Where am I now?

Boda Bodas Part II

2006-10-27T00:04:00.000-07:00

Butare, Rwanda September 12/2006 (a belated post)

Back in Butare to work at Radio Salus again. Most of the time I make the 30-minute journey on foot but there are times when my pack is too heavy and/or I'm simply too tired so I resort to taking a moto (Rwanda's version of boda-bodas). At least here the drivers carry an extra helmet and the distances are relatively small.

Well, today presented a new challenge. As I walked to the moto stop by the stadium I realized I was wearing a long dress -- yip, and I don't think it would have been cool to hike it up and straddle both the bike and the driver. Shit, I thought, as I beckoned a driver. Then I heard somebody behind me say "muzungu" (white person in Kinyarwanda/kiswahili). I turned. A young man was standing there complete with a broken bottle held up in his hand. Coming right at me. I wanted to run or at least turn away. Instead, I smiled. We greeted, shook hands. I relaxed except for the nagging thought in my mind of the side saddle ride I'd have to do shortly.

The bottle-wielding man beckoned a moto. I grabbed the driver's shoulders and slid my ever-widening butt onto what seemed a pathetically inadequate "seat". My feet flopped around resembling fish caugh on dry land. I grabbed a small handle at the end of the seat and began to wonder waht was going to prevent me from sliding off or worse flung off (nothing, would be the correct answer!).

I decide I wouldn't move a muscle (balance, you know) before we reached our destination. And I didn't. Well, except holding the bar as tight as I could and moving my eyeballs to glance up as we passed a huge truck with a guy in the passenger seat looking down on me with a bemused (or amused?) look on his face. And he wasn't alone. As we whizzed down the main street there were more looks -- amused, bemused, shocked, horrified. But at least, I thought, I was providing some entertainment.

A few days later when presented with the same predicament (the long dress scenario), I realized I didn't want to balance anymore. So I just hopped on, skirt hiked up (but a reasonable hike) and straddled. Now that was more like it!

Trafficked Kids

2006-10-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

My afternoon was spent with children who'd been trafficked and just recently rescued. Yes, basically kids in servitude here in Ghana by fellow Ghanaians. I interviewed two of them but there were 25 of them who had been released and are going to be reunited with their families tomorrow. Some of these kids were as young as 5 or 6. Many of the older ones (13-15) had been in servitude since they were 5 or 6. One of the boys told me he didn't know how old he was when he was taken away (purportedly to be given the chance to go to school) but went to bring in a smaller boy and said "this is how big I was when I was taken away."

Rejoice, our housekeeper, had wanted to come with me and I'm glad she did. She too is from the Volta region where these kids were from and so was able to translate from Ewe to English. A couple of times she started crying as she translated.

The story goes like this. Many of these kids are born into poor, large families with many kids and with not enough food or enough money to put them in school. Someone will come along and say they'll take one or two of the kids and put them into school. The parents agree (sometimes they're given a small sum of money). The kid goes with the man who puts them into school for a week or so. After one week, the man takes them out of school and takes them away, forcing them to do work.

Both boys and girls are taken. The girls will be forced to cook, to collect firewood and water and various other tasks while the boys are usually forced to work in the fishing industry. Some die. Why? Because their job is to dive to the bottom of Lake Volta to untangle the nets that have gotten caught on the tree stumps in the lake. Some of the boys get eaten by crocodiles, some get stuck in the sucking mud and can't get up for air. Others, like Kwame's brother James, just disappeared until his dead, bloated body showed up 3 days later.

Kwame is one of the boys that I interviewed. He's 15. He's the one who said he had no idea of how old he was when he was taken from his family but showed me by the size of another young boy. I'm guessing he was around 6 or 7 when he was taken. He hasn't seen his family in 8 years. But he'll get to see them for the first time in 8 years tomorrow.

These 25 kids were rescued by an organization called APPLE several weeks ago. They spend a few weeks at the Social Welfare Center before they're reunited with their families.

I think one of the things that astounded me the most was that Kwame just spoke so easily about the whole ordeal. I mean 8 years of his life as a slave. His childhood gone forever. Yet he is hopeful about he future. He wants to be a carpenter. And he wants to make sure that no other kid should have to endure what he did.

Had to go to Togo!

2006-08-24T23:32:00.000-07:00

This blog was really only an excuse to use the title...I love writing that -- to go to togo!

But seriously, we got back from a fabulous vacation in South Africa and the next day I was off to Togo to participate in a Media Foundation of West Africa/International Media Support mission to assess the media needs regarding training etc in Togo. It was an interesting few days where I also got to visit a number of radio stations and newspapers. If North American journalists ever feel they've got it bad they need to make a visit to Togo (or almost any other African country for that matter). I visited radio stations where their on-air board pots were held in place with bits of ratty cardboard thus enabling the pot to stay in place...thus enabling the sound to actually go out on the air.

Reporters write everything long-hand, there are usually only a couple of computers, ancient tape decks (ok, and a few Nagras), most newspapers don't have an office or a printing press (and yes, that does beg the question of how they manage to stay in business etc...well, a lot of them don't!)

It's a pretty dire situation but what impressed me the most was the passion and the commitment and energy of some of these journalists - they believe in what they're doing, in the fight for press freedom and remain optimistic. Pretty incredible.

Boda-Bodas in the Morning

2006-08-02T01:26:00.000-07:00

Kampala, Uganda

Hanging on to my seat for dear life I wrack my brain trying to remember whether my Saint Christopher is on my person or not. I can take a deep breath (though I continue to hold it) when I remember it’s somewhere in the bowels of my pack. I continue hanging onto the seat, thinking how my sister would call me the biggest hypocrite being on a motorcycle. I’ve always sworn I would never get on one of these two-wheeled machines. Let alone without a helmet. Let alone in the crazy traffic of central Kampala. Yikes. I continue to hold my breath as we squeeze between cars on one side and matatus (mini-buses – really aged vans of various makes which are ubiquitous in most of sub-Saharan Africa in which they squeeze as many people as possible (usually around 16 though it’s clearly written on the side that “holds max 11 pax”). There are mere centimeters between my leg and the vehicle we pass. I still hold my breath. And my backpack in which is my recording gear and my laptop – normally I’d call it my life, but in this circumstance it’s very clear to me what my real life is. And it’s almost passing before my eyes.

The boda-boda thing started out of desperation. I had only arrived in Kampala late the night before and knew only that I had an interview with the deputy mayor the next morning at 9am. I figured I had a 50-50 shot as to where the interview would be – either at City Hall or at Makerere University, where my contacts worked who had set everything up. I went for Makerere. I lost the bet. So I ran across campus and not seeing a taxi but beckoned by a helmeted motorcycle driver. I hesitated for a second, thought about the interview, threw my pack on my back as I nodded at the driver. I threw my leg over the bike, held onto the driver and asked him (very nicely) to please go slow. I had no idea how far we had to go. I hung on. I prayed. I thought of Saint Christopher, my sister, my husband, my family, my dog, my life….well, you get the picture.

But what I didn’t bargain for was how exhilarating the ride would be. And so each morning after my 45 minute very squishy matatu ride to the center, I’d hop a boda-boda, ask the driver to go slow and listen to the amused mutterings of Ugandans as they pointed to me, a clearly crazed (or crazy?) muzungu, skirt hiked up, hanging on for dear life, straddling the day’s boda-boda.

Where has Betz BEEN???

2006-06-25T23:13:00.000-07:00

Cote d'Ivoire (twice), Nigeria and here in Ghana doing a couple of workshops and some consulting. I think I was traumatized by my last visit to Cote d'Ivoire where I was detained by plain-clothed policemen on arrival at the airport. I had just been to Abidjan two weeks earlier without incident and had the luxury of US State Dept. amenities such as airport expediters and air-con, comfy vehicles to shuttle me around. Then I arrived to do some more training of journalists in how to cover HIV/AIDS (really the only thing US-funded organizations can do with journalists in Cote d'Ivoire while quite frankly some training in conflict resolution etc would be much more useful...tho perhaps the situation is too far gone...).

I really don't want to relive the last Cote d'Ivoire visit as it just left such a bad taste in my mouth (no doubt in part due to vomiting for 24 hours two days before I was to return to Accra) and I'm just tired of telling the story. Long story short, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut but then when someone calls me a racist it's kind of hard....

So, really didn't want to do much writing after that and was just plain busy. Last week I started a project here in Accra with some (small) grant money I got. We're getting a group of 6 HIV+ women to keep radio diaries over the next couple months. Each woman is paired with a radio journalist if any technical, moral or other assistance is needed. I was a bit worried about this project but the workshops we did last week left me feeling much better and actually quite excited about the project. I'll keep you posted ... well, I'll try!

This week will be my last workshop for a while as I will then be devoting the summer to some freelance contracts I have to fulfill. I'll be filing radio stories for a Canadian podcast called "The Green Planet Monitor" (blog for that will be up and running soon). I'm the Africa person and will be covering stories on environment and development and will actually get to travel a bit. My first trip is back to Rwanda and Uganda where I've got some stories to pursue....

The Beauty and The Boys

2006-04-04T00:17:00.000-07:00

It’s Sunday morning, the first day I’ve been able to sleep in while here. OK, so I was up at 5am to finish my Dan Brown novel and to listen to the deafening torrents of rain that slammed the house’s tin roof. An hour later I poked my head outside to see the most vibrant rainbow just to the north. And then I went back to sleep.

It had been raining all night in waves ranging from soft patters on the roof to the latest deluge that had awoken me. The odd clap of thunder and accompanying flashes of light had also snapped me awake several times.

Now as I sit out on the front porch drinking my Maraba espresso, listening to the birds and the sounds of singing churchgoers drifting from the Eglise Ste. Therese down the street I’m struck by the peacefulness and the incredible beauty. Thanks to all the rain, the flowers are in bloom in every color from palest of yellow roses to the loudest fuchsia bougainvillea. Yellow, red and blue birds flitter from one bush to the next chittering happily.

Yesterday on my way to Nyanza I was again awestruck by the stunning beauty of this tiny country. The sun was still coming up and the clouds were still down in the valleys, fingers of mist slowly withdrawing from the hills. The hills and vales are a million shades of green velvet and silk with the ever-changing African light doing a masterful job of lighting that I seriously doubt could ever be captured on film. Maybe that’s why I don’t take pictures here.

But perhaps what amazes me most is how much the beauty and serenity of this country belie it’s horrific past. It never ceases to amaze me how Rwanda’s beauty just kind of lures you in -- it’s just so incredibly stunning. But then you see the flash of a machete as it assists in the chopping down of a tree, or watch the film “100 Days” (as I did last night while the rain pounded) or drive by one of the dozens of genocide sites scattered around the country and it all comes back. Sometimes I wonder if I just have an overactive imagination -- like when I’m in this house wondering if it was around in 1994 and if so whether any people were killed here. But no, I don’t think it’s just that. I think this country just gets under your skin (well, at least mine). On one hand it’s got this horrendous history but at the same its beauty makes it seems nearly impossible for the two aspects to be reconciled.

And maybe that’s why this country freaks me out just a bit each time I come. It’s like you just can’t escape this country’s history despite the efforts to beautify and to put the past behind. And then this year I’ve managed to time my visit here (unintentionally) at the precise time the Genocide is being commemorated. And I find myself asking myself if I can’t push the genocide out of my mind, then how can the eight million Rwandans do so on a daily basis? I don’t know.

But then I think maybe it’s just that I spent the past 24 hours with some genocide orphans – Alphonsina’s family. I have “followed” these kids since I was first introduced to them in 2003 by a photojournalist friend when I met Alphonsina and three of her four younger brothers, the youngest was HIV positive. He died last year. He was only 11 or 12.

The last time I saw the boys was last November when I went with my friend Leopold to Gikongoro to track them down. When we found them they told us that Alphonsina had moved to Nyanza, gotten married and had a third child. And that Ariwanda had died.

Coincidentally, a woman in the UK had tracked me down as she wanted to help the boys any way she could. The November trip with Leopold was to visit the boys to see what we could do.

When I saw Leopold last week he told me he had been in touch with the boys and would arrange for the boys to take the bus to Butare from Gikongoro for a visit Friday afternoon. Of course as luck would have it, I got stuck in meeting after meeting each seeming to last forever. I finally got home after 6pm just as dusk began to set in. I had managed to snarf a bite of pizza down my gullet when I heard “Allo?”

I swallowed the first bite of food I’d eaten that day and went to see Leopold. I was sure he had the boys with him and sure enough he told me he’d brought the boys to see me. I went outside. There they were. I hugged them both and had them come inside. I can’t describe the immense joy I feel every time I see these boys.

It only became clear later that they’d probably never been in such luxurious surroundings for later Bariwanda, 14, asked to use the toilet. I showed him where it was. I realized there was a problem when a few minutes later the 21-year-old Alphonse went to assist his younger brother with something. I quickly followed suit. They were both hovering over the toilet and finally with hand motions asked me how to get rid of what they had deposited. I showed them how to flush the toilet. They were amazed!

A little while later I told them they could take showers if they wanted. They were thrilled. They loved the bar of soap I gave them and Bariwanda was still clutching the soap after he had showered and continued to rub it into his skin. Apparently he had only found the cold water as I later heard Alphonse exclaiming after his shower “amazi ashooshi” (warm water). And he had the biggest grin on his face.

These boys never cease to amaze me. They can find happiness in the most simple of things like Bariwanda’s small plastic, mud-covered toy cow that splits in two. They love magazines and newspapers even if they’re in English. Bariwanda impressed me that evening by counting to twenty in English. But he’s also got a bit of an attitude and that concerns me as we move them to Kigali (with the third brother who is living with Alphonsina) and try to get Bariwanda back into primary school and the two older brothers technical training of some sort. I just keep telling myself he’ll be fine.

I’m thrilled that the boys seem to understand the implications of what we’re offering and that they’ll be together again. I’m particularly excited that these boys may finally have some sort of future and I’m especially grateful to my friend Leopold who is taking all of this on even with the demands of his own family and a full-time job here in Butare.

And I just hope that the next time I get to Rwanda the boys will be in school.

Old Newspapers

2006-03-30T00:21:00.001-08:00

So not only was I apprehensive about returning to work with the fledgling university radio station, Radio Salus, which went on the air last November, but it seemed my fears were confirmed upon my arrival. The first thing I saw on the interim station director’s desk was a copy of a newspaper from the precise week of the station’s launch – no current newspaper either daily or weekly – just a paper dated November 2005. Yikes, I thought, this can’t be happening. Surely they realize some four months have passed.

I tried to ignore the paper, but couldn’t, I mean it was right there -- one of the few things on his desk. It wouldn’t escape my peripheral vision no matter how hard I tried.

With the old newspaper as our audience, the interim director began to fill me in on the happenings of the past four months. It didn’t start well. The previous director had left almost two months previously (which I had been aware of) and Aldo was the interim director. What I didn’t know was that Aldo had already taken another job and would likely already be gone by the time a new director was hired. I was mortified. There would be no continuity, no historical memory.

Our chat continued and despite my abhorrence of the word ‘problem’ it was used a lot…and not just by Aldo. I was just as guilty. There had been several technical problems many of which were solved by our French savior, Vincent, who worked for the university’s computer department. The second transmitter was still being held hostage by Rwandan customs and there seemed to be no idea when it would be released, nor when it could then be installed. This second transmitter will allow the station to reach Kigali and will mean Radio Salus will reach almost 100% of the country’s population. It also means there is greater potential for future regional radio partnerships.

Currently, the signal reaches the southern half of Rwanda extending into northern Burundi. And while we don’t get all the way up north, depending on whether you’re on a hill or in a valley, you can get the signal all the way in the northeastern part of Rwanda. The station often receives call from Ruhengeri, famous as the starting point for visits to the mountain gorillas.

Three days have passed and after numerous meetings and chats I realize how far the station has come. Yes, of course, there are issues, or problems (I still prefer challenges) but I’ve been completely impressed with the initiative of the students and the journalists. They believe in what they are doing and that is something that I’ve always found encouraging – the fact that the journalists I’ve worked with in Rwanda want to make a difference. And that is clearly the case here at Radio Salus. Somehow, despite the absence of solid leadership (or, dare I say, any leadership at all) they’ve organized themselves, their programming and the station as a whole.

They’re archiving their material, maintaining program logs and basically doing the best they can with what they’ve got and while we still have a lot of work to do, at least for the moment I’m impressed.

But I have yet to find out why last November’s newspaper was sitting on Aldo’s desk.

Apprehension in Butare

2006-03-30T00:21:00.000-08:00

Back to Butare

2006-03-24T10:05:00.000-08:00

My husband keeps asking me how I feel about my trip to Rwanda. He’s a psychiatrist and I leave tomorrow for my third trip to Rwanda and my second since November of last year. I keep telling him I’ve been too busy “to feel” anything. But now I’m being forced to think about it as I prepare for my departure.

Funny, this time I’m departing from within Africa as I now live in Accra, Ghana. I’ll be flying overnight across continent to Nairobi then catch an early morning flight to Kigali. I’m looking forward to what I call “the smoky African” smell when I get off the plane in Kigali; that smell is hard to come by here in West Africa, but for me it is almost symbolic and incredibly evocative of East and Central Africa.

I’m looking forward to the drive from Kigali to Butare, a route that I know well now. I can’t wait to see my good friend Ines Mpambara, a Rwandan-Canadian who moved back to Rwanda several years ago and became the director of the School of Journalism for a few years, and her newborn baby boy. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends and former students with whom I stay in email contact when I’m not in country. And I suppose I’m looking forward to seeing the state of Radio Salus, the university radio station I helped get on the air last November.

But I’m also incredibly apprehensive. The station manager recently resigned and I keep getting coded messages from a number of students about a myriad of “problems” at the station – students not getting the stipend they’re supposed to, programs not being produced and instead replaced with almost non-stop music, equipment issues (mostly lack of), and so on, and so on.

I can’t help but feel at least partially responsible for the success (or failure) of Radio Salus. I was around in 2003 during its inception (on paper) when I participated in talks at my then home, the Credo Hotel in Butare, with a rep from UNESCO and an American Fulbrighter and professor. The professor has since passed away, the UNESCO rep is on maternity leave which leaves me – the only one with any kind of historical memory about Salus.

But together with the apprehension is an energy, an energy that seems to wondrously kick in when I need it most. I’m going into this knowing I’ll be working incredibly long and very likely frustrating days. But I’ll be working with students who want this station to be a success, who believe in what they’re doing and who desperately want the legacy of the Rwandan genocide and the complicity of the media in the genocide to be something of the past. They want to show the world that Rwanda is not just about genocide and hate media; they know there is so much potential in this incredibly beautiful country.

And so do I.

Tree Stumps and Canadians

2006-02-23T06:49:00.000-08:00

Paul is in Abidjan this week…he says it’s weird but exhilirating (my words not his). I’m here in Accra and realized yesterday that I simply am not inspired here on “the compound” and it really takes being in the City to feel something akin to inspiration. More about that later…

The big event today is that a former Canadian Prime Minister and his business partner are in town to ink a deal with the Ghanaian government. I’m still trying to understand the whole idea. Joe Clark and Wayne Dunn are offering to remove tree stumps from Lake Volta. Now I don’t really get this. Apparently fishing nets get tangled on the stumps and slave kids are forced to dive down and try to untangle them; some end up dying in their efforts. I’ve also heard that many boats hit these stumps and sink – boat, passengers, everything; more lives lost.

On the flip side, I’ve read accounts that these tree stumps provide fertile breeding ground for fish and so there are plenty of fish in the Lake. This has to be a good thing, no? People get their livelihoods from the fish and they also have food. So I am wondering what is going to happen to the fishing industry if the tree stumps are removed.

This whole idea of removing tree stumps has left me with a lot of questions…questions I hope the former Prime Minister can answer when I interview him.

Hate Radio in Cote d'Ivoire

2006-01-20T02:31:00.000-08:00

I sometimes sit here and just shake my head. Dumbfounded. In disbelief, wondering if we as a species have learned nothing at all. I have been following the Ivory Coast situation (they are our neighbors, after all) and came across the following today:

Hate broadcasts spurring Ivory Coast attacks - UN

Ivory Coast radio stations are inciting people to arm themselves and attack the United Nations, the world body said yesterday, calling on the government to immediately halt the hate broadcasts. "This is unacceptable and must cease immediately," UN chief spokesman Stephane Dujarric said, calling the broadcasts "particularly disturbing" as a wave of attacks on UN peacekeepers went into a third day.

After close to a million are slaughtered in Rwanda, why do the media, and radio in particular, have to incite such hate? And it makes me wonder if what I do as a journalism trainer is worth it, if it can possibly change anything ? Can we possibly effect change? And then I’m hit with the realization that in some countries journalists are under attack (eg. Jill Carroll in Iraq) while in others “journalists” use their position to access the airwaves in such destructive ways. How sad.

Water

2006-01-18T04:12:00.000-08:00

I spilled a few drops of water near (ok, on) my laptop while working yesterday. It appears I’ve fried the backspace button which is a pain as I use it a lot! It would just kind of kick in whenever it wanted to and do all kinds of weird things including not allowing me to access my Benin documents. My computer geek husband (who swears I’m an extremely unlucky charm any time I get close to computers) managed to find some software that would allow me to disable the backspace key. Funny how used we become to certain things. I miss the backspace key. A lot. I’m now trying desperately to get used to using the delete key instead.

Water seemed to be in the stars yesterday as we also ran out of water. But it’s not like Rwanda where if you run out of water you’re SOL. Nope, here you call the Embassy and they send over a water truck to fill up your big black water tank that I’m sure is the envy of Ghanaians during the dry season (which is now). It’s odd -- that coupled with the generator which kicks in when the rest of Accra or the neighborhood does not have any power definitely helps take the “hardship” out of “hardship post”. I mean it’s nice, but it’s definitely a change from my days in Butare when you just made do. Funny that.

Keeping cool in my home office with an ice-coffee as I prep my workshop for next week. I’ll be traveling to Benin Monday to do a 3-day workshop for broadcast journalists. Topic? Election reporting. This is in light of the country’s upcoming presidential elections where the current president has been in power (except for a couple years break) for decades and is being forced out as the constitution says you can’t be more than 70 years old. He’s 72.

What's it like?

2006-01-15T02:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve now been in Accra for one month. How time flies. I’m not really sure where to start so I’ll try to remember some of my first impressions.

The house: On arrival I thought we were merely passing the Canadian Embassy. It was dark, I was traumatized (as Zig had been lost) and we were passing a residence where both the Canadian and Ghanaian flags were flying. Then I realized that’s where we were turning in. This was our house! While the Canadian flag was a great touch (Paul’s idea) it struck me as kind of odd that here we were in a US Embassy house and we were flying the Canadian flag. It’s almost like Americans who travel around the world with a small Canadian flag stitched on to their packs so people will think they’re Canadians rather than Americans. But somehow we were taking this to a whole new level. Still strikes me as odd, but I must admit, I love looking out and seeing the big red maple leaf.

Also odd is living in a house with blacked out bulletproof windows (we can see out but you can’t see in). And all the windows have these humoungous metal grates for added security. And of course you can’t live as an expat in Africa without the ubiquitous guard. Ours comes every night at 6pm. Also, odd is having two full-time staff people. It’s like being "Beighley-Betz Inc." or something – I mean we actually have people working for us. Very strange, a bit difficult to get used to, but then you get used to it and, I have to admit, it’s wonderful.

Johnson is our gardener who Ziggy has absolutely fallen in love with. He keeps our myriad plants and trees thriving and the garden looking fabulous. Once we get some seeds we’re going to get a little veggie patch going. Apparently we’ve got a couple little groundnut (peanut) plants and he showed us the groundnuts…very cool.

Then there’s Rejoice. She’s our “house manager”. And she’s awesome. She keeps the house neat and clean (no small feat), does our laundry, ironing and has begun to give me cooking lessons! She will also cook for us on occasion and makes a mean apple pie, a great pasta salad and quiche and wonderful salads. She also takes Ziggy over to see his new girlfriends, Mila and Shopska, two rescued Bulgarian street dogs that belong to one of my friends, Becky who works for USAID. Rejoice will also be staying with Ziggy when both Paul and I are out of town as we will be next week. We coordinated a trip to Cotonou, Benin. He’ll do embassy work and I’ll be doing a 3 day election-reporting workshop for a group of broadcast journalists. There is supposed to be a presidential election in Benin in March. We will be driving to Cotonou which should be interesting as we pass through Togo and part of Benin on the way. It will be my first trip thus far, other than our little day trip to the Volta Dam.

I remember growing up and hearing that name – “Volta” and how exotic and African it seemed to me. “Volta” somehow embodied Africa to me as “Congo” does. Maybe it’s the whole river thing, I’m not sure. In any case we were invited a couple weeks ago by one of Paul’s colleague to drive up to the dam and to have lunch riverside. The drive was interesting. The roads are in decent shape and actually go straight (I’m so used to Rwanda’s potholed, mountainous and curvy roads). For me the highlight of the day was taking a little boat trip up the river. It was amazing. Little kids would rush down to the banks of the river and wave at us grinning. Men would canoe by in their fishing pirogues and we scanned the river banks for monkeys and birds; with the hum of the boat’s engine it had an almost meditative effect.

The dam itself was an impressive piece of engineering and its construction left behind the world’s largest man-made lake – Lake Volta. We managed to somehow get in to the actual site (a little bribe, or “dash” as it’s called here definitely helped) and we were able to drive in and take a walk on the dam. Down on the lake side, the “party boat” had just returned from its afternoon revelry complete with lots of booze and music.

We finally decided we should probably hit the road before the drunken partiers did so we left the dam and headed home.

Ziggy is...

2006-01-03T22:05:00.000-08:00

Saturday came and went and I kept hoping the dog was ok but also realized it was completely out of my hands, out of my control – difficult for a control freak to deal with.

We were picked up Saturday evening and headed to the airport. Alex, the Ghanaian expeditor for the US Embassy, and I headed into the baggage claim area. I waited. Finally I couldn’t believe it --- there was Ziggy in his crate just outside the baggage claim building. I called to him. He saw me and barked – that high-pitched nervous/I see you/I’m scared bark. I asked the baggage guys to please bring him in the terminal so I could get him. To my horror they said they couldn’t; the dog was cargo and had to be shipped over to the cargo area and I would have to get him there. I couldn’t believe it. I thought how can I possibly be this close to finally getting my traumatized dog and now they were saying I couldn’t have him…yet…without jumping through a bunch more hoops. How incredibly, intensely frustrating.

I watched helplessly as they took the dog away.

We headed back to the car, left the airport and went to the cargo area. After visiting several offices, several different people, handing out bribes and waiting and waiting and losing it completely. By now I thought I would never see Ziggy again for we were at the cargo area but the dog was. I was convinced they had left him at the baggage terminal – alone, forgotten just as he had been in Amsterdam.

The cargo guys kept assuring me the dog was coming. I told them I’d heard the same thing the day before. I was not amused. Far from it. I was pissed. I was scared and I was on the brink. I vaguely remember threatening to run past the guard, onto the tarmac and down the kilometer or so to the main terminal. Paul told me not to be stupid. So did Alex, who by now thought I was a complete, raving lunatic (I was acting the part, after all).

We continued to wait. A few more bribes exchanged hands. And I kept playing the part of the crazy white woman waiting for her dog in a country where dog was, in some places, served up for dinner.

The waiting was excruciating. It had already been more than 90 minutes since I’d last seen my dog. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

Finally, finally, a tractor arrived with my “cargo”. There was my dog. I couldn’t believe it. He was panting like crazy, completely disoriented and freaked out. I took him out of the crate and he almost bolted before I got the leash on him. I asked someone to get him some water as his water bottle was trashed and I had given my bottle to the guys who had him at the baggage terminal.

Ziggy pulled and pulled at the leash. I just wanted to go back to the car (wherever it was) and leave…but apparently we weren’t finished yet. There was more paperwork and a few more bribes left to be handed out.

Another 30 minutes passed waiting, waiting. At least I had my dog and there was no way they could take him from me – or they’d be taking me too.

Finally we got whatever permission we needed and we headed to the car. Once loaded up we headed for the exit. The guard asked for some papers. We couldn’t find them. I couldn’t believe it. He told us we had to go back and get the proper papers. I was so close to grabbing the dog and just jumping out of the car and making a run for it. We’d been playing this game for over 2 hours and it was getting really, really old. We finally found the paperwork we’d been missing and hallelujah – they opened the gate!! We were on our way home.

It’s now 2 weeks later and Zig has adapted pretty well to his new home. He’s made some new friends, chased his first lizard, chicken and goat, had feral dogs chase him as we went for walks, continues to mark his first ever yard and in the words of our housekeeper: “He’s now an African dog”.

Yes he is. Yes he is!

Where is Ziggy?

2005-12-20T23:52:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Accra Friday night, after an hour long delay departing from Amsterdam. The entire time I was worried about the dog. I was told he was on the flight. I asked a couple of times (don’t think I was a pest) if the temp was ok down in the hold and was told yes, the pilot was keeping an eye on it.

I managed to get a bit of rest on the flight, ate a decent meal and had some wonderful meal…yes, business class thanks to the US government.

As I peeked out the window I saw the full-moon keeping an eye on us just above and behind us a bit. At one point I looked down and saw the Atlas mountains bathed in a dark violet, the full moon providing the only light as the last bit of light was pushed out of the sun. It was breathtaking.

Finally the lights of Accra appeared. Finally the 30-hour journey was coming to an end…and I could be reunited with my dog…and my husband. And begin our two year adventure in Africa.

We landed. We waited for the ground electricity to be connected. There was a problem. They waited for another ground electricity thingie…that too was faulty. The pilot finally realized he was going to have a revolt if he didn’t let us off the plane so as one engine kept running to keep power going we got off the other side.

Into the terminal I went. There was not the familiar smoky smell of East and Central Africa that I had become accustomed too, I don’t remember smelling anything in particular. Got through immigration quickly and went to wait for the dog and my bags.

I kept waiting. No bags appeared. Apparently due to the lack of ground electricity they were having issues with the cargo hold doors as well. Oh brother. I just want my dog.

I continued to wait, peeking my head out the hole where the luggage came in from. The airport guys told me not to worry….he is coming, they said. Then where the hell is he, I asked back? He is coming, he is coming.

Then one of them said that he wasn’t on the plane. I had a fit. I freaked out. A couple crew members told me he didn’t know what he was talking about. I kept waiting. And pacing. And worrying. And I started to freak out. Especially when it was confirmed that Ziggy was NOT on the plane. I thought I would be sick, that I’d pass out. I totally lost it. I collapsed. I was sobbing, crying, uncontrollably.

Someone went out to find Paul. By now I was collapsed on the floor. One of the crew members stayed with me. I barely remember what happened after that. Paul came. The pilot started making calls to Amsterdam to find out where Ziggy was. We finally got word that he was still in Amsterdam. And while I was still freaked out everyone was trying to calm me down, telling me that he was in the best possible place, in the Animal Hotel at the airport. Not much reassurance when he was supposed to have been with me.
Paul and I left after numerous assurances that Zig would arrive the following evening.

Paul and I left. We got to the house. Well, actually, I thought it was the Canadian Embassy we were passing as the Canadian flag was flying. Then I realized we were turning into the driveway. We’re home.

To be continued

Starting a Radio Station in Rwanda

2005-12-13T03:36:00.000-08:00

here's a little column I just finished about my 2-week stint in Rwanda in November.

12 Days, 26 Journalism (and radio) Neophytes, 3 MD recorders, a station in boxes and intermittent electricity
or
“How we got Radio Salus on the air”

Yup, that was the scenario (more or less…probably less, really) when I arrived in Butare, Rwanda just a couple weeks ago. The mission? To train a group of students who would then be working at the university’s new radio station (which was not yet on the air). At least that’s what I thought the mission was.

I quickly came to realize how wrong I was and how much more this “mission” was going to be. I soon learned most of the students had just completed their first year of university – primarily gen ed classes and no journalism to speak of. The 8 recorders I had expected turned out to be 3, the electricity seemed to be more shaky than when I was in country last in 2003 and the station? Well….

Shortly after I arrived I visited the station “house”. There were some 20 people toiling in the gardens, clearing weeds and unwanted plants…beautifying the garden. But where, I wanted to scream, where the people we needed to do the wiring, install the gear and get us on the air???

By day 2 I realized the countdown had begun. The launch date had been set for Friday November 18. And the countdown left me with 10 days. How was I going to train these mostly first-year students with no studio, barely any gear and electricity that seemed to keep going out when I needed it most?

I will remember the nights in my room working until both my computer battery and the candles had finished for the night. It was like some medieval time when it was black as black outside, the odd laughter bouncing off the hills and the lack of power and light forcing me to finally call it a night and get a few hours of sleep until the crows jumping up and down on the tin roof woke me the next morning.

While my first three days passed without power, at least I could take a hot shower.

For 12 days I tried hard not to think about the daunting task ahead of me, daring only to take one day at a time and to “not look down” as one friend would say. Oh, and did I mention that we had only one computer (in addition to my laptop which too often was dead as I couldn’t recharge the battery) on which to edit?

Over the course of those 12 days I can’t even remember how many pep talks I gave, how many admonitions escaped my lips and how many times I looked to the heavens for any possible help they were willing to give me.

In addition to technical challenges there was also what seemed to me a constant lack (is that an oxymoron?) of communication. One example: I had found a computer science student willing to build the station a website for a rock bottom price. He made a deal with the station manager and then I saw him on Day 9. He wanted to show me what he’d done. I stared at him. Apparently the manager had not communicated with him the fact that the university wanted all sites standardized and thus we couldn’t build our own site. The manager had discovered this after he had asked this student to design our site yet he hadn’t bothered to tell the student this. I was furious.

So on Day 9 I lost it. Yes, four days to launch and I lost it. I had worked till close to 11pm the night before; a string of students had shown up at my hotel room to edit. Finally, I just couldn’t see straight, let alone think straight. I asked them to leave. The next morning I took my time going in. I felt I was getting nothing back from the students (who also were frustrated with the lack of equipment), had not yet received a dime from UNESCO and basically felt I’d hit the wall….or the mountain, if you will.

So I was exhausted, frustrated, sad, angry and yes, maybe a bit stressed. I went in purposely late to make a point. Though in hindsight I’m not sure what my point was. I told them they needed to take responsibility and not constantly blame others for “problems” (a word I now officially loathe), that they needed to solve these “problems”, that I was fed up and that I was this close to getting on a plane and going home. Then I left.

And maybe that’s what they needed. Everybody just left me alone that day and when I went in the following day they seemed ready to get started.

We spent the next three days working on jingles, sending the students out into the field to begin work on their various programs and ironing out the 16-hour a day programming schedule. Yes, that’s right….16 hours a day with some 25 people that have little, if any, experience. And 3 mini-disc recorders.

The launch went off without a hitch on the 18th. I had done my little rain/sun dance that morning to ask the rains to please begin and end before the ceremony. The gods complied.

The launch was well attended -- the Rwandan Minister of Information came, as did the university rector and vice-rectors, Kigali bank bigwigs, reps from several embassies including the US Embassy. And of course the students were there. And we were covering the launch live…on Radio Salus.

We received calls from as far away as Ruhengeri in the northwest of the country. We received so many calls, in fact, that I sent someone out to go buy a phone so at least we could answer all the calls without putting them all on the air (we had some engineering glitches that needed to be ironed out).

I have received news that the station continues to be on the air 16 hours a day though perhaps not respecting the program schedule we had put together. I guess it is possible to perform miracles.

P.S. For those of you who remember my dispatch about the genocide orphan family of Alphonsina and her brothers, well, I tracked them down again. Alphonsina is alive, married and living in Nyanza with her new husband and third child. The youngest boy, Ariwanda, who was living with HiV two years ago, succumbed to the disease earlier this year. He was twelve. I found the two other boys living on their own, barefoot and in tattered clothes and living in the same house that I found them in two years ago. Their greetings this time around were clearly more restrained than they’d been in the past. Bariwanda, now the youngest at 15 but looking like 10, came bounding up the cliff/hill. I grabbed him and clung to him. He clung back. How incredibly un-Rwandan to cling like that. I desperately tried hard to hold the tears welling in my eyes. It never ceases to amaze me that with a simple twist of fate that could have been me living in that house.

I and my two Rwandan friends I’d brought with me chatted with the boys for a while and then took Bariwanda to the market. For $60 we bought them shoes, clothes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, cups, plates, a couple spoons and loads and loads of food. Close to two hours later, car trunk packed with supplies we went back, dropped off the supplies, convinced the boys they needed an education, explaining to them that it looked like we had found someone willing to help with costs and we left after more long hugs.

Busy, busy

2005-12-06T10:42:00.000-08:00

Am trying to multi-task -- dealing with movers (of household stuff), pet movers, car movers, finding chimney sweeps and doing my "Peace Journalism" homework. Still trying to find the time to finish my Rwandan dispatch for my blog and for NPR's Next Gen...it will get done...just not sure when. Tomorrow dog is to go to vet for his various certificates, oh, and must call airline to make sure they send me my ticket...or I won't be going anywhere and the dog will end up in Ghana with Paul while I stay here!

In DC again

2005-11-29T05:08:00.000-08:00

OK...so it's been a few weeks since I wrote. That's because the 2 weeks in Rwanda setting up the station where absolute chaos...mission impossible, or close to impossible. I will try to write more about it later. Today I need to write a dispatch for NPR so maybe I'll post some of that. But now back in DC....till Dec 15 then off to Accra, Ghana for 2 years with hubbie and dog. Last week was intensely jetlagged and exhausted but now it's back to business and getting things done.

On the move again!

2005-11-04T10:12:00.000-08:00

Well I thought I would finally begin a blog...I've moved 7 times since January and boy am I tired. I leave today for Rwanda for a 2-week gig to set up a radio station then back to DC before we move to Ghana.