, and back to applying Purell Hand Sanitizer to my armpits in lieu of deodorant (it doesn’t smell as nice and it burns a little bit, but it isn’t so bad).

Anyway, all is not lost here, and I am learning a lot already. I am starting to learn a lot about what it means to be a refugee - what do you think when you hear the word refugee? I thought of people as unfortunate, forced from there homes because of conflict, and that holds true here. But, what I didn’t realize is the lives these people led before they came here. Many, if not most, were self-sustaining individuals before they were pushed out by the rebel militias of the Congo. Last week at the training, I sat and talked with a nice guy named Felix. Back home, he told me, he was a teacher of science and technology at the local school. Now, I don’t know what he does, but he does not teach, as there is no school at which he could work in the camp. I mean, I think that we would be very similar to a lot of these people (in some ways, not all) if we were forced from our homes in the US (truthfully, I think that we would be less resilient). These people had pride, dignity, sustenance back home, and I think it is difficult for them to live in this place where those things are hard to come by.

Today I am in Nyabiheke again, but tomorrow I leave for Gihembe camp to have some meetings. I will be back in Kigali on Thursday night, so I can communicate Friday and this weekend. Thanks for reading.

PS – There is an ex-pats soccer team in Kigali that I might play on now. It’s called Muzungu United.

Welcome to Rwanda

To get to Rwanda, I had to fly through Nairobi, Kenya. I was there for only about two hours, so I didn’t get to see the city at all. But when you get on your plane to leave Nairobi, you walk onto the runway without escorts or anything. Next to the plane, all the passengers’ bags are lined up, and you have to point out which bags are yours. The bags you point out are moved onto the plane. I thought it was cool.

However, I didn't think it was cool when only one of my two bags was there for me to point out. The bag that is missing has a laptop, two cameras and ten rolls of film, a webcam for Skype, a cell phone, and a bunch of other small things. I filed a report at the Kigali International Airport and they are going to contact me when the bag arrives, but as you can imagine, I am a bit skeptical.

Despite the unfortunate fate of my bag, I have arrived in Rwanda safely. From the plane, the country seemed beautiful. Everywhere there were rolling hills with houses and buildings on the side and dirt roads. It is warm, but not hot. The temperature may be the same as in Boston, but it is not nearly as humid.

We drove by a lot of the places I have read about in books about Rwanda, like the National Assembly and the Ministry of Justice, as well as the huge Ministry of Defence. It's difficult for me to grasp that so much violence took place here years ago. It seems so small and peaceful. I asked Top, the Finance Administrator for ARC, on the way if people talk about the genocide at all, or if they prefer not to discuss it. He said they talk and are very open about it; even still, I would never ask somebody about it. At least not yet anyway. One piece of advice I received before coming is to never ask the Rwandan people about their families (which is considered casual conversation in the US) because of the genocide.

For now, I am staying with Top. His house is very nice, and I have my own room. Last night, I took a sitting shower using a bucket of warm water and a cup for the first time in my adult life; and this morning, I took a cold standing shower. When the shower works, I think the water is cold. It is hard to decide which shower I prefer right now.

Today I am off to meet with Jessica in the Nyabiheke camp, where I will meet and greet the staff and explore the camp. I will be driven by an ARC employee who happens to be going that way. It is only about two hours away.

I’ll take pictures of all the above as soon as I recover my suitcase. I hope you are all well at home.

First Post

Hi everyone - this is my first posting. I am new to this whole blogging thing, but I thought this would be a good way to keep in touch with all of you. Give me a little time to get a hang of this.

Nick