Snapshots of ......

Happy Easter

2006-04-12T20:31:00.000+03:00

God has a sense of humour

2006-02-14T08:19:00.000+03:00

This cracked me up this morning....thought I have to share....

Why Can't I Own a Canadian?

October 2002

Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by a east coast resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

Mambu

2006-02-07T21:11:00.000+03:00

Since October 2003, this man has been a rock in my life. He kept me sane during my months in Arusha, and gently walked me through the maze that can only be described as living in the 'Southern States'.

A wonderful man, who was not only intelligent, but terribly sensitive, provocative (he loved to play devil's advocate inspite of my frequent virulent, yet predicatable, reactions), and funny. I remember teasing him incessantly about the "seven seasons" aka passions in his life: his twin, his family, his faith, his work, his computer, football and Nina Simone. For a testosterone carrying individual, he was uncanningly conversant with the way in which the 'Wambui' brain worked. Mambu was a great friend and I loved him dearly. I do not know what my world will be like without him, but I know that we have lost yet another person who actually gave a shit about more than just money.

May God rest his soul in peace and provide comfort and peace to those who left behind.

Shoddy Corruption

2006-02-04T10:42:00.000+03:00

Apparently Odinga is an 'adept populist' ...

Caught in the act

Jan 26th 2006

From The Economist print edition

A courageous investigator uncovers more corruption in Kenya. But will the government, or the country's president, be shamed into taking action?

IT BEGAN in early 2003 with a second-hand car. Though battered by Nairobi's bad roads, its owner, a top Kenyan civil servant, was trying to sell it as new to his chum's ministry. It was a small scam. But John Githongo, the permanent secretary for ethics and governance in the newly-elected government of Mwai Kibaki, feared worse was to come. This was the sort of impunity Mr Kibaki had sworn to end, after replacing the kleptocratic regime of a veteran dictator, Daniel arap Moi.

Mr Githongo, an expert on corruption and a former Nairobi correspondent for The Economist, was correct. Over the next two years, he watched as the government emulated its crooked predecessor. He alleges it signed $300m-worth of dubious or fraudulent contracts in the security sector alone. It also inherited $400m-worth of such contracts from Mr Moi's government, and honoured them. Mr Kibaki's most trusted ministers told Mr Githongo the cash was needed to smooth the passage of a new constitution—which Kenyans rejected in a referendum in November—and to win elections due next year.

Mr Githongo fled to Oxford University last February, after receiving death threats. In November, he sent a 36-page summary of his investigations to Mr Kibaki—whom he had briefed on them during his time in office—and to the Kenya Anti-Corruption Commission (KACC), a hitherto ineffective investigative body. When neither responded, Mr Githongo passed his dossier to a Kenyan newspaper, the Daily Nation; on January 22nd it began exposing the contents. Perhaps not coincidentally, the KACC had stirred itself a few days before, summoning 30 people for questioning, including the vice-president, Moody Awori, and two ministers fingered in Mr Githongo's dossier. Western diplomats in Nairobi, who for years had watched Kenyan politicians gobble aid money, briefed foreign journalists on the scandal. The furore has been impressive.

On radio and television, Kenyans lambasted Mr Kibaki and his inner circle—all of them members of his Kikuyu group and known as the “Mount Kenya mafia”. Opposition politicians, predictably, urged the government to resign. That is unlikely to happen, not least because Kenyan MPs are among the world's best-paid. But Mr Kibaki, of whom Kenyans expected much, looks weak and discredited. His Rainbow Coalition had already split during the referendum campaign; its non-Kikuyu members, led by an adept populist, Raila Odinga, a Luo, have formed a new opposition alliance. And Mr Kibaki is now accused of failing to stop massive fraud, or hunt the perpetrators. Referring to the scams outlined in his dossier, Mr Githongo said the president “was briefed about these issues all along.” His revelations provide a unique insight into top-level looting in one of the world's most corrupt countries.

Corruption in Kenya is not natural-resource driven, as in other African countries. The Goldenberg scandal, which cost Kenya perhaps $1 billion in the 1990s, involved the illegal export of fictitious gold and diamonds, not real ones. At high levels, corruption involves ministers and civil servants paying as much state cash as possible for shoddy goods or services never rendered.

Shoddiness is the key. Kenyans' weary tolerance of third-rate goods allows large margins on corrupt deals. This is especially true of arterial transport. The road from Mombasa, on the Indian Ocean, to Kampala, Uganda's capital, is potholed and dangerous. The rolling stock of the railway running along the same route has not been upgraded for decades, despite frequent infusions of government cash. Such is the general decrepitude of the state, and rapacious fleecing of businesses by the bureaucracy, that it costs more to ship a tonne of grain from Mombasa to Kampala than from Chicago to Mombasa.

Dishing the dirt

Central to Mr Githongo's allegations is a contract negotiated in December 2003 by senior civil servants, to pay $37m for secure passport equipment, previously valued at $10m. The deal was to be financed, at 4% interest, and the equipment obtained by a company registered in Britain, Anglo Leasing and Finance (ALF). By early 2004, the government had paid ALF $1.17m on this contract. In 2001, Mr Moi's regime had signed another contract with ALF, to finance and obtain a forensic police laboratory for $59m. Though no work had been done on the laboratories, the government had paid ALF $5m on this deal.

Alerted to the two deals in April 2004, Mr Githongo swiftly established that the company did not, in fact, exist at the three addresses given for it in Britain and Switzerland, and that no Kenyan official involved in the deals admitted to knowing the identity of the company's directors or investors. At an address given for the company in Liverpool was a small property company, Saagar Associates, which was owned by a member of the Asian-Kenyan Kamani family, with strong business links to Mr Moi's regime. Another company owned by members of the family had gained notoriety for providing the Kenyan police with 1,000 crummy Mahindra jeeps at inflated prices. Saagar Associates claimed to represent ALF; one of its directors had signed contracts on ALF's behalf.

Mr Githongo briefed Mr Kibaki on his investigations. His dossier records him informing the president that some of his closest advisers were prime suspects in the affair. Then in early May an odd thing happened: the money paid to ALF was repaid to the central bank. Several weeks later, a Swiss man, Michel Gruring, who said he was ALF's managing director, announced that the contracts had been cancelled.

Shortly after, $6.3m was repaid to the central bank by a company called Infotalent Ltd, which had been contracted to provide communications kit to the police, and about which Mr Githongo had made preliminary inquiries. Mr Githongo alleges it was also a shell company. In July, another company, Silverson Forensic, repaid $910,000 from a bank in Liechtenstein, and cancelled a contract to finance and supply police vehicles. Mr Githongo says he was told that both repayments were made after the government contacted a prominent Nairobi businessman.

Whoever was behind the contracts had hit on quite a clever scam. By entering into a contract with an entity that did not, in any real way, exist, the government had no legal recourse if its promised goods or services did not arrive. Moreover, it ensured the government would be obliged to service its “debt” to the company, though it had received nothing in return, and though the company had not, in fact, extended any finance on its behalf. In effect, the government was paying interest on loans to itself, in order to secure goods or services at inflated prices. Crucial to the model's success were the unscrupulous businessmen who registered the bogus companies and handled the cash.

Though pleased, no doubt, to have recovered $12m of public funds, Mr Githongo had reason to stay zealous. On May 14th 2004, around the time ALF began repaying, the governor of the central bank, Andrew Mullei, wrote to a civil servant in the finance ministry, Francis Oyula, seeking confirmation that he should continue making payments on $600m-worth of contracts in the security sector, signed with 17 companies between late 2001 and early 2004, including ALF. Mr Oyula replied authorising payments on most of the contracts and promising further authorisations. According to Mr Githongo, several of the companies were mere shells, like ALF. Others existed, but the government had promised to pay well over the odds for their goods. One of these was allegedly a foreign company contracted to supply a naval vessel for $57m, which had subcontracted the task to a Spanish ship-builder. The ship, according to one diplomat in Nairobi, is little more than “a civilian ship with grey paint.”

Mr Githongo says he was informed on several occasions by the then justice minister, Kiraitu Murungi, that senior members of the government were behind the ALF scam and others; Mr Murungi allegedly told him that the culprits were, in short, the government itself. He said the minister claimed the money would be used to fund election campaigns, and was being managed by Chris Murungaru, the then minister for internal security. According to Mr Githongo, Mr Murungi urged him to end one of his investigations. If he did so, Mr Murungi allegedly suggested, a debt held by Mr Githongo's father with a local businessman, whom Mr Githongo was investigating, would be forgiven. Mr Murungi denies all this. He said this week that he was not involved in the ALF contracts; did not try to impede Mr Githongo; and did not tell him that money from graft would be used to fund vote campaigns.

Mr Githongo has not accused Mr Kibaki of direct involvement in the fraud, but alleges that he must have been aware of it. Even after many detailed briefings from Mr Githongo, Mr Kibaki said publicly that he had seen no evidence of top-level corruption. Mr Githongo resigned on January 24th 2005, while in Britain; he had received several anonymous death threats.

Last year, two senior civil servants implicated in the scandal were sacked and charged with corruption. Mr Murungaru was dropped from the cabinet after Britain and America revoked his visas; a former British high commissioner to Kenya, Sir Edward Clay, had earlier accused Mr Kibaki's government of behaving “like gluttons” and “vomiting on the shoes” of foreign donors. Mr Murungi, who has denied that ALF was in any way a scandal, was made energy minister in a cabinet reshuffle in December, by which time Mr Kibaki had already received Mr Githongo's dossier.

Though badly damaged, Mr Kibaki could perhaps salvage some respectability by removing those fingered by Mr Githongo. If not, foreign donors in Nairobi speak of “fiscal consequences”, possibly including the obstruction of loans and grants that keep the government afloat. If nothing else, Mr Kibaki and his circle will almost certainly be punished by the voters in next year's election, just as their corruption cost them dearly in the constitution referendum. If those at the top do not much mind thieving politicians, ordinary Kenyans, with homes and school fees to pay for, increasingly do.

The journey from family to "relas"

2006-02-01T16:00:00.000+03:00

I am taking time out from the Rwanda saga to fill this intermission with hopefully what will transpire to be anger management therapy, just by virtue of the fact that I have written it down and gotten it out of my system! Then I can calmly consider what to do about it all! And thanks to the 'Flatmate from Hell' ..... I found the perfect illustration of how I am feeling this beautiful first day of February 2006!

Side Note: I cannot afford a therapist just yet so you were volunteered as the next best thing.

A phrase overheard in a matatu "They are not my family, they are my 'relas'!" has never rang more true than it did for me these last few months. To non-kenyans, a 'rela' is simply a blood relation (can be microscopic and still count) who generally is unknown to you except for when they need something. Milo explains this better here!

Anyway, this week I have vowed NEVER to breed! Yes, this follows the very broody preceding months that I have bored half of you silly with. However - and I mean no offence to the male species - should the often inevitable happen and an 'oops' occur, I do NOT want a son!

I have been witness to the most abominable behaviour by certain individuals in various parts of this country leading me to the conclusion that money, sons, their illiterate mothers, and the materialistic daughter-in-law are not a good mix!

In December, I watched as a woman (in her early 70's) was widowed. This was awful enough. Her very own sons then proceeded to strip her of everything that her husband left her. She is currently trying to prove that the title deed to the home her and her husband shared for over 25 years, was in her name and not that of her husband to prevent eviction by the very same 'fruit' of her womb.

Prior to that, I watched as other sons tried to prevent their mother from being given power of attorney over her husband's affairs, after he developed a rare and accelerating form of alzheimers. She was in hospital at the time they filed their petition. They had apparently waited too long for their parents to die.

These soaps (and to be honest they watch as such!) aired again in the month of January, different actors, same story line as three more families tear each apart over money and property! As I write this post, the saga continues!

Needless to say it but IT INCENSES ME!

The common thread in all these situations (all in the space of 3 months!!!!) is that those seeking to disinherit their mothers are the sons, and those seeking to assist their mothers are the daughters. Secondly all Kikuyu - is that significant? ;-) I am still to read Blue's take on Kyuks. It may give me some desperately needed insight.

I have seen these women grapple with the fact that these are their sons and not know how to even begin to deal with it. Watched sons talk to their mothers as if they are insolent children who should apparently be grateful for the pittance that they are currently receiving from these same sons. Watched so called male older 'relas' tell these women to listen to their sons. Listened to the heartache that comes with accepting that your sons are duplicitous, conniving bastards who will stop at nothing, and I mean nothing, to get their hands on everything en route to dishonouring everything their parents ever stood for!

And that ladies and gentlemen, is how a person takes that journey, ceases to be your family and becomes a 'rela', for whether you like it or not, due to a cruel twist of fate, you share a genetic pool. However, I partially agree with Nick - once someone takes that inevitable journey, it is true you can't live with them, but I am darn sure you should be allowed to poison them!

OK, I feel better now! Thanks. Rwanda will be back very soon. Warning though - it is not pretty....

Day Two....

2006-01-26T22:58:00.000+03:00

Isn't it amazing that whilst I have a looming tax return deadline I suddenly have a maddening urge to blog. Denial takes so many forms. Hee hee!

Had set my alarm to wake up to watch the sunrise. It soon became apparent to me at 5.30am that I was definitely not a morning person. The struggle to get out of bed and the virtually violent disagreements over leaving the confines of my blankets between my mind and body which were almost violent, finally convinced me of this. I think that if my mind had been a living (or inanimate) object it may have suffered serious injuries. I sleepily walked out of my little cottage, fags in hand, and went to sit just under the little Chinese bridge. People, this place is amazing. The sun slowly teased its way from beneath the bushes on my right and in about 10 mins was making its way over the gigantic trees right infront of me. The birds began their chorus and the world, all of a sudden, seemed wonderful - certain song came to mind but will not deafen you over the cyber waves. At this point, body won the battle and without having opened the cigarette packet, went straight back to bed.

Woke up for breakfast at 9 and having consumed more than a WWF wanna be, mind reconciled with body and the trip to Gisenyi was agreed upon. I had the slight problem of getting out of being "sensitized." This was not too difficult for Bob felt that I should do as I wished. That was easy ;-) So I was given a driver (life can be good to one at times!) and off we went. On the drive up the hill, we were briefly stuck behind a matatu proudly bearing the following banner "Ad Noc Lubes - This is a well oiled machine" as it blurred our visions with black fumes for about an hour. Again I was struck by the number of children under 12. Heartbreaking.

We travelled through more terraced hills and elegant mud houses. One image permanently engraved is a child with a huge bucket of DDT (you could see the writing on the bucket) strapped onto his back spraying crops UP a hill. Another was the very obvious lack of cemeteries. To me, everywhere I have travelled, cemeteries have held a certain fascination. It gives me a certain feel for the town/city, they are also usually very quiet, pretty and a place where one can sit and contemplate life and mortality - something I unfortunately do very often. Must come from living so close to one for too many years in Bristol. So for a country that possessed the kind of history Rwanda had suffered for centuries, it seemed bizarre that there were no cemeteries in sight. Even Belgian ones. And I am sure those must have existed. What happened to the dead, before the genocide and after it? Did these make up the unmarked graves still being unearthed?

My driver was called Bernard and amazed me with his views on marriage and women. Girls - chivalry clearly died a horrible death and female emancipation may not have quite reached certain parts of Rwanda. Bernard felt that finding a young wife was the best way to go. His intended is 16, finishing school (he incidentally is 29). His take on the 'happily after' was that this only occurred when you had a woman you could mould into what you wanted. Older women who had lived in the city were too independent, opinionated and ofcourse not virgins. Why would a man ever want to marry that? It would simply create too many problems. As you can imagine, this was the topic of conversation for the whole trip there and back for I was intrigued to discover the depths of this wisdom.

Gisenyi sits on the most northern part of Lake Kivu, a volcanic lake, it is the largest lake in Rwanda, the highest one in Africa and which divides Congo and Rwanda. Bit more trivia - underneath this lake are vast reserves of methane gas which have not been exploited AND this is where, during the colonial period people came from all over Congo to have their holidays. I can testify that they still do.

Gisenyi town itself was tiny. I am going to repeat myself here and maybe several times in the near future - but my image of many of the towns I have read about in both background reading of the genocide and as part of my work, seemed relatively sizable considering the atrocities that occurred in them. But in reality - they are tiny. Saying that, there was nothing I could not buy in Gisenyi. Made me smile.

First, there were loads of bikes, everywhere you looked, going up and down the hills like either they were out for a sunday leisurely ride OR competing to challenge Armstrong at the next Tour de France! And - Louise, you would have loved this - virtually every one of them hosted a colourful padded seats on the back to carry passengers. I am convinced this must have been a mode of public transport, for I cannot see how one would go to that much effort simply to carry their spouse or 'chick' at their convenience. Particularly considering previous conversation with Bernard. In addition, each bike was in competition with the other as to how many reflectors and stickers one could physically fit on every inch of the metal frame - residents of Arusha may wish to take note ;-) The markets we passed were perfectly ordered and sooooooo clean. Even the fish market - none of the filth we commonly see in markets eg in Zanzibar, where the fish insides are shoved on to the floor or rotting vegetables constantly aquainting themselves with your feet... etc.

And for both sexes - this was a town with a healthy percentage of beautiful people. Someone once said to me that Rwanda was full of soulful people - they were right. Vibrant kitenges flow on the women, young men cruise around dressed in the latest 'gangsta' fashions straight out of a hip hop video (was actually quite funny to watch!), girls swinging everything they got - I could see why this considered a fun town! However, I think it was obvious that I was not indigenous to the local population - the white 4x4 with UN emblazoned the side did not help. So I was subjected to stares which although on the whole were not too bad, there were some, especially from men, that were so piercing, it made me feel slightly uncomfortable - as if I was invading their personal space. Then it began to rain which instantly turned the town into a valley of mud. Not pleasant. So we decided the rest of the tour would be thus conducted from inside the car.

I learnt three words that day - Amakuro, meza and a third that still escapes my mind unless I am reminded of it (despite writing it down thousands of times) I noted to myself that writing lines in school must have instilled some sort of obsessive need to write things down hundreds of times. I do not know if that is a good thing or not. One thing was apparent though. Apart from the arch that you drive through in almost every major town/village, the genocide seems practically invisible. This is understandable I suppose 10 years on. A country must attempt to move on. It just struck me how different this is from the holocaust and yet the same to certain degree. I could not quite vocalise it (then or now) but I mulled over it all day and that night - once I explain it to you, I will. This has been on my mind this week as well considering tomorrow is Holocaust Memorial Day. And I am quite conflicted. Another discussion for another time.

We drove around trying to find our way to the lake front - actually to the Primus Brewery which according to my guide book was also the home of an infamous port. No mention as to the reason for this fame - so I needed to go find out. We could not travel the route suggested by the guide book for the President had apparently chosen that particular part of lake front property to act as his Gisenyi holiday home and that of other members of his family. So the armed guards at the top of the hill, politely asked us to take the longer route (read one hour) down to the brewery. I tried the whole, "I am foreign" angle, 'promise I am not going to come and blow you all up" but the car did not help matters ;-)

So we took the long way round which was not a bad idea for just round the corner was more stunning mountainous views. What is about this country? How can it be blessed with the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen and yet also cursed with some of the worst atrocities known to man? It makes me wonder what kind of sense of humour the man upstairs has.

We made it, finally after several wrong turns (do not ask how considering the small surface area we had to cover!) to the so called ' infamous port'. Now this was amusing. It was literally a deck - with a towering brewery behind it. On the deck was a boat unloading coca cola bottles. I frantically searched my book for any mention as to why this is considered a must see for all visitors to this town and came up with NOTHING. Bernard looked at me as if I was some very weird individual wishing to see a port. I do not blame him at all. Trivia: the brewery makes the widely available local beer 'Primus'. Not much to look at and as if on cue, hunger pangs set in and we decided to go get some lunch.

We picked our little way up from the brewery. Thankfully it had stopped raining and we stopped at the cutest little hotel, all open plan - not built with rain in mind - with a cute little garden overlooking Lake Kivu and the hills in Congo. There was an ethereal mist over the Congolese hills making it the most perfect romantic spot as one watched kamikaze kingfisher birds battling it out with the fishermen, catching their dinner in traditional fashion. Lunch was barbecued tilapia. Heaven.

On the drive back, after an hour of discussing different marital options, I fell asleep. I think I had just about overdosed on green beauty and the contradictions thrown at me all day.

Upon arrival back at the Gorilla's Nest, the first day of sensitization was over and I sat down to drinks with Bob outside his cottage. As 'el boss' he was priviliged to have a cottage with a mini bar and living room. Several hours later huddled over too many g&ts, I realised tht whilst he may have a seriously dysfunctional background and seem very lonely, he is very funny AND sensitive. Well either that or this course was working miracles. We talked about a lot of very personal issues in his life which I do not feel would be appropriate to share here - maybe as part of his eulogy one day - but the public school antidotes were hilarious and yet quite poignant too. I know he can be manipulative, often have no sense of self preservation and should not very posisbly be trusted, but I have a soft spot for him.

Final thought, as I mulled over what we had talked about that evening - the loss of a father affects us all in the same way - it is how we choose to react that differs.

Slight addition to Day One!

2006-01-23T22:42:00.000+03:00

I appreciate that apologies of any sort are futile and thus I shall proceed without any further apologies etc as they are tiring, even to my ears. I have no excuse, although I think Mshairi's confession post may shed some light.

Where was I? Ah, the drive up to the Gorilla's Nest. We had done the square manyattas and the surprising lack of plastic bags. We drove into a town just before Ruhengeri and I had to stop to get a sim card. I have decided that objects rather than pictures will act as the milestones in this phase of my journey through life. So I started collecting sim cards - sad, I know and appreciate the sentiment should it cross your mind - but I can boast to be the owner of lots of colourful little pay as you go phone chips that I will possibly never use again but which look great in the little tiger print wallet purchased for them. Hee hee hee! Not much has changed guys. This was an experience - the buying of the sim card as opposed to the wallet (although that was an interesting little scenario as I explained to the vendor in "Mutush" (1) what I needed it for) Anyway, Bob the Boss was in a strange mood and all grumpy, so I left him in the car and swang my slowly becoming 'small' behind across the street. The tiny boy behind the little kiosk gave me a smile divinely inspired. From molar to molar, and without the brown tinge that characterises a large part of the Tanzanian population. I could not help but instantly fall in love. Apparently he over charged me - I don't care. In the words of Ed - slightly modified and totally plagiarised - "Men, they do strange things to us women!" The excitement of being in possession of a canary yellow sim card, emblazoned with MTN in blue was almost too much to bear. So dear little boy - Jean Antoine to those in the know - offered to place it into my phone and show me what to do. And a woman is supposed to reject such a request, especially asked so sweetly in halting English, mixed with Swahilli and a soupcon of Kinyarwanda. So I let him do his thing. In the mean time, I discovered that Kyuks (2) would fit right in here. Man, I understood Kinyarwanda. I could have a conversation with the boy - me in Kyuk, him in Kinyarwanda (SLOW Kinyarwanda!) and hey presto we were in communication lala land! Ali the Bear had to literally pull me away! Probably the best thing for I was about to be charged with child abduction.

So back in vehicle we went, to join Bob the Boss. Initially I thought, grumpy old man. Then we turned the corner and I was awestruck. Infront of me were three mountains - part of the Virunga chain of volcanoes which stretch from Uganda, through Congo (DRC) and across to the Northern part of Rwanda. Apparently they are a part of the Rift Valley - well that was news to me as was the fact that Rwanda has 28 lakes of significant size (whatever that means!)....AND it was at these mountains that the film Congo was set.... but I digress. One I named "The Saint" - not in homage to Val Kilmer but more due to the halo that sat above, catching the reflections of the setting sun, glowing golden right in front of me. The second - and I apologize to all who may find this offensive - but like boobs. Honest! Perky little 20 something breasts - before the 30's decide that they should begin to lead diverging lives. I digress I am sorry - but it made me smile - for they too were bathed in golden sunlight. And no, my mind was not in any gutter at the time. The third was your good old fashioned mountain. Straight up and down, slight pyramid like structure with a peaked top. I cannot explain the beauty at that moment - suffice to say.... I went silent - which I think amused Ali, for I had not shut up the whole way up.

Upon arrival at the Gorilla's Nest, anyone would have thought I had some variation of the African ant in my knickers. I was itching to get out of the car. Which was a BAD idea. The idea of a climate controlled car is brilliant - but give a girl some warning - it was F&*K^%g FREEZING! AND I left my fur coat. Small piece of advice I have to keep repeating to myself- just because it is Africa does not mean it is warm! I have become "jungufied" (3) people! But the trees! Ohhh the trees! This was more dramatic and infinitely more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. They just rose up and up and up and if I did not know different, I would swear Jack must have lived somewhere in the vicinity - for whatever his beanstalk was having , it was in the soil here too! These trees just went on forever. A kind of eerie yet solitary beauty for they stood slightly apart from each other to better display their elegance, but also seemed lonely somehow. Maybe just me.

I get to the check in desk and the manager is a Kyuk! I almost died. So are practically half his staff. And those who are not, speak Kyuk! Yani, even to the depths of the Rwandese mountains, the Kikuyu will find a way there - AND teach the local population their language. Hee hee hee! AND they had sold my room. I was not happy, but decided that it was too cute a place to make too much of a ruckus (the jungu side of me winning over the Kenyan) and so seated myself at the bar and ordered the customary g&t.

Small description of lodge - open square garden, with large gorilla statute in the middle sitting amongst an impressive collection of different ferns. Paving led you to the 13 cottages that sat at the edges of the garden. Once you go through the garden, a little wooden - kind of Chinese looking - brigde takes you over a small river and through part of the forest with the elegant trees. This is lit by lanterns all the way to another set of cottages and the training/conference facilities. A golf course was in the process of being constructed at this time so the view tended to be JBC's and other unidentifiable digging machinery. Apparently they had began to build a sauna/steam room but changed their minds thinking a golf course would be more lucrative - the bastards. Luckily for me and the oestrogen that flows through my veins, one of the conference attendees gave me his room and went to sleep in one of the adjacent hotels - not as nice and so I was not persuading him any different! Rooms were in these gorgeous little stone cottages, with humungous double beds. Showers needed some work for you only got 10 minutes of hot water but that was alright. Dinner was at 7 - food was awful- and I was ready for bed by 9pm. Country air - bliss!!!!!!

Discussions with Bob were, to say the very least, interesting. Discovered he is a very very complicated creature. And that is being generous. But at least after feeding, he was more jovial and liberal with his communication skills. After a couple of drinks, I came to the conclusion that I actually like my boss and on that note, considering myself cured of any bouts of insensitivity that I could have been harbouring, I decided, sod "gender sensitivity" - I am going to explore this country. And on that very adventurous thought, curled up, wearing almost everything I had packed - incidentally for summer weather - and went to sleep.

(1) Market that sells second hand goods.
(2) The Kikuyu tribe in Kenya - we tend to think we ar the best thing since....well creation!
(3) Like a white person - 'jungu' being the noun.

Day One - First Impressions

2005-12-01T06:45:00.000+03:00

It has never really been easy for me to express exactly how I feel when it comes to matters that really hurt - inside. Especially when what I wish to talk about also wishes to remain painfully stuck in my throat. As a return to my 'cyber home' seems inevitable, the next few posts are possibly not the best to ease myself back into the blogging world. My trip to Rwanda challenged many of the principles I thought I had, the way in which I look at what I perceive I do, particularly working for so called human rights organisations or at least ones with a supposedly solid human rights foundation, so essentially Rwanda brought to the forefront various questions and in particular, ones that I really did not want to answer.

Last week, I took it upon myself - or rather my very eccentric boss felt it would be a good (rather bizarrely!) idea for me to accompany him as light entertainment to a gender sensitivity course - no minds should proceed to the gutter with that revelation! That includes you Milo! He felt that the way I treat genders other than my own needed to be addressed! Do not ask! Hee hee!

Anyway, my day began at 5am. Flight was at 8am, so the 3 hours to acquaint myself with the world were necessary. The day began in true Wambui style. I frantically packed after having learnt never to drop the soap in a shower that does not have much grip on its floor. After cursing everything and everyone I knew, I was jolted out of my brief journey down the self pity road by managing to burn **both** arms with the kettle. As a finale to what was already a perfect morning so far, I had to vault over my gate for the "askari" (security guard) could not be found (do not ask!) and had rather conveniently locked the gate with a padlock for which I did not have a key. The look on the taxi driver's face was priceless as I threw one bag over, followed by a leopard skin suitcase (thanks to Ms Bibbings!) and slowly eased my big black a#@* over the over 6 ft solid metal gate. For those who know what gates tend to be like in Africa, then you will understand my trepidation as I slowly manoeuvred my mass, avoiding any possibility of being shafted by the spikes on the top. Needless to say, the driver laughed the whole way to the airport! Only now, looking at matters from what must have been his angle, do I appreciate the humorous side. Hee hee!

First impression: after having gone over Lake Victoria, Rwanda is a series of green rolling hills with shiny blue roofs intermittedly dotted all over the place. I realised I had become such an urbanite, when the first thought that came to mind was "Hey, Rwanda has shit loads of swimming pools!" By the time they were opening the doors, woman practically catapulted herself out of that plane. I panicked once I got inside the airport terminal. My experience with immigration officials not always pleasant. However, here, immigration was such a pleasant experience; I was ready to do it all over again.

I was met at the airport by eccentric boss, whom we shall call "Bob" and have since decided is a total sweetie! I was so excited, I talked AT HIM at about 50 miles an hour, bringing back memories of the first time I ever visited Nairobi in 1978 for President Kenyatta's funeral. Different story and as usual I digress. Looking back, I am slightly uncomfortable with the memory of the bubbling childish excitement for my purpose for this particular visit was, if I am honest, a perverse 'road accident' tourist package - to view the rotting remnants of genocide.

For those unaware, in about 100 days in 1994, government soldiers, organized bands of young men known as Interahamwe, and ordinary citizens brutally claimed the lives of more than a million Rwandese and Burundians, and mutilated hundreds of thousands more, between April and July 1994. That is the short version; the long version is a lot more complicated, possibly to be addressed at another juncture.

Anyway, "Bob" decided I needed feeding and whisked me off to a Chinese restaurant on top of what is possibly the highest building in Kigali. Food great. But what strikes you more than anything else, is the beauty of this tiny, tiny country. Honestly the hills roll! I now truly appreciate the phrase. There are little houses climbing up the hills, and even with the rain that welcomed me to Kigali, I could not get over the green beauty of this place. And yes I was still talking, but now at about 100 miles an hour, while Bob humbuged the whole time. He is not grumpy really but sometimes feels he has to be to fit in with the persona he has created for himself here, and every now and then make some disparaging remark about someone. ;-)

We are then joined by "Ali", a huge bear of a man, lovely, lovely, lovely and full of Arabic charm, plus dessert, small banana fritters that melt in your mouth with vanilla ice-cream! Ali was our driver to the "Gorilla’s Nest" out in a place called Ruhengeri. As we drove round and up the mountains, we passed the cutest villages. And everything was so incredibly clean. This country is spotless. Even the villages. And there are no paper bags, women supporting colourful plastic baskets on their heads full of groceries and other agricultural goodies. But the poverty strikes too. Too many children running round with next to nothing on, not easy considering how cold it is the higher up you go. All seemed dressed in an identical uniform of brown dirty torn attires and nothing on their feet.

Rwanda

is also a very young country, demographically. Or at least that is what I observed in 5 days. Almost every village or town I visited was bursting at the seams with children under the age of 12. In some places, it seemed like the entire population WAS just children under 12. The result being that instead of playing, most children tend to be the economic backbone of what was a broken country - tilling the fields, carrying the firewood, fetching the wood, selling produce on the roadside, many of the girls with their younger siblings on their backs.

The buildings are amazing. Perfectly square, there was not a round structure in sight in the two hour drive. Even the mud huts, if you call them that, for they were put together with such precision, many with verandas (porches to the Americans) and columns! Yes - you read that right! Columns. Can you imagine a manyatta with a veranda and Greek columns? I smiled.

(To be continued....)

Apologies

2005-11-17T09:36:00.000+03:00

to what is probably now my non-existent fan base! The last 4 months have been chaotic and in every sense of the word a roller coaster ride through almost every lesson that life felt it had to teach me! Not exactly an excuse, I know, for abandoning my 'post.' It has been weird coming back here, beginning to catch up on all those who have continued to move us with their prose, antidotes and their own snapshots of .... life! AND....I miss y'all. Desperately! Actually this almost perverse feeling has degenerated into a yearning to be teleported to a winterland far away! Yes I know - practically sectionable, especially coming from me. I cannot promise I am back for good - time does not seem to be on my side (insufficient hours in a day can be a real bummer!) but I will try. MJY - good to see you back. Missed ya girl!

Carondelet Street or bust

2005-09-20T22:13:00.000+03:00

Another snapshot, from Billy.....

Please note the footnote at the end. If you can, please donate. I can promise you it is worth it.

Sept. 19, 2005 | NEW ORLEANS --

It was such a fine spring day,
down Louisiana way,
with fragrance divine, oh baby,
and such magnificent regalia,
oh so fine, Azalea.

I've got to go back there
and find that blossom fair,
I always dream of,
'cause with you who can be a failure.
My first love, Azalea.

-- Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington, from "Azalea"

A week ago Sunday, I saw the sunrise over the Mississippi River from my roof on Carondelet Street in New Orleans. I was up there with Wallace, a fellow refugee I had met the day before in Oxford, Miss.

I had vaguely recognized Wallace when I saw him in Oxford the previous day, but I couldn't place him. We talked for a minute and he mentioned that he was a teacher and I was able to remember him. He was the hip English teacher at a struggling all-black high school in New Orleans where I had taught street law to "at risk" kids. He had John Coltrane posters on his classroom walls and tried to teach his students radical history. He made an impression on me when I taught his class because his students, who didn't hear much, listened to him. He, in turn, listened to his students, who weren't used to being heard.

Wallace proposed that we attempt to drive the six hours down to New Orleans in his old white Econoline van, in which he used to tour with his band, to assess the damage firsthand, to fix our homes if necessary, and to retrieve precious belongings that we had left behind. We had each just received nearly $700 in Wal-mart credit from the Red Cross, so flush with cash, we stormed the Wal-mart hardware section nervously buying anything that we thought might be useful on our trip, a trip that we had no precedent for and no way to have foreseen.

Wallace bought a set of battery-charged power tools, walkie-talkies for times we anticipated being separate, canned pineapples and water. I bought blue tarps, bungee cords, the biggest Maglite on the market and energy bars, and tried in vain to find rubber boots.

We left Oxford in his van at about 10 p.m., filled with nervous energy and hoping to slide into New Orleans just before dawn, as we had been told by friends that the security checkpoints were not up until sunrise.

There was no traffic at all as we passed through Jackson and approached Hammond, La. We had a steady stream of conversation through the night, talking about our wives, both artists, both far away, progressive politics, and our hopes and concerns for New Orleans. Occasionally one of us would note the possibility that our 12-hour drive to New Orleans and back might be in vain because we could be turned back at the city limits. But we would quickly skip over this point and again rehearse the work-related pretexts we intended to pitch if we were stopped. Maybe 10 times on the drive, one of us said, "That's my story and I'm sticking with it."

We had a quarter tank of gas and two full five-gallon gas cans in the back of the van when we stopped for gas in Hammond, about 60 miles outside the city. We figured it would be our last chance for gas before New Orleans and we were not sure we would make the 120 miles back and forth with the gas we had. It was the only gas station open when we pulled off Interstate 55 at 2 in the morning and it was so jammed full of cars that I assumed it was a gas line full of southern-bound New Orleanians, like ourselves.

However, it turned out that teenagers, mostly black, hung out at the gas station in their cars until late at night, playing loud, bass-heavy music and talking to friends. I figured this out quickly after watching five police cars simultaneously converge on the gas station, lights ablaze, to close down the place and chase off the kids. We pulled into the now-empty gas station after circling the block and letting the dust settle. The pumps had been turned off so I walked up to the little gas station store. The glass door was locked and I stood staring in at the clerks until one came up to the glass and told us that they were closed.

In the weeks since evacuating New Orleans with my wife and two dogs and having no place to live, I have gotten used to asking for favors, begging and saying please and thank you. Through the glass, I told the clerk my "sad story." I told him that I was from New Orleans and trying to get back into town, that I had seen a satellite photo of my roof and that it was damaged and getting worse, and then busted out the wild card that works with most men in most situations. I told him that my wife had her heart set on my getting her wedding rings and the diaries of her sister who passed away and that it would break her heart if I didn't make it home to try to find these things and bring them back. I wasn't lying and he could tell. He asked me if I had cash and when I said yes, told me that he would let me fill up. I thanked him, sincerely, not in the manner that I do in my normal life, when people do little more than is required.

Within minutes of getting back on the Interstate, we saw flares and police cars parked ahead on the highway, blocking the road. Wallace and I checked in on our story once again and slowed to a stop next to a tired-looking, middle-aged white police officer.

"How you doing, officer," Wallace said.

He asked us where we were going and we explained that we were going to New Orleans, that I was a lawyer and that I had legal business related to the storm, a half truth. We showed him our identification. He responded simply, "I'm too tired to care. You can do what you want. He commented that our car smelled of gas and chemicals: "What, you got drugs in there?"

We explained that we had cans of gasoline in the back of the van. He responded kindly, "Gas? You know that's not really safe ... get out of here."

We drove through the checkpoint and up onto the causeway, the elevated highway that runs through the swamps toward New Orleans. Since the balance of the ride back into the city would be on this two-lane road, there would be little opportunity for anyone to send us back now. We were almost home.

On both sides of the causeway, we could see the glow of the massive factories, cities of industry now back in action, spewing flames.

We were quiet for a while, eager to see our homes, our city, and knowing it had changed. We were also exhausted.

We cut around the city to the south and onto Highway 90, the old highway into the city, on the West Bank. The West Bank is part of Jefferson Parish, the white-flight suburb surrounding the city. It is the part of the city that throngs of people tried to flee into, over the bridge from the convention center, only to be turned away by armed sheriffs. Only a few days later, two white men in a van, we were trying to go the opposite direction.

The West Bank was in remarkably good shape. We passed a bingo hall with blinking lights. The Burger King was opening up, getting ready to sell egg sandwiches and Tater Tots. All of this minutes away from New Orleans. It seemed impossible.

As we approached the bridge, we reached another roadblock, manned by the Crescent City Connection Bridge Police. The officer standing guard was bleary-eyed and looked as if he were about to fall over. He hardly listened as we told him why we were traveling into the city. He had no objections. Wallace asked him how he was doing. His pain poured out. He told us that he had lost his house, that the floodwater had risen to the roof, and that it was destroyed. He said that the insurance adjuster said that his policy didn't cover flood. He told us that his wife and kids were in Florida, that he was worried about them and wanted to be with them but only managed to talk to them for a few minutes at a time because he was worried about roaming charges on his phone and because cellphone service was constantly cutting out. He told us about a classic Bronco that he had just finished restoring and about the huge tree that had fallen on it. We asked him when he would be relieved so that he could take care of his home and his family, and he laughed. He explained that there weren't many officers on his detail and that they were all working 18 hours a day, unsure if they were even going to get paid. Wallace asked him whether his union was doing anything to help him. He laughed again, saying, "Union: You're not even allowed to say that word around here."

We thanked him, sincerely, and drove off. As we pulled away, I saw him go back to sit with his fellow officers, none of whom could probably bear hearing each other's sad stories another time. Each, perhaps, waiting to talk to the next couple of guys trying to pass into town who were willing to listen.

The city was dim as we passed over the bridge. We could see a big military ship docked on the side of the river next to the convention center. Within minutes, we reached my house, five blocks from the Superdome. It was still dark.

I inspected the house with my flashlight, and it looked the same as I had left it. I unlocked the door and walked into my high-ceilinged living room, and could smell the aroma of home, slightly stale, a little sour, but distinct. No water had come in; the flood had not reached us. I drank some water from the cooler I had left stocked with four five-gallon jugs, then went upstairs, where I did not know what I would find.

I crept up the stairs, almost blind in the dark with my flashlight off, but knowing the steps, because I was finally home. At the top of the stairs I reflexively switched the light on, to no avail. I flipped on my flashlight and saw that my ceiling had collapsed from above. From the right angle, I could see the night sky through the wound in my roof. There was soggy sheetrock and wet bits of insulation, made of shredded newspaper, everywhere. I wanted to start cleaning up then and there but realized it was absurd, that there was still more to see. I crossed through my wife's studio, unblemished, with her paintings on the walls, and then into our bedroom, where the ceiling had also collapsed onto our new pillow-top mattress, which we had talked about with joy every night since its purchase as we got into bed.

I climbed the narrow ladder up into my attic, walked carefully along the rafters, then climbed through the hole in the roof I had seen from below. I nervously walked up the back face of my double-pitched roof and could see with the flashlight that large portions of the roof were damaged and exposed. Jitters passed through my body. I had been awake for almost 24 hours, I was standing on my roof in the middle of the night in my abandoned city, and I felt nauseated. Even under the best of circumstances, I have no business out on a roof. But anticipating the damage, I had brought up a tarp, some screws, and Wallace's new drill. I tried to secure the tarp over some of the damaged areas, but I began to feel my feet slipping on the remaining roofing tiles beneath my feet.

Knowing that I was a danger to myself, I slid back down the hole and made my way downstairs and told Wallace what I had seen and what I tried to do. He told me that he was good on roofs -- he would come up with me. We made our way back up. He did most of the work. He explained that we weren't really accomplishing anything but that it was good to try, that I could tell my wife that I had tried to repair the roof in the middle of the night, and I would be a hero. I felt pathetic and scared but comforted.

Before making our way back downstairs, we watched the city come awake. New Orleans never had the early-morning hustle and bustle of other American cities but, instead, a few people heading to work, a few stragglers still trying to find their way home. In New Orleans, sunrise meant "go to sleep" about as much as it meant "wake up," even among many of us who lived there. Now, however, with the city empty of its citizens, sunrise signified only wakeup time to the soldiers who, that morning, occupied the high-rise apartment building on St. Charles Avenue, the great Mardi Gras parade route, a block behind my house. They wandered out the building, absent-mindedly gazed up at us on the roof, and got down to the business of brushing their teeth and shaving with little cups of water in their hands.

Back downstairs, I cleaned up what I could and packed some things and brought them down to the van. I found the rings and the journals but had lost the list my wife had given me. I panicked, knowing that I was in no state to make decisions. Everything seemed pointless by this time. Miraculously, I got through to my wife on my cellphone.

"Nikki, I can't find the list. I've lost it. All I can remember are the rings and the journals," I told her.

She could hear in my voice that I was not well, that I hadn't eaten, and that I was exhausted. She said, "Billy, you got everything that matters. Go downstairs, eat some beans from a can, and sit down for a minute. Promise."

She has said these kinds of things so many times in this house as we restored it from a shell, as I worked myself into the ground with my job, and her words put me back together, a little bit anyway. We got off the phone and I grabbed as much as I could remember, neglecting her advice for the time being.

Before we left, Wallace handed me two garbage bags and told me that I should clean out my fridge. It hadn't occurred to me. I opened the door and began to retch at the smell. I tried to wrap a cloth around my face, but it kept dropping down. The worst were the chicken cutlets in the freezer that turned to mush when I grabbed them and then leaked through the cellophane wrap, all over my hands. I dragged the garbage bag through my house to the curb. Immediately flies swarmed to it. Wallace sprayed bleach on the floor in my living room and cleaned up where the bag had leaked. I will love him forever.

When I got my bearings, Wallace introduced me to two dogs that had come up to him while I was upstairs. They were already peacefully resting in the kennels he had brought with him in case we ran into strays. They knew that they had hit the jackpot and weren't going to do anything to mess it up. He had already named one of them. The black Lab puppy was Sancho Panza, after Don Quixote's sidekick. He asked what the names of the cross-streets were on my block, as Carondelet, the name of the street, didn't seem like an appropriate dog name. I told him that they were the names of muses, Clio and Erato. He named the baby pitbull Clio, the muse of history.

We got into the car and drove to his house. On the way, we looked for my Jeep, which I had parked in a garage to protect from flooding, but it was gone. It had been liberated. I hoped that whoever took it made it out of town with their family. Maybe they will drop me a postcard from El Paso, or where ever they are, when they are done using it. No hard feelings.

Wallace's house was in much better shape than mine, and he made quick work of packing, cleaning out his fridge, and getting us back on the road. I could tell that he felt kind of bad that his house wasn't damaged like mine. I was just glad that I didn't have to go up on another roof.

As I waited for Wallace, I met two young guys from the Oregon National Guard who had come up to the house, thinking that we were holdouts and intending to encourage us to leave. They were very sweet and I offered them cigars, a recently acquired vice, which they initially declined. They had both signed up for the National Guard before Sept. 11 to help pay for college. While I could tell that they both had their hesitations about the "war on terror" and their pending deployment to Afghanistan, they were patriots, in the best sense. One of them, a lieutenant, told me about their temporary barracks in an old neighborhood high school. He told me that he was disgusted that kids ever went to school there and that in Oregon the place would have been bulldozed and rebuilt so that kids could have a proper place to learn. He seemed troubled that all of this was happening in America. He realized that many of the problems that he was seeing in New Orleans existed before the storm and wanted to know why people had put up with it and why they hadn't voted the people out of office who let this happen. I told him I didn't know but that maybe we could change things in New Orleans in the future. He seemed hopeful. I felt less certain.

I introduced them to our new dogs, who were happy to have a little attention. One of the guardsmen told me that there were dying dogs everywhere, and it made him incredibly sad. He said, blankly, "These starving dogs are the saddest thing ... after the dead bodies." They quickly changed the subject.

After being yelled at by holdouts, the police and their commanders, they had made their first friend in New Orleans. I told him how to pronounce the street names properly and what each neighborhood was called and what they were like. I stressed that Esplanade Avenue is pronounced like "lemonade" and that they should correct any of their superiors who say it otherwise. They both laughed. I offered the cigars again and they accepted. As they were walking away, one of them accidentally bumped my leg with the barrel of his M-16. He was embarrassed, as though I might not have noticed the massive guns that both of them were carrying. To ease the tension, I said to them, "You're the only two 22-year-old men to ever come to New Orleans and not get drunk or laid." They laughed hard and started walking away again.

"What we wouldn't give," they said.

I told them to come back and visit when it was a city again and that they would surely have a better time.

Wallace and I got back in the van and started to head out of town. Before we left his neighborhood, Bywater, we came across some scrappy-looking guys and we pulled over to see if they wanted any of the water or food that we had left in the van. They introduced themselves, saying, "They call us holdouts." They turned down the water and food, saying they had plenty of canned food and that they had gallons of water in their hot-water heaters. They explained that they had been bathing in the Mississippi but that "it was beginning to get nasty." They wanted bleach to keep things sanitary, but we didn't have any. They settled for some Orange Clean, cat food that we had brought for strays, and a five-gallon can of gas for their generator. They told us to tell others to come home: "Bring people back. Tell them that it is OK. That you can make it here."

We drove off and left our occupied city. I slept most of the drive back as Wallace, still solid, drove. I woke up as we were approaching Oxford and told Wallace to pull into a convenience store so that I could get some beer. It was around 8 at night and we had been on the road for a full day. I brought a six-pack of Budweiser to the register, and the cashier told me that they couldn't sell beer on Sundays anywhere in Lafayette County. Broken-hearted and shocked, I told her my sad story, but she was inflexible. I thanked her and left, with new resolve to return home to New Orleans as soon as possible.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

About the writer
Billy Sothern is a New Orleans writer and attorney living in Oxford, Miss., until he can return home. His nonprofit, Reprieve, accepts donations to support the organization's many indigent clients who are now homeless and without money or credit.

The Need for a Progressive Vision in the Face of Horror

2005-09-13T18:02:00.000+03:00

For those who remember the New orleans blog, this article is by one of the guys I worked with. The full article can also be found here.

September 13, 2005
The Need for a Progressive Vision in the Face of Horror
How the Other Half Lived

By BILLY SOTHERN

In 1911, the Triangle Shirt Factory in New York City, where I grew up, exploded in flames trapping scores of young, immigrant, women workers inside. As the fire burned, many women jumped to their deaths, unable to bear the slow death of heat and smoke. Newspaper reporters wrote about the sound they made as they fell, with their dresses billowing, before hitting the ground. In all, 146 women died.

The nation and the world were horrified at the barbarism of industry and began to focus on the rights of workers. For a moment, the world was able to see beyond the fact that the victims were female immigrants, and acknowledged the need for basic human standards for workers. This was a moment in history where, horrified by the excesses of the unrestrained capitalism and the disregard for the basic humanity of our citizens, this country was forced to change and adopt standards that progressives had vainly pressed for years. I imagine that then, as now, conservatives countered with market-based solutions and crude cost-benefit economic analyses but the tide had turned and people knew better, knew that these were paper tigers erected to obscure the reality that this suffering was real and avoidable. The tragedy at the factory has come to be understood as the beginning of the New Deal, the program that fundamentally change the relationship between government and its citizens in this country. (http://newdeal.feri.org/library/d_4m.htm)

Today, it appears that as many as 10,000 citizens of my adoptive hometown of New Orleans may be dead from the effects of Hurricane Katrina. Katrina was an enormous and dangerous storm but this is not why people died. Those who stayed in New Orleans were, for the most part, the poor; people who could not escape, people whose lives were constant struggle before anyone in New York had even heard of the New Orleans levee system or the Seventeenth Street Canal. While the rest of the country might have been ignorant of these Americans before the storm, they were there, they were poor, and they were desperate. The storm did not turn New Orleans into a third world city; it revealed it as one.

Poverty is a fact of life in New Orleans in a way that I never witnessed in New York or other cities outside the Deep South. The first time I drove past the projects in New Orleans, with their boarded up windows and knocked in doors, I assumed that they were abandoned, that people couldn't possibly live there. Then I saw a mailman making deliveries through the overgrown alleys between the old, brick buildings.

I have worked in these projects, visiting the families of my clients, seeing their lives, and realizing that I was the first positive contact they had with a government-funded entity, the public defense non-profit for which I worked. I was representing their son on death row or facing the death penalty. Having disregarded the needs of these families for generations, the government finally sent someone out to them once it had resolved to kill their son. Too bad that there are no constitutional rights to education, housing, or medical care. Maybe someone would have shown up before the worst had happened.

Unmistakably, the poor citizens of New Orleans must feel similarly in the glare of all of this attention from the rest of the country. After everyone has been pulled from the water, dead or alive, the city will ask in unison, "Where the hell were you before I was drowning?"
Progressives must answer this question for a country that, though reluctant, is probably more able to accept reality today than ever. We must say that America didn't answer because it didn't care. Both political parties, one who had abandoned the south and the other which took it for granted, didn't care about you until you were dying in a pool of raw sewage.

And this is a confession. A confession of guilt.

This is the confession that Jacob Riis was able to compel when he exposed the reality of the lives of immigrants in New York's slums. This is the confession that Walker Evans, James Agee, Dorothea Lange, and other Great Depression artists were able to exact.

This is the confession that progressives must force if we are ever to be taken seriously in this country. We must remind the country that its discussion of poverty has focused on the mythic "welfare queen," "personal responsibility," and "faith-based" solutions. It must have been that welfare queen who couldn't afford the gas to get out of town, who couldn't take personal responsibility for her own food, water, and personal safety when she was being sexually assaulted in a Superdome bathroom, whose real problem is a moral crisis that would have been resolved if she prayed a little bit harder to the right God?

The citizens of this country never intended to vote into office people who would have allowed such barbarism to happen and, ultimately, they will hold both parties accountable if officeholders are not permitted to shirk responsibility through claims that this was an unforeseeable act of nature. First, The act of nature wasn't unforeseeable to the New York Times or the Times Picayune who have been writing about the likely effect of such a storm for years. (Nothing's Easy for New Orleans Flood Control, Jon Nordheimer, The New York Times, April 30, 2002, Section F, Science Desk, Pg. 1.; The Big One; a Major Hurricane Could Decimate the Region, but Flooding from Even a Moderate Storm Could Kill Thousands. It's Just a Matter of Time, John McQuaid and Mark Schleifstein, Times-Picayune (New Orleans, LA), June 24, 2002, Pg. A1.) The loss of life wasn't unavoidable but was instead the result of a political ideology that holds that the government that governs least, governs best, and that citizens should be left to deal with their own affairs from housing to education, health care to evacuation.

Progressives have long had a different view of the role that government should play in people's lives giving people the tools to meaningfully participate in democracy and pursue a better life for themselves and their families.

As his final word in How the Other Half Lives, Jacob Riis quoted scripture: "Think ye that building shall endure which shelters the noble and crushes the poor?" Throughout our history, we have seen these buildings but, in this moment, progressives must lead, in our noble tradition, and rebuild New Orleans, and the rest of this country where people struggle invisibly, on a bold and visionary model. This is the best that anyone can ever hope from tragedy. If we do not act, we never will, and the worst will have happened, that all these people will have died in vain, and will again.

Billy Sothern is an anti-death penalty lawyer and writer from New Orleans. He can be reached at: billys@thejusticecenter.org

Letter to Bush...

2005-09-02T15:45:00.000+03:00

Vacation is Over... an open letter from Michael Moore to George W. Bush

Friday, September 2nd, 2005

Dear Mr. Bush:

Any idea where all our helicopters are? It's Day 5 of Hurricane Katrina and thousands remain stranded in New Orleans and need to be airlifted. Where on earth could you have misplaced all our military choppers? Do you need help finding them? I once lost my car in a Sears parking lot. Man, was that a drag.

Also, any idea where all our national guard soldiers are? We could really use them right now for the type of thing they signed up to do like helping with national disasters. How come they weren't there to begin with?

Last Thursday I was in south Florida and sat outside while the eye of Hurricane Katrina passed over my head. It was only a Category 1 then but it was pretty nasty. Eleven people died and, as of today, there were still homes without power. That night the weatherman said this storm was on its way to New Orleans. That was Thursday! Did anybody tell you? I know you didn't want to interrupt your vacation and I know how you don't like to get bad news. Plus, you had fundraisers to go to and mothers of dead soldiers to ignore and smear. You sure showed her!

I especially like how, the day after the hurricane, instead of flying to Louisiana, you flew to San Diego to party with your business peeps. Don't let people criticize you for this -- after all, the hurricane was over and what the heck could you do, put your finger in the dike?

And don't listen to those who, in the coming days, will reveal how you specifically reduced the Army Corps of Engineers' budget for New Orleans this summer for the third year in a row. You just tell them that even if you hadn't cut the money to fix those levees, there weren't going to be any Army engineers to fix them anyway because you had a much more important construction job for them -- BUILDING DEMOCRACY IN IRAQ!

On Day 3, when you finally left your vacation home, I have to say I was moved by how you had your Air Force One pilot descend from the clouds as you flew over New Orleans so you could catch a quick look of the disaster. Hey, I know you couldn't stop and grab a bullhorn and stand on some rubble and act like a commander in chief. Been there done that.

There will be those who will try to politicize this tragedy and try to use it against you. Just have your people keep pointing that out. Respond to nothing. Even those pesky scientists who predicted this would happen because the water in the Gulf of Mexico is getting hotter and hotter making a storm like this inevitable. Ignore them and all their global warming Chicken Littles. There is nothing unusual about a hurricane that was so wide it would be like having one F-4 tornado that stretched from New York to Cleveland.

No, Mr. Bush, you just stay the course. It's not your fault that 30 percent of New Orleans lives in poverty or that tens of thousands had no transportation to get out of town. C'mon, they're black! I mean, it's not like this happened to Kennebunkport. Can you imagine leaving white people on their roofs for five days? Don't make me laugh! Race has nothing -- NOTHING -- to do with this!

You hang in there, Mr. Bush. Just try to find a few of our Army helicopters and send them there. Pretend the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast are near Tikrit.

Yours,

Michael Moore

MMFlint@aol.com
www.MichaelMoore.com

P.S. That annoying mother, Cindy Sheehan, is no longer at your ranch. She and dozens of other relatives of the Iraqi War dead are now driving across the country, stopping in many cities along the way. Maybe you can catch up with them before they get to DC on September 21st.

Good things...

2005-09-01T13:02:00.000+03:00

For those of you who came with me to New Orleans, I don't think I need to repeat how much I loved my experience there. I just found the article below, written to convince others to pack their bags for a few months and make it down to the Crescent City.

So.....just incase you were not with me from January 2005, and to give you a glimspe of why these people and my work had such a massive impact on me...here it is...

New Orleans. The most I knew of this city before I volunteered there for what seems like the whole of my life was:

I had been waiting to do this for over 7 years;
Clive Stafford Smith upset quite a number of judges there;
Great music and even better – fantastic cuisine;
Tropical temperatures, which meant no fur coat was necessary; and,
It housed the Louisiana Crisis Assistance Centre (as it was known at the time!)

After completing my pupillage and squatting for a period, I took the giant (petrifying) leap of temporarily packing in my brief career as a criminal defence barrister in the Big Smoke and armed with 4 guides to New Orleans, took that flight to the Deep South. I was terrified! In the words of Ms Cox, it was like embarking on a career as a Morris Dancer. I sensed that once this journey began, there would be no turning back. I would be changed forever. Primarily because of what I was leaving behind and secondly, not really knowing what to expect or how I would fare. That uncertainty was unnerving. Dealing with U.S. Immigration as I changed planes at Charlotte, having had no nicotine for over 12 hours, dispensed that feeling in a flash. I realised how lucky I was that my parents chose not to name me “Aisha Mohammed!” Wambui Mwangi was enough to give them reason to doubt that an African woman would travel all the way to America to work for those sentenced to death. For free! Obviously a front for terrorist activity.

New Orleans is a contradiction in terms. My relationship with the city, locals, legal institutions, prison systems, and the local wildlife[1] that inhabit your living quarters, oscillated between love and hate on a daily basis! However, from the moment I set foot at the Louis Armstrong Airport, I was made to feel totally welcome. I opted to work for a sister organisation of the Louisiana Capital Assistance Center, the Capital Appeals Project, which deals predominately with direct appeals. Simply, this is a strange U.S. appellate procedure between conviction and confirmation of the death sentence. This was most probably the best decision I have ever made in my life. The work was not only challenging, interesting and work I can continue to contribute to from almost anywhere, but the team with which I worked was small, cohesive, accessible, welcoming and great fun! The big chief called me “Miss Wambui” in a Louisiana drawl from day one and (I totally attribute blame to my XX chromosomes) I swore complete loyalty from that moment on! I was not disappointed. Jelpi Picou was the best boss anyone could ever ask for – I was a part of an amazing team minutes after I had been assigned a desk, computer and shown the stationary cupboard, to the moment I boarded the flight out, several months later.

Clive Stafford Smith once said “It's a sick world out there …” After a few seconds of reading decisions subject to appeal and the records from the trial, you realise why and the phrase “Surely, you cannot do that?” became a permanent fixture in my daily vocabulary. Whilst Louisiana criminal law, in particular in it’s relation to capital trials, may seem to make some sort of sense on paper, its application can be incomprehensible. And even more confusing, especially the more I read, was how the legislators/judiciary actually think that the law can inject an element of rationality into this system and in essence to a wholly irrational form of punishment. A true test of my faith and legal ethics was to begin, particularly after my first visit to Angola, the State penitentiary – for a visual, think “Dead Man Walking.”

New Orleans gave me the opportunity to work on some incredible and yet terrifying appeals. I don’t think I have ever learnt so much, worked so hard or had so much fun (ironic isn't it?) in such a short space of time. The reasons why this system is so prejudicial to indigent defendants and the errors permitted that seem so obviously wrong and basic, are sometimes almost too simple to put in a GCSE level law exam and yet too many to go into in this brief article. It makes any abuse of process arguments I made in London – which I was initally so proud of - pale into oblivion. Based on my experience, if I could have sent a letter to several particular DA’s/judges in Louisiana, it may have comprised of some of the points below:

dodgy (actually dodgy is such a tame word to describe the nature of confessions individuals are convicted on but it will do for now) confessions should be inadmissible;
Miranda rights are constitutional rights;
a defendant is entitled to a first appearance;
the right to counsel is normal and protected by the constitution;
ineffective assistance of defence counsel does include one who sleeps during a trial or walks out during cross examination of his witness to put change in the parking meter;
it is not nice and definitely an error to eliminate black jurors because of their race;
a prosecutor having his tenants on the jury could be percieved as going against the premise of an impartial jury;
inadmissible evidence is exactly that, regardless of how well you know the judge;
the State is supposed to disclose exculpatory material, including forensics that exculpate my client;
Prosecutors really should not blatantly lie to the State Supreme Court;
you do need evidence to convict a person for murder;
a schizophrenic, lying witness who has made several deals with the prosecution may not be a competent witness;
intense publicity for several months in the area the trial will be held is a good reason to consider changing the trial venue;
international law does apply regardless of what they think in Ohio;
only this once, George W. Bush may just know what he is talking about when he determines that national courts must abide by a decision of the International Court of Justice with respect to the Vienna Convention on Consular Relations.

In short, and here comes the plug, I highly recommend this experience to anyone even remotely thinking about it. New Orleans is a fantastic city. The Capital Appeals Project is a truly worthy establishment to spend any number of months doing voluntary work. If you are looking for a life altering experience, mixed with a highly toxic and addictive cocktail of daily challenges, hard work, good food, wonderful music, great company and constant parades that encourage grown men to cover themselves in gaudy multi-coloured beads, you will not be disappointed. And if you are lucky, as I was, someone might just pay for you to go and do it!

[1] Translate that into the biggest cockroaches you have ever seen.

Hurricane Katrina

2005-08-31T14:28:00.000+03:00

I cannot believe it! I have watched with horror as a city I love, inhabited by people I adore is awash with destruction.

Canal Street seems to have disappeared. The exact number of deaths is unknown. The French Quarter unrecognisable.

For those of you have not yet realised, New Orleans is experiencing widespread flooding due to this Hurricane. It is without power and is suffering what is considered to be catastrophic damage in residential as well as business areas. Listening to the news it seems that the city is pretty much under water.

The National Weather Service reported that water had overtopped levees in Orleans and St. Bernard parishes. The east side of New Orleans is under 5 to 6 feet of water. People in the flooded Ninth Ward in Metro New Orleans sent 116 residents to rooftops to seek aid. Emergency crews have been busy answering phone calls about urgent situations like heart attacks and pregnancies. Yesterday morning, it was reported that 20,000 people were in the Superdome, yet this building's roof had been breached, with two holes, "each about 15 to 20 feet long and 4 to 5 feet wide" and that water is also making its way in at elevator shafts and other small openings". People are reported to now being allowed outside the superdome, but they are still are unable to leave the area. Yesterday afternoon one person jumped out of the Superdome to his death. Mayor Ray Nagin described New Orleans as "totally dark" with no clear way in or out, with eighty percent of the city flooded with some areas with water depths of 20 feet. Both airports are underwater and that gas leaks are reported throughout the city. It is not pleasant.

Ironically, Venezuala, usually vilified by the US Government, is coming to the assistance of the those subject to this disaster. They are offering to sell them heating fuel at a subsidised rate.

Personally, I don't care that it is the most expensive hurricane ever, I don't care about the insurance companies! How can all the news reports be concentrating on the hike in premiums, the effect on the oil companies and the global effect on consumers when people are losing their lives, their homes and their livelihoods! Arghhhh! I am vain enough to think that you all read this blog on a regular basis even though I do not update it often and you have probably given up on me by now, but please know, I think of you all daily and pray that you and your families and friends are all OK. I know that internet may not be your highest priority right now, but if you can get in touch, please do. Let me know you are safe.

To all of you still there and those who mananged to make it out, my thoughts and prayers are with you. I miss you all so much. Sending big hugs and love.

thank you

2005-08-23T12:46:00.000+03:00

I have spent the last week living off blogs, sometimes feeling terribly voyeuristic and almost as if I should not be so priviliged to know what you tell me (us)....but in essence, today, I feel lucky to have found a network of friends who allow me, for a brief moment to look into their lives......and share it, warts and all...

I have laughed at the wars conducted on every cyber platform his 'cuteness' and the rival in the Blue corner can find, the questions posed that liven the blogging debate from the uses of the man - I am still smiling as i think of things to add to that one - to rantings of mad Kenyan women. I have been seduced by poetry, not only from our purple and blue resident mshairis, but also those who from the backdrop of Big Ben bring a simplicity and vulnerability that moves you tremendoulsy. Those who share their pain and their joys. The butterflies and the Everest like feats ahead of them. Those who every so often come up with delectable posts and yet let our imaginations run wild with what really happened at the Bloggers Inc Family Reunion due to a lack of gos! And ofcourse the satrical humour that purely belongs to both him who thinks out loud and the godfather! I cannot ofcourse forget the 'Sheng King!' who makes working till 4am bearable for i know I have something to make me ache with laughter when I have simply lost the will to stare at witness statements and my computer screen for a moment longer ;-)

To you all, and all those others I forget but who form part of my nightly ritual....I can no longer imagine life without you there every evening to make me smile, feel, laugh out loud, cry and think.....

And last but not least, to the proprieter of that Junkyard, who literally pushed me here and since the conception of our friendship has been a continous inspiration....

The Loss of Life

2005-08-12T14:50:00.000+03:00

The world mourns Robin Cook today. Apparently, nothing makes you more aware of your capabilities and limitations than those moments when we must push aside all the familiar defenses of ego and vanity, and accept reality by staring, with the fear that is normal, into the face of death.

A child's death is the hardest to understand. To those who have suffered such a loss, I want to believe there is born new knowledge, that if we but look and hope, new life can be found beyond the tears of grief.

In the last fortnight, I have witnessed two very different women mourn the loss of their children. One lost her 31 year old 'girl', the other a 14 year old son. One German, the other Kenyan. One in her late 50's, the other in her mid thirties. Both 'aliens' in the countries in which they must now bury their children.

Losing a friend is painful but no one should ever have to bury their children. This just seems so unfair, for want of a better word. However despite everything, today and last week, I have observed two remarkably different women display identical levels of strength and grace inspite of having been through daily cocktails of emotional fatigue, extreme feelings and acute stress.

Alex and Samson, rest in peace. To both families, our love, thoughts and prayers are with you at this difficult time.

Like a lightning flash
Streaking up to the sky
A bright and pure flame
Forever engraved on our hearts
Too soon
Departs
Becomes love’s shining light
That stirs our souls
Enriches our spirit
And illuminates our way
Mshairi, 09-03-2005

Painful Protection...

2005-08-05T05:43:00.000+03:00

Further to a current theme, this cracked me....

Condoms are inventions by mzungus (whites) and should therefore be banned, a Kenyan MP said on Thursday.

Ramadhan Kajembe, MP for the Changamwe district, said in Parliament that not only are condoms "mzungu things" but they are also painful to put on. Furthermore, he finds advertisements for condoms offensive.

This comes courtesy of The Mail& Guardian Online Newspaper and the rest of the article is rather interesting. Thinker, I believe you have a job for life...

Legal Action for Women Appeal...

2005-08-04T11:39:00.000+03:00

Urgent Appeal
-----------------

26 July 2005

Dear Friends,

We write to you for urgent help with our asylum work as we find ourselves in a very difficult situation and the lives of many people are at stake.

It's just over a month since Legal Action for Women launched “For Asylum Seekers and their Supporters – A Self-help Guide Against Detention and Deportation”. Since then over 30 women have contacted us from Yarl’s Wood Removal Centre, and we are starting to get requests for help from Oakington Accommodation Centre. A number of women had or have imminent removal dates. The guide has only just started to be circulated, but already the requests for help are beyond our forces, and we write to you now to see how you might be able to assist.

When women contact us from detention we immediately send them a copy of the guide, by guaranteed next day delivery (at ₤4 a time) because of the urgency of the situation. As you know, we work on a self-help basis and the guide is proving to be an essential tool. We then call or ask them to fax brief details about their case and what outside help they have, and suggest where best this help can be directed; we advise them how to get the lawyer to do what is needed; and give them the contact details of their MP so they can contact them directly. Many women are rape survivors who have not spoken about the rape they suffered or if they have this was not put forward by the lawyer and/or was ignored or downplayed by the Home Office or the court when they considered the claim.

A number of women from the All African Women’s Group (AAWG), including women who have been in detention themselves, have committed to regular sessions at our Centre to do this work which has been invaluable. Most of this initial contact with women inside is being done by them under the supervision of LAW, Women Against Rape or Black Women’s Rape Action Project, depending on the situation of the woman in detention.

But we cannot keep up with the volume of work. In addition to the sheer number of calls we face other problems.

1. We are very concerned that August is upon us and as many people go away, asylum seekers are left unprotected at the mercy of the authorities.

2. Many of the women are repeatedly having to change lawyers to try and find someone who will help them. They are often told they must pay a £1000 to get someone to act for them. Some lawyers lie about coming to visit and what they are going to do. One lawyer told the woman in detention that he was visiting on Friday but told us that he had no plans to visit until Sunday when she was due to be deported on Monday. Some firms claim to specialise in detention cases. In our experience their work is very poor or non-existent but the lawyers get away with it as the women get deported and therefore cannot lodge a complaint. One woman said that it is common for it to take two weeks for a new lawyer to see you and four weeks to tell you what they will do. That means women are in detention for months on end purely because they don’t have proper representation.

3. We often only get some action because we represent an organisation and because the person who calls has an English accent. We have noticed that women in detention or anyone who calls on their behalf with a non-English accent face blatant racism. An AAWG woman called Oakington with the name, room and bed number of some of the women there and was told that wasn’t sufficient information to be able to speak to them. Another volunteer with an English accent made the same request with the same information and was put through immediately. This discrimination against people with foreign accents is common not only in relation to detention centres but when dealing with lawyers and other professionals.

4. We try to refer women to other organisations but are finding that even the better ones don’t pursue cases with the determination that is needed. One woman (a victim of child marriage and years of severe domestic violence who eventually killed her husband in self-defence) was deported because even though there was a legal case to be made the organisation couldn’t find a lawyer to make it. Under those circumstances we would have made representations to the Home Office highlighting the injustice of deporting a woman who had compelling reasons to stay, purely because legal representation was not available. We would also have publicised the situation which may have helped delay the removal until a lawyer could be found.

5. The Refugee Legal Centre (RLC) and the Immigration Advisory Service (IAS) are well-funded to provided services to those in detention. The RLC alone receives over £13 million and last year had a surplus of £1million. They will only take cases where women don’t have a lawyer and where they have their legal case papers. These are unrealistic restrictions. As mentioned above the biggest problem is not lack of lawyers but lawyers that do little or nothing. What is needed from an organisation claiming to represent women in detention is either a willingness to take over cases where the lawyer is doing nothing or call the lawyer to account. Most women don’t have their papers because they were snatched from their homes without a chance to collect their belongings. In addition, women contacting RLC complain that their freephone number is not free, it costs 4p a minute if called from inside detention.

6. The conditions in detention are horrendous. Women report: daily racism, for example, being called black monkeys, inadequate and innutritious food, inadequate health care including for mothers and their children, punitive daily harassment, lack of effective complaint’s procedure and targeting of women who do complain, violent assaults during deportations including sexual humiliation. A number have tried to commit suicide including one woman who is due to be deported tomorrow with her young son, who suffers from fits.

7. On a number of occasions women are taken to the airport to be deported even though removal instructions have been cancelled. One woman was taken to Gatwick and was about to be forced onto the airplane, until in desperation, she went to the toilet, took all her clothes off and soiled them.

The many people who work with those in detention must be aware not only of the inadequacy of their own service but also of the other daily abuses that women, children and men in detention are suffering. To not speak up allows the government to maintain the façade that the asylum system is “fair”.

Our guide has encouraged women to be in touch with and help each other, and take collective action against the daily injustices they face. Women who speak and write English better are helping those who don’t. Last week women got together and barricaded themselves into a room to prevent one woman’s deportation. Now at least 10 Ugandan women including mothers have gone on hunger strike (you should have received the press release about this in the last couple of days) to protest their removal to Uganda where they will face persecution and possible death.

We are asking for your urgent help.

Can you or anyone you know in your network volunteer any time to help us? What this involves is speaking to women to find out the essentials of their case, making calls to lawyer, MPs, the Home Office on their behalf, writing up the details and sending this around to the press and others, keeping the woman inside informed and being in touch with any family or other supporters she has on the outside.
Any donations would be very much appreciated.
If are in touch with anyone in government could you arrange a delegation or for representations to be made to MPs and/or ministers to ensure that the truth of what is happening to vulnerable women asylum seekers is conveyed directly to them.
If you have contacts in the media could you please approach them and ask if they would be ready to publicise the Ugandan women’s hunger strike, the lack of adequate legal representation, attempts to deport women illegally and the complaints women have about the regime inside Yarl’s Wood and Oakington. We can arrange interviews with women in detention.

Thanking you in advance, we look forward to hearing from you with any help or suggestions you can offer.

Yours sincerely,

Niki Adams
Legal Action for Women Crossroads Women’s Centre
PO Box 287
London
NW6 5QU
Tel: 020 7482 2496 minicom/voice
Fax: 020 7209 4761
E-mail: law@crossroadswomen.net

In the name of defence....

2005-08-03T09:02:00.000+03:00

This week has been amazing! Screaming in my office to avoid crushing someone's skull has become a daily phenomenon. And NO, I am not hormonal - hee hee, despite last post! Give me another couple of weeks and quite possibly the news from our hallowed halls may not be so pleasant. That Stress Quiz was not kidding....

But before I being what may soon become a daily rant - CONGRATULATIONS to SS, who has just been awarded pupillage at Doughty Street. Love you girl and well deserved! Here is to all the amazing things I just know you are going to add to that inspiring life you already lead! Respect!

I have been privileged to observe the lengths defence counsel will go to be truly incompetent. And to think they get paid almost more money than God to do this incenses me.

For example, what kind of idiot submits a motion that is incomplete, has annexes in a foreign language without the benefit of a translation, provides documents to support their case that have missing pages, expects the Court to guess at what it is they are asking for because no one can actually decipher exactly when sentences begin or end......AND gets upset because the Court has taken over a week to decide on their motion!!!!!

AND after all this still expects the Court to make a decision in their favour? Arghhhhh!

And furthermore, during examination of their own witness, has no clue what document THEIR witness is referring to, has no idea if the document they just handed THEIR witness is the same document they are referring to AND cannot remember their OWN witness' name or particulars. THEN asks for an adjournment to consult with the witness and examine the documents!

To make matters even more interesting, defence counsel seeks an adjournment because having to both examine witnesses during the day and prepare for the next day over night is more than should be asked of a person and is severely affecting his/her health. GET OVER IT!

Further, another Defence counsel was recently upset with the Court because his/her client had been lounging in the luxury resort of the UN Detention Facility for over 3 years without being brought to trial. Understandable! Yes, I agree that this could qualify as an infringement of an individual's right to a speedy trial. However, how can you then in the same breath claim that you are NOT ready, once given a trial commencement date 3 months away????!!!! AND ask for another year to prepare! You have been on the case for over TWO YEARS!

My second favourite so far is counsel telling the Court that trial must be adjourned because they are unable to call witnesses in the order in which they want, due to the fact that 2 of their OWN witnesses have refused to testify. Ofcourse it would be highly inconvenient for them to have to change their defence strategy from the one they have been planning for 3 bloody years. So let us all waste even more court time, allow the period that those witnesses were supposed to testify elapse and resume trial at your convenience. Yes why not? We have nothing better to do.

My favourite, which I unfortunately cannot blog about at present, involves the human right to have sex! Yes you read that correctly. The human right to have sex! My probably very obvious views on that coming soon. The language of human rights has been taken to new levels. You will be amazed what violations of "human rights" have occurred in this institution.

It continously amazes me how counsel get away with incredibly sloppy, sometimes incomprehensible, often clearly 'taking the piss' motions BECAUSE they KNOW they can get away with it. So what if disclosure occurs 8 months after the Court ordered it FOUR times. So what if you have no clue who your witnesses are going to be. So what if exhibits have not been filed for over a year. The Court will not sack them. The Accused seem content with it all because to the normal person, all the hot air secreted into the judicial atmosphere sounds like counsel is protecting their supposedly violated human rights. Sadly this behaviour is simply accepted.

Yes my head is in my hands! The thought of having to go in tomorrow to deal with even more of this bull, is traumatizing.

There is so much more other shit that comes before the different Courts that were I to begin to elaborate, would possibly result in my being handed the pink form and escorted to the doors by the very nice security guards. But it is crazy. I am all for the rights of defendants - I infact vowed never to work for the Prosecution ever again after my brief stint in the Hague, or any State organization after the legal draconian wonders the Home Secretary in the UK exhibits on an almost daily basis. However, short of walking down those steps and writing the bloody thing myself, the desire to strangle is becoming overwhelming. The urge to defect to the other side is almost, and i mean only 'almost', overpowering. Urghhhh!

(I think my brief encounter with the infliction, colloquially termed as "not giving a shit" is over - hee hee!)

Be careful what you ask for!

2005-08-02T08:11:00.000+03:00

A few days ago, whilst I wallowed in my non blogging life, reliving everything that I thought was so unfair about life, and mine in particular, a friend, out of the blue, sent me this.

Wise words

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will. You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken. You'll fight with your best friend. You'll blame a new love for things an old one did. You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love. So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

Now it is not everyday that a chain email gets to you but this one did, and so to you Lina, I am grateful for getting me out of the rut that I was very carefully digging for myself as I transformed into a very miserable cow!

A few weeks ago, I sat down and decided what I thought I wanted out of life at this point. A completely radical Wambui! My list comprised of re-building the bridges with my family, a man, to be bare foot and pregnant on a farm, surrounded by cows and mango trees, no lawyers for miles, huge crushed velvet sofas, lots of fake fur cushions and a state of the art coffee machine. Nothing much! I made that routine call to the man upstairs and this time negotiated as to how I would like this to take place, and for purposes of clarity, included an excel spread sheet time frame!

Unfortunately, I was not too specific or not specific enough. So first I contracted a bronchial infection (kindly diagnosed as a urinary tract infection by our friendly ICTR doctors, leaving me throwing up for a couple of days from some seriously strong drugs that could kill a cow and which my doctor in Nairobi relegated to the trash upon first sight! I was not well) and the family thing did not go as was planned in my head. I made the next call upstairs and elaborated that a humanoid might be along the lines i was thinking of, possibly with similar offspring, without the bacterial connotations. The family thing may have to wait, however, when I said I wanted a good catch, severe coughing and introducing my stomach to my lungs was not really what I had in mind. Ungrateful woman that I am, because I did have a very sexy voice for a few weeks. I digress.

So He provided the man - or so I thought. Or rather a couple of them in a row! Nice! Thing about Africa is that men are not shy in telling you what they want. In some respect western men may want to take note. It is not always creepy and slimy, and there is a way of flirting here that is just perfect. However this time it came with additional baggage that I was simply not prepared for. Truth be told, until now, that has never really been an issue. So I am sure there was some element of confusion when He listened to that voicemail, saying, right, maybe i am ready for this. Don't know if I mentioned before that I had recently been put on voicemail due to an overwhelming number of unnegotiable requests. Hee hee!

Boy 1 - cute, good conversation, (must admit at first thought was very gay!) fantastic dancer, but soon found out also very married with kids. Had to pass. Despite the obvious attraction, I was never good at three legged races. So I thought, well, He is having a bit of a laugh and figured if I could provide entertainment, well why not? We were testing the waters. Checking out the available talent - bring it on!

Boy 2 - again cute (me thinks to myself this is not a bad track to continue on!), good waistline, not out of proportion (not that i am superficial but a man with a stomach and breasts larger than my pregnant vision makes things slightly difficult), great conversation, known him for decades (can be either a pro or a con but I chose to be positive!), my family seemed to like him (again not quite sure if that was a good thing but chose to look at the positive) and he seemed quite partial to the idea of my pregnant vision (nothing like the offer of making beautiful children to make a woman lose all concept of rational thought!)

Several other events seemed to coincide with this period that I will not go into as my current version of violins (crickets) will lose surely their strings due to an overload.

Now here was the dilemma. I have spent most of my adult life, infact all of it, clamoring for that independent life. That life that meant I made the decisions of where I would end up or be in the next month and who would or not be a part of it. Not reliant on anyone for anything and simply doing what made me happy, usually in my professional existence and hardly ever in my romantic life. But like I have lived my life, I had made a decision, something had to give and I was willing (I think!) to do that, with family, friends and men.

Hard though it was to admit, Boy 2 broke my heart. Into little itsy pieces that I let surround me for too long, without even attempting to put them together. That just seemed so much easier than pretending to be whole. The last time everything seemed to happen all at once, I vowed self preservation was the way to go. Why is it that the older you get, the easier it is to get hurt, the tinnier the pieces and the longer it takes to regroup? By the time I realized that the whole is sooooooooo much better than the shattered, I had internalized and analyzed everything and the product was not pretty. Urghhh! Why do we do this to ourselves? And it was for this reason that Lina's email, however innocent and slightly corny (sorry Lina!), jolted me out of a very destructive self pitying path. Ohhh, this is beginning to read like a self help book! Sorry ;-)

Anyway, the moral of this story (and no I am not vying for Jerry Springer's line of work!) is that the last few months, despite practically all of the above happening in such a short space of time, the moping and wallowing made me realize that sometimes, just because you don't get what you think you want, it is not necessarily the end of life as I know it. Yes it has taken me 2 months to finally come to this profound conclusion. Hee hee! And that being single does not necessarily equal lonely. That while I cannot control what or who hurts me, I make the decision as to how I deal with it. That I have an enormous capacity to love and feel if I let myself. That my body can only cry for about half an hour before it gets fed up and yet laugh for hours. My life is great. I have amazing friends, a great family, a job most people would kill for, the opportunity to travel the world doing what I love and I get to meet fantastic people almost everyday. Why would I ever want to change that if I don't have to and it is being handed to me on a platter. So to those I have moaned and bitched to, paticularly in the last month, I am truly sorry and love you dearly for being so patient with me, even when all you probably wanted to do was hit me over the head and shake some sense into me.

And anyway, it takes years to grow a mango tree and like being continuously upset is very similar to climbing Kili - way too much hard work.

The Fight Against Terrorism...

2005-07-29T04:30:00.000+03:00

I received this from a friend in London who lives in the East End, close to where one of the bombs went off on July 7th. I hope she does not mind that I share it with you.

Jon Snow says it all! This is a city gone mad! On entry to Bethnal Green tube station this morning, every young man who did not fit the description of a "westerner" (and given that this is the East End, every other tube traveller is of asian appearance) was surrounded by at least three police officers, questioned, searched, questioned some more, searched again. Diversity is at serious risk of being over-ridden by blatant discrimination!

This is what she was referring to:

>From: Snowmail - Channel 4 News
<snowmail_daily@channel4.com>
>Subject: Sign of the times?
>Date: Wed, 27 Jul 2005 17:43:43 +0000>
>Sign of the times?

>====================>

A day in the life of London, maybe even a commonplace day in the life of a Muslim. I am cycling back from Channel 4 at ten thirty seven this morning past the back of Horse guards parade in line of sight of the back of number 10 Downing Street - suddenly on the edge of the park I notice armed police, four of them, their guns raised surrounding a tall Muslim man with a dark beard.

He is smartly dressed and has a brand new silver coloured camera bag on the ground at his feet. The voices are raised with the guns, in the time that I take to pass the guns lower, the bag is searched, the incident passes, no one seems to notice. Up on the mall a small knot of tourists are looking from a distance. One now normal unreported, maybe unreportable incident and a searing experience for one innocent Muslim man. Which isn't to say that the level of anxiety and tension which prompts such a scene isn't all too understandable.

I am white, crazy-looking on a bike, with a shoulder bag across my back, yet I am not stopped in line of sight of number 10: here lies tonight's central dilemma - do only bag carrying bearded Muslims need to worry about passing public buildings? Soon they will begin to keep away from them and what is shared, what is all of ours, will become places they no longer come to. Not just the pubs where they never might have drank anyway, but now the places that are central to our democracy and our identity...

Something we are addressing at seven with John Denham chair of the commons Home affairs select committee. He's arguing Mr Blair has got some of it wrong and must make amends.

See you at seven as ever,

best wishes,

Jon Snow

In memorial.....

2005-07-29T04:22:00.000+03:00

Jean Charles de Menezes Family Campaign

PO Box 273, London E7
07956 210332 / 07931 337890
Justice4jean@hotmail.com

WE REMEMBER

7.1.78-22.7.05

Murdered by the police at Stockwell station Friday 22 July 2005

The Menezes family call upon the people of London to join them remembering Jean Charles.

Friday 29 July

Family vigil at Parliament Square 5.30pm Please bring Brazilian and Peace Flags

Inter-faith memorial service

Westminster Cathedral 7pm

42 Francis Street, London SW1P 1QW

- includes live link to Jean Charles funeral in Brazil

Tube: Victoria/St James¹ Park. Buses 11, 24, 148, 507, 211.

ALL WELCOME

Blogs

Stress Monitor

2005-07-20T21:08:00.000+03:00

The Tribunal thought it might be a good idea for us to keep a track of our stress levels and so sent out this questionnaire to all staff members (posted for your benefit MJY!). It is better than a Cosmo quiz! Please let me know how you do! Hee hee hee! Made my day this morning! I however, fall into the "Men in white coats approaching. Take cover!" category... hee hee hee! I love this place!

-------------------

STRESS; HOW TO GO ABOUT IT?

Every one of us finds himself /herself stressed at one time or another; especially considering the nature of work we do here, which in itself subjects people to a lot of stress. Do you have the necessary stamina to stand stress?

There are several ways to manage stress; much of it can be done by an individual on self. The following Stress-Prone Personality Questionnaire can assist to determine whether or not you are prone to stress. Take your time to go through it and answer the questions.

Do you find it difficult to hide your feelings when you are annoyed or distressed about something?

Looking ate second hand of your watch; do you take more than eight breaths a minute when you are resting?

Do you often feel dizzy or breathless even though you have not exceeded yourself?

Do you tend to finish other people’s sentences for them?

Do you often interrupt others while they are speaking?

Do you react physically to stressful events?

When you hear unwelcome news, do you feel as though someone had punched you in the stomach?

Do you feel very strong for others?

Does it generally take you a long time to take positive action about a stressful situation?

Would you do anything for a quite life?

Do hesitant or insecure people drive you nuts?

Do you prefer it when other people take the lead when it comes to making decisions?

Do you easily get confused or frightened?

Do you frequently have arguments with other people?

Do you find it nearly impossible to say ‘no’?

Do other people seem to ignore it when you say ‘no’?

Does it frighten you when others disagree with you?

Do you frequently suffer from a racing heart, even though there is nothing wrong with your heart?

Do even ordinary chores make you feel tired?

Are you very concerned what others think of you?

Do you fidget or bite you nails?

Do you experienced frequent headaches or persistent pains in your back and neck?

Do you have problems sleeping?

Do you lost interest in sex?

Do you often feel indecisive?

Do feel like a failure?

Are you worried that something dreadful might happen in your life?

Have you lost your sense of humor?

Do you have problems concentrating and remembering?

Are you personal standards very high and demanding?

Does it throw you when your daily routine is disrupted?

Do you feel awkward when with new people?

Do you find it difficult to leave a situation when you have had enough?

Do you usually put yourself last?

Do imperfections upset you?

Do you often not finish what you started?

Do you find it difficult to switch off at the end of you day?

Do you neglect your relationships over your work commitments?

Do you neglect your own needs because you are wrapped up in your work or looking after someone else?

Does the amount of work you have to do every day seem to overpower you?

Do you feel undervalued by your boss, your family or your partner?

Please add up how many times you said‘yes’. Below is an interpretation of your results.

0-3

You are a personality type who is quite robust when it comes to stress. You are not easily thrown and are likely to handle difficult situations in a constructive manner. You might as well recommend the book ‘Total stress relief’ to someone who really needs it!

4-10

You are not doing too badly, especially if you are at the lower end of the scale. If you are nearer the 10-point mark, you need to start watching out a little. You have a certain streak of vulnerability in your emotional make-up, maybe as a result of what has happened previously in your life. This vulnerability could lay you open to unwelcome stress reactions when the going gets tough. Work with the exercises to make yourself more stress-resilient.

11-20

Alarm bells are ringing! Your emotional make-up makes you susceptible to stress responses on all levels- mental emotional and physical. Are there events in the past that have knocked your confidence? What is it that has made you feel you are not good enough? Working through the exercises is a must. Please don’t delay getting to work. The quality of your life can improve dramatically if you are prepared to put some work into it.

Over 20

You have lived through a lot of things in your life that have severely affected your esteem and confidence. In all likelihood there is some unfinished business in your past. In addition to doing the exercises in this book, you may want to consider seeking professional help from a good therapist or counselor.

Light entertainment amid global madness....

2005-07-12T21:10:00.000+03:00

This is a little snapshot of where I live.... made me smile!

------------------------------

Thick Smoke Clouds Arusha City Launch
Arusha Times
July 9, 2005

Elsewhere fireworks would have been lit to mark the occasion, but for the Arusha's city launching ceremony, a thick, dark and pungent smoke, clouded the entire affair. The fumes sent most of the people, who had turned up at the fete held at the Mbauda market area, into uncontrollable fits of coughs.

The new Arusha City status, which became effective on Friday, the 1st of July 2005 was celebrated with a low scale event at the open space in Mbauda area where market auctions normally take place. Arusha was declared a township in 1948.

The smoke which clouded the venue was coming from a giant vehicle tire, which had been set on fire at the venue so that the local fire brigade could put it off, during an orchestrated live demonstration, that was to be displayed at the arena, among other shows.

The Municipal Fire brigade, normally accused of being slow, was also noted to arrive late, even to their own demonstration, such that by the time their trucks arrived, the guest of honor, who happened to be the Arusha Regional Commissioner, Mohamed Babu, had already taken onto the stage to deliver a speech, amid the smoke.

The fire brigade trucks, with sirens at full blast had therefore to be stopped before entering the venue, so that the speakers, including the Regional Commissioner, could continue with their speeches, without interference.

Meanwhile, the large tire continued to burn endlessly, emitting thick clouds of the dark carbon monoxide fumes.

When however the smoke got thicker and people started to vacate the market place, the firemen were finally allowed to put off the burning tire. The exercise again, proved to be not so easy either, since the water jets from the fire brigade trucks kept missing their target, ending up drenching unwitting spectators instead.

By the time the tire fire was quenched, confusion and chaos had reigned. Apparently, there were many people at the venue, who had shown up for various other reasons as well. The Mbauda Bi-

Weekly market is normally held every Mondays and Fridays, thus the attendance at the Arusha City launching fete also had a lot to do with ordinary traders and shoppers.

Most of the official speeches, including the Council's financial report being presented by the Municipal Director, Noah Mwaikuka, went unheard at the rather noisy gathering. It is not clear why local leaders decided to celebrate the city launch in Mbauda instead of the town stadium.

Friday, the 1st of July, was also the inaugural, 'Local Government Day!' which is set to be an annual national holiday to be marked countrywide on each first day of July.

Apart from the Regional Commissioner, other distinguished guests were the Arusha District Commissioner, Fulgence Saria, Municipal Mayor, Paul Lotta Laizer and Municipal Director, Noah Mwaikuka, including other local ward counselors.

On the same day, the Arumeru District Council was upgraded to attain municipal status, while other two municipal councils of Tanga and Mbeya were also transformed into cities. RC Babu said Arusha urban now stands to wield more local authority than it used to be in the past.

With a population of less than 300,000 Arusha is yet to meet the international requirement of 400,000 residents, necessary for a town to be accredited with such urban status. However, it is being speculated that, the fact that the area hosts a number of international institutions such as the UN- ICTR and the EAC, it was a politically correct reason to award it the status.

is it....

2005-06-29T08:23:00.000+03:00

normal that one of the things I miss at the moment is central heating?

a disabled genocide

2005-06-25T12:06:00.000+03:00

I spent part of this week going through transcripts, trying to create a factual summary of the case against the accused in the trial I am working on. Creating a factual summary is a time consuming task, often thankless in terms of time and energy, for any small interruption can mean having to start all over, so you can allow yourself to "get back into it." “Getting into it” is not something that makes me want to get out of bed in the morning. Even for a minimum of $10,000! Sorry Naomi! Attempting to understand how Rwanda came to find itself at this juncture in its short life as an independent state is. However spending 10 hours a day attempting to "get into it" is taxing my soul and by Friday evening, my nerves are racked. Totally understandable why this Tribunal would make the perfect place for the AA and NA to combine forces and set up their headquarters. I am sure they would a USAID grant! Hee hee hee!

Something struck me this week. Actually a lot of issues, but this one came first! Why is it that considering the massacres, considering the weapon of choice, I have not seen a single physically disabled witness of this genocide since I got here? Seems bizarre that in view of the manner in which the Hutus sought to exterminate, none of the witnesses bear these physical scars! Well at least not that I have seen give evidence.

This 100 day massacre took the lives of hundreds of thousands a day! Imagine that. We have all seen the pictures of the fields of bodies, displays of human skulls lined up and piled high, shining, as if for sale in Nakumatt (Kenyan upmarket supermarket), rivers bursting with limbs and decaying bodies. Left to their own devises, the country would have annihilated all Tutsi and their so called “sympathisers” in a matter of months! This is a country where those left behind bear the scars: physically, mentally, emotionally, and not least, spiritually.

This blog is about those physically disabled. I know the other scars, the internal invisible damage exist. I see it everyday and this is post is in no way meant to belittle what those not physically marked have been through. That is the subject of another post.

We know that survivors exist. We see them on a daily basis. Millions still live in Rwanda. But the plight of those physically disabled by this 100 day genocide remain, to me, invisible to the public eye. The treatment of the disabled in Rwanda displayed the “highest degree of human bestially, brutality and intolerance” suffered, possibly more than any other group of persons. Thousands were massacred early on as they were easy targets. Although very few disabled persons survived during the genocide, we cannot forget that they were not all hacked to death. If not blessed with the peace of death, their disability was magnified. Hundreds were simply abandoned. This number was exponentially increased by the thousands that were maimed and left for dead, those who will always carry their missing limbs as a permanent reminder of the genocide. Women who had their arms hacked off and left for dead. Others will display the stumps, from the mutilation of fingers, toes, ears, cut off as punishment of being Tutsi or a "sympathiser."

At one point the media, NGOs, foreign governments took tonnes of pictures of these people, to publicise their fate. We all saw those pictures as the horror of the genocide was given celebrity celluloid status, as the Oxfams and Christian Aids of our global village competed for our pennies and cents to bring apparently assist those physically disabled for life by this war, as western governments attempted to appease their conscience and sickened voters by paying for certain individuals to act as the public relations stunt and be filmed receiving a new prosthetic limb. You would be hard pushed to find any of those pictures now. In addition, the same groups that documented the atrocities in Rwanda, the human rights groups, marginalised them. Tell me, of all the hundreds of reports, in how many did you read about the plight of the disabled?

As I sit here and read my designated transcripts and regurgitate evidence into a palatable form for the public to read in an indecipherable judgement – sometimes even to those who work in this area of law - a year, 2 years from now, I wonder: would the sight of a young man, his face unrecognisable due to machete scars, a woman gesticulating with an arm, she feels yet no longer exists, be something this or any tribunal cannot handle? Maybe these are things we need to see. To remember it is not only the fit and healthy that were killed. AND that the victims of this genocide take on all shapes and guises. Young and old disabled Rwandese litter the streets of Kigali. Forgotten, by the world and this tribunal, it seems. Only the seemingly healthy get flown in to tell "their story." Is it because we cannot look upon such victims, when we sit in judgment of ALL the atrocities those accused men and women are charged with having committed?

This is not the last genocide that we shall witness in Africa. I have to accept that, albeit reluctantly. You only need to look from Sudan to Ivory Coast, from Liberia to Sierra Leone, from Northern Uganda to DRC to Somalia. From religious conflicts in Nigeria to tribal and politically motivated clashes that dominate the African scene, those disabled tend to be forgotten. And yet each conflict creates more, be it at the hand of a machete, a shotgun, or a land mine. The creation of a new and identifiable class of the marginalised in Africa! I digress. That is possibly a topic for another day.

But I cannot help but question, how many cases involving this group of persons have been/are being handled by the traditional court systems in Rwanda or even by this Tribunal on Rwandan genocide. Surely disabled persons deserve justice, fairness and an unambiguous assurance that what they went through would be a thing of the past as do all Rwandese? What support does the international community give Rwanda in re-intergrating those who were previously disabled as well as those who find themselves disabled as a result of the genocide? As one of the greatest victims of the genocide, how and to what extent are persons with disabilities involved in the peace and reconciliation processes and efforts going in Rwanda? Shouldn’t they also represented on the Rwandan Peace and Reconciliation Commission? Questions I am finding it difficult to get satisfying answers to.

An explanation

2005-06-25T11:36:00.000+03:00

for the absence of any "snapshots of arusha" in the last month.

The next few blogs may be slightly different from what you are used to getting from me. To those that came to New Orleans with me, where my life as a blogger was conceived and thrived, you watched/read as blogging became a pleasurable highly addictive drug. Arusha is not the same and should this disappoint you, stop reading NOW!

The lack of daily antidotes has been simply because I did not want you to think that my experiences here were all negative. I wanted to share an experience with you that would not lead you down the same path of insomnia that has become an acceptable fate! (Anyone know where I can score some Valium? Only kidding!) The last 5 weeks have been turbulent to say the least as I grapple with the loss of friends, my urban family being very far away (plus a sense of hopeless frustration at not being able to do anything for those not very happy), encountering head on my family’s very complicated and recently acquired dysfunctional behaviour, accepting certain indigestible truths about the current status of my love life, “living-breathing-sleeping” genocide, dealing with a civil service run by ‘relas,’ feeling constantly paranoid at work (unwelcome, unwanted and incomprehensible feeling!) and rather uncharacteristically asking “What the F! am I doing with my life!” on a daily basis. I think all higher beings have now transferred my calls directly to voice mail!

However it has been brought to my attention several times in the last two days that, uncharacteristic though it may be, it is still an experience. Life apparently is not always going to be fun, entertaining, stimulating or interesting…..DAMN! The only reason I feel nostalgic for the past, and in particular the most recent, is because I have been blessed with the most amazing experiences (professionally and personally) of my life over the last 10 years. This should not prevent me from sharing, simply because it may not be agreeable to my “readers” or even to myself. And anyway, it is no longer just for my mother. In any case, she gets blow by blow feedback in person on a fortnightly basis! So you have been warned. Posts from henceforth may not make sense, may seem terribly angry or comfortably fit into the “slit my wrist now with a blunt spoon” category (or even, if I am on really good form......all of the above!)

But before I re-kindle my long overdue relationship with this very friendly keyboard, I must stress - I am OK! It is "just a phase I am going through!" ;-)

17th June 2005

2005-06-21T04:10:00.000+03:00

I have dedicated today to publicising my friends unashamedly and to that end asking you to part with your hard earned cash!

Below you will find two posts that in effect detail what each woman does. The plus side is .... they both have direct and potentially highly rewarding selfish dividends. They will both make you feel very good. The only ever so slightly down aspect is that you part with a small amount of cash....

To those who brave it and seek love in the arms of a lawyer, please let us know the outcome, especially to those of us who will be living our lives vicariously through you. ;-)

In the interests of justice...honest! Read on....

2005-06-20T17:14:00.000+03:00

Legal E&SE presents:

MAGIC THURSDAY at MEDICINE

PROFESSIONALS SINGLES NIGHT

OPEN TO LAWYERS & LAW ENFORCEMENT PROFESSIONALS OF ALL AGES

DATE: THURSDAY 23rd JUNE 2005 - 6 p.m. to 10 p.m.
VENUE: Downstairs at the Medicine Bar, 89 Great Eastern St, Shoreditch – near Old Street Station
AIMED AT: Barristers, Solicitors, Government Lawyers, Court Service, Police, Fire Brigades
COST: £15 includes welcome drink and free entry to ‘The Summer Melt’ R&B Club night

at 10 p.m.
REGISTER NOW: email Hemma at magicthursdays@hotmail.co.uk

or call 0207 692 4355

------------------------------------------------------------------

AND BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND:

SPEEDDATING

Downstairs at the Melton Mowbray, 18 Holborn, near Chancery Lane Station
BOOK EARLY TO AVOID DISAPPOINTMENT
TUESDAY 28th JUNE 2005 at 6.30 p.m. – aged 22 - 40
THURSDAY 30th JUNE 2005 at 6.30 p.m. – aged 35 +
Cost: £20 including food and welcome drink

For more information or to register email Hemma at speed-dating@hotmail.com

or call 0207 692 4355

PS: The lack of graphics is all my fault as I have no idea how to put them on

PPS: I can swear by the organiser - puts on very good events!

Belize Challenge 2005

2005-06-20T13:05:00.000+03:00

A dear friend and constant source of inspiration, is venturing back to Belize.

In brief, for 3 months last year, she packed her bags, left "sunny" Leicester and the love of her life to begin a project in Belize redrafting discrimination legislation affecting older persons in Belize. This period of service was unfortunately cut short due to a lack of funds.

Click to read more about Belize 2004 and Belize 2005 or the button on the right hand of this screen.

However, being the amazing woman that she is, she is going back. To finish what she started and ensure that the Bill is not only drafted, but put before Parliament and, if I know Kui, passed. She is truly her mother's daughter (for those of you who know Dr Kihoro!)

So this is my pledge to all who read this (and a wee bit of emotional blackmail to those who love me ;-)) buy her stuff if you can or donate whatever you can afford. If not financially possible (yes this includes you Ollie), place her button on your website/blog/whatever and/or copy this and send out an email to everyone you know.

She is going out to do amazing work - I am in such awe and so humbled - and I figured needs as much support, in whatever form, from those she knows and those she doesn't.

Thank you...

Much love,

Wxxx

Obituary - Hamilton Naki

2005-06-16T04:23:00.000+03:00

Hamilton Naki, an unrecognised surgical pioneer, died on May 29th, aged 78

June 9th 2005, The Economist Print Edition

ON DECEMBER 3rd, 1967, the body of a young woman was brought to Hamilton Naki for dissection. She had been knocked down by a car as she went to buy a cake on a street in Cape Town, in South Africa. Her head injuries were so severe that she had been pronounced brain-dead at the hospital, but her heart, uninjured, had gone on furiously pumping. Mr Naki was not meant to touch this body.

The young woman, Denise Darvall, was white, and he was black. The rules of the hospital, and indeed the apartheid laws of the land, forbade him to enter a white operating theatre, cut white flesh, or have dealings with white blood. For Mr Naki, however, the Groote Schuur hospital had made a secret exception. This black man, with his steady, dexterous hands and razor-sharp mind, was simply too good at the delicate, bloody work of organ transplantation. The chief transplant surgeon, the young, handsome, famously temperamental Christiaan Barnard, had asked to have him on his team. So the hospital had agreed, saying, as Mr Naki remembered, “Look, we are allowing you to do this, but you must know that you are black and that's the blood of the white. Nobody must know what you are doing.” Nobody, indeed, knew.

On that December day, in one part of the operating suite, Barnard in a blaze of publicity prepared Louis Washkansky, the world's first recipient of a transplanted human heart. Fifteen metres away, behind a glass panel, Mr Naki's skilled black hands plucked the white heart from the white corpse and, for hours, hosed every trace of blood from it, replacing it with Washkansky's. The heart, set pumping again with electrodes, was passed to the other side of the screen, and Mr Barnard became, overnight, the most celebrated doctor in the world. In some of the post-operation photographs Mr Naki inadvertently appeared, smiling broadly in his white coat, at Barnard's side. He was a cleaner, the hospital explained, or a gardener. Hospital records listed him that way, though his pay, a few hundred dollars a month, was actually that of a senior lab technician. It was the most they could give, officials later explained, to someone who had no diploma. There had never been any question of diplomas.

Mr Naki, born in the village of Ngcangane in the windswept Eastern Cape, had been pulled out of school at 14, when his family could no longer afford it. His life seemed likely to be cattle-herding, barefoot and in sheepskins, like many of his contemporaries. Instead, he hitch-hiked to Cape Town to find work, and managed to land a job tending lawns and rolling tennis courts at the University of Cape Town Medical School. A black—even one as clever as he was, and as immaculately dressed, in a clean shirt, tie and Homburg hat even to work in the gardens—could not expect to get much further.

But a lucky break came when, in 1954, the head of the animal research lab at the Medical School asked him for help. Robert Goetz needed a strong young man to hold down a giraffe while he dissected its neck to see why giraffes did not faint when they drank. Mr Naki coped admirably, and was taken on: at first to clean cages, then to hold and anaesthetise the animals, then to operate on them.

Stealing with his eyes

The lab was busy, with constant transplant operations on pigs and dogs to train doctors, eventually, for work on humans. Mr Naki never learned the techniques formally; as he put it, “I stole with my eyes”. But he became an expert at liver transplants, far trickier than heart transplants, and was soon teaching others.

Over 40 years he instructed several thousand trainee surgeons, several of whom moved on to become heads of departments. Barnard admitted—though not until 2001, just before he died—that Mr Naki was probably technically better than he was, and certainly defter at stitching up afterwards. Unsung, though not unappreciated, Mr Naki continued to work at the Medical School until 1991. When he retired, he drew a gardener's pension: 760 rand, or about $275, a month.

He exploited his medical contacts to raise funds for a rural school and a mobile clinic in the Eastern Cape, but never thought of money for himself. As a result, he could pay for only one of his five children to stay to the end of high school.

Recognition, with the National Order of Mapungubwe and an honorary degree in medicine from the University of Cape Town, came only a few years before his death, and long after South Africa's return to black rule. He took it well. Bitterness was not in his nature, and he had had years of training to accept his life as apartheid had made it. On that December day in 1967, for example, as Barnard played host to the world's adoring press, Mr Naki, as usual, caught the bus home. Strikes, riots and road blocks often delayed it in those days. When it came, it carried him—in his carefully pressed suit, with his well-shined shoes—to his one-room shack in the township of Langa. Because he was sending most of his pay to his wife and family, left behind in Transkei, he could not afford electricity or running water. But he would always buy a daily newspaper; and there, the next day, he could read in banner headlines of what he had done, secretly, with his black hands, with a white heart.

The Machete

2005-06-13T10:22:00.000+03:00

"A Machete, and a Barteaux in particular, is the best bang for the buck in the knife world."

-M. Willson Offutt

According to the Wikipedia encyclopedia, the machete "is a cleaver-like tool that looks like a very large bread knife" with a blade typically 50-60 cm long. It is often bought with one one side ground down to an edge. Some, however, are made so cheaply that the purchaser is expected to finish the sharpening.

Today I saw someone walking down the street with a machete in his hand. As I stood waiting for a matatu (dhala in Arusha) I watched him as he came and entered the same matutu as I. He sat next to me. We took off down towards what I term as the uneasy co-existence of decadent UN lifestyle and local culture.

Now to those from Africa, this is not an abnormal scene. Boy is on his way to cut something down, or farm - it is a tool of his trade/livelihood. Perfectly acceptable.

However, I began to smile at first.... Let me explain.

Being the sad woman I am, I began to mentally visualise how I would explain this to a judge in a Magistrates Court (or if I am lucky - Crown Court!), as my client stood charged for possession of an offensive weapon. The line of argument would probably go along the similar lines of those arrested for carrying flick knives who undoubtedly will profess that they are part and parcel of their current 'employment'. More often than not, these individuals are "painters and decorators" on their way to a job or from a job, which they are loath to tell the court - ofcourse - because they are supposed to be unemployed and it was a quick job for a mate! So translate that to a court in Arusha. Cause to smile! The court is not likely to be amused and the level of abuse hurled at me, would be, to say the very least, interesting.

However, my job at the moment daily dwells on what human beings did with that seemingly innocent steel blade with rough wooden handle.

It was at this point that the man sitting next to me with that stained and well used blade held loosely between his legs no longer held a humorous context. I recall previous research on machetes, the fact that you can purchase two types - heavy duty or economy. The heavy duty machete reserved for more heavy duty jobs. The economy designed for less rigorous use. So, which one would you use to hack someone's head off, I think? Would that be a heavy duty job or less rigorous considering the apparent softness of the human's neck veterbrae? Or would one pick and choose their machete, in the same way one would choose a gun - depending on whether the intention is to blow the motherf*&^%'s head off or just the kneecaps?

So picture it, one takes this so called "large bread knife" having believed that that a certain ethnic group is not worth living. In his mind, they have been reduced to the status of cockroaches (and quite obviously not that of the revered status of those in New Orleans!) and deserve to be terminated. There is no need to call in the exterminators. This is a job that has to be given personal attention. One's neighbour, childhood sweetheart, business associate will take that personally sharpened tool and use it on this 'vermin,' these 'snakes.'

Slaughter is personal. Intimate. Proximate. One hacks at the individual as you would a field of sugar cane. This farming tool is used to destroy women and men in ways previously unimaginable to me, sometimes after being raped/beaten/abused - take your pick. Tell me which one would anyone advise effectively does its duty? Heavy duty or economy? I look at photos later of dead bodies, some hacked into unidentifiable pieces, children's feet lying several feet from the bloody body, churches filled with just a mass of flesh and blood. I read transcript after transcript of what apparently was a justifiable attempt to rid the planet of "a stench", garbage, a cancer. Most of it carried out by 'Joe Bloggs,' not the military, with a machete in his hand.

This once innocuous tool, takes on different meaning. I know it was used in the Cuban War of Independence and a weapon of choice for the Haitian Tonton Macoute. I know it is used in armed robberies in many African countries. I know all of this. However, I wonder, how do Rwandese survivors get over what I presume would be a life long phobia of such an instrument? An instrument that uniquely symbolises the massacre of hundreds of thousands of people? And what happened to all those thousands of machetes that were imported and distributed? Are they still in circulation? Can you buy them in the local market as you would second hand items in Gikomba? How does a person who has witnessed the use of that simple farming device on themselves, their family, friends, strangers, then pick one up again and use it to farm, to cut vegetation, re-use it in everyday chores after it has being involved in so much horror? How? I don't know. I don't know.

I begin to feel uncomfortable. Very warm despite the fact it is relatively cold. Clammy. Claustrophobic. I get off at the next stop. It is raining. I wait for the next dhala.

Sick Humour

2005-06-13T09:33:00.000+03:00

I know - very cruel, but I was laughing so hard I had to share. This is dedicated to Thinker's lastest post.

Blogger's Block

2005-06-08T11:39:00.000+03:00

Like those greats who have gone before me...Guess, Ms K, MJY, to mention a few, I have been afflicted by the very dreaded disease that can be colloquially termed as "BB" - not to be confused with human guinea pigs enclosed in a glass shell, daily tormented by Mary, apparently "everyone's favourite white witch". Is there a favourite "black" witch? MJY, care to educate? ;-)

I sincerely hope that it is a phase, a blip, soon to be examined in the near future as a growing experience, a time to reflect, to eventually herald a rejuvenated return, full of energy and hopefully an inciteful and humorous snapshot of this incredible place.

Bear with me.... but in the mean time, please browse my daily reading on the right, in particular Thinker who is on particularly good form!

(Yes I am over compensating above for the lack of enthusiasm to write!)

Visitation Rights

2005-06-03T08:45:00.000+03:00

Just a small reminder. If you want to visit, please let me know soon-ish! I am only here till mid September but will only have free accommodation for you until 16th August 2005. My calendar will let you know where I am and when (dangerous I know ;-) but...)

It would be great to have visitors and there is so much to do! And yes Wangare, certain family members get priority ;-)

PS: learning to drive - this is going to be great: me, 4x wheel drive, nature!

Calendar

2005-06-01T20:03:00.000+03:00

Loss of brain cells is such a drag. However, as a result, I find I am forgetting appointments, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. To counteract this apparently "natural" development in my life, I have developed a calendar on this site to remind me of both trivial and important events. Please let me know if there is anything I should put on there. Examples include birthdays, dates you would like to come and visit or visa versa, dates of conception (immaculate or otherwise) and so forth.... Any other categories are very welcome ;-) Anything pretty much that you feel I should really remember if not only for this year, but for years to come.

While all forms of delivering such messages is acceptable, please note that messages sent by any sort of feathered creature is slightly problematic and should be avoided. As I have had reason to discover today, although receipt is usually punctual and definitely unique, the poor birds find it difficult to engineer their way out of my office, causing major anxiety to both myself and them.

Dates can ofcourse be left in the conventional manner using the "Comment Box" below or by sending an email to wambui.mwangi@gmail.com.

Light...

2005-05-31T18:02:00.000+03:00

... has been spotted at the end of the tunnel! I realized that all I have done is complain since I got here, when I really should look beyond the she*%!

And once I did that, things were not that bad. Amazing what a little bit of prayer, weekend in a heavenly cottage on a volcanic crater, talking to Julie and some sleep can achieve ;-)

People, Arusha is beautiful. You get off that plane and you smell Africa (if such a thing is possible.) Nowhere else have I been where a country's personality hits you in the face from the moment those doors are opened.

It had rained when I arrived. I was accosted by that smell of recent rain on open soil, the buzz of mosquitoes accompanying the crickets and the frogs, the big expanse of sky. It felt right. I was home. And breathing becomes easier - which is weird as I have just come from below sea level to several thousand feet above! My red blood cells were not too pleased after a couple of days. But they will just have to go forth and multiply.

The fur coat came off - YES! I did take it with me to Arusha. I missed it too much in New Orleans. A woman and her coat separated for considerable lengths of time is not a good thing.

At Susan's house, I sat on the veranda, overlooking a huge garden, dotted with Hibiscus flowers, avocado trees, spider plants adding an eerie white border around the newly planted lawn, the smell of jasmin from next door's garden. All intermingling with that smell of rain we all have childhood memories of and sometimes feel may be exaggerated by the nostalgia of youth. Heaven! The sky was huge, the stars within reach. Q: Why is the sky always so much bigger here?

It is wonderful just being able to drive through huge expanse of land, viewing mountains from your veranda, being able to listen daily to the lilt of perfect Swahili, being slightly overwhelmed and humbled by the politeness and graciousness of those around you (in my quest for independence I forgot how nice it is to have someone literally do everything for you! I am still finding it very weird to get used to!)

That evening as I slept (we had talked and talked and ..... Until about 3 am) you could hear the light rain on the lemon tree outside my window and all sorts of wildlife joining in. I wake up every morning to birds singing, a glass of mango juice and freshly ground coffee. What do I really have to complain about? The professional end - well it is only a tiny blip on everything else that this amazing country and Tribunal have to offer.**

**When I start bitching again - remind me to come back to this place! ;-)

Hotel Rwanda

2005-05-26T14:18:00.000+03:00

Based on a true story, the film depicts the actions of Paul Rusesabagina, who risked his life to save over a thousand Tutsis and Hutus marked for death during the Rwandan massacre. Using his connections as a four-star hotel manager, Paul cajoles, bribes and blackmails military and government officials in his frantic efforts to rescue over 1200 people. Don Cheadle is fantastic in it as Sophie Okonedo who plays his wife. You may remember seeing her in Dirty Pretty Things. (Tyler - this is where Rwanda is. Click here. (fn.1))

There is a museum close to where our offices are called "Via Via" that also houses a relatively OK restaurant/bar. They were screening it outside, kind of like summer movies in Queen's Square, Bristol. Luckily it was free and therefore both locals and foreigners could attend. It had been raining all day so grass a wee bit wet, but Sigall and I parked infront of the screen, butts on raincoat, southern comforts in ample supply and waited. It then began to rain, getting slightly heavier as if trying to prove a point - no one was moving. Umbrellas came out and we waited. Anyway, man upstairs must have realized that this particular part of the human race was about as stubborn as you could get, and the rain ceased - although the clouds hovered about in a menacing and threatening manner - and the film began. We were soon joined by Susan and another friend of Sigall's, Nazzarena. The atmosphere seemed apt, sitting outside, huddled together in the rain, watching the film unfold.

One aspect that was unnerving was having a celluloid depiction of Bizimungu. His trial is currently on going. Here is his indictment. You must be warned though. It is quite long. The concept of one, maybe two page indictments has not yet reached the international arena. Considering I had read and followed Rutuganda's' trial and subsequent conviction, there is something very real and disturbing having this larger than life visual image of the man in front of you. A lot of the dialogue, scenes, depictions of what happened are what I am reading/read transferred onto celluloid. The film is powerful and provocative. In its indirect and subtle jabs at the west for not intervening, it does not let us forget that the Rwandan genocide was also an unforgivable foreign-relations lapse by Western foreign administration. In addition, that the United Nations reduced its peacekeeping force to 270 men -- for the entire country -- and that Europe turned its collective back as Hutu extremists inflamed bloodlust against the Tutsi minority. We cannot forget that nearly 1 million people were killed in 100 days, the most rapid genocide in history. We cannot forget that many of the victims were hacked to death with machetes. However, this film depicts this genocide without much "emotional grandstanding or easy moralism."

So I cannot sleep. What is it with traveling to beautiful and exotic (fn.2) places and then keeping myself awake by churning everything over and over in my head? ;-) The reason behind this recent bout of insomnia was a question asked of me this morning.... "Would I ever consider death appropriate for the crimes committed by some of those already convicted or currently standing trial."

Emotive question, I know, and one I can usually rise above. However the trouble here was because the question was not simply limited to State sanctioned death. I am ashamed to admit that there have been a few certain and specific times, including in the Hague and in 1995, when I felt the very strong urge to personally erase certain individuals for acts they committed or to cause them severe pain. (fn.3) I did not care how or how irrational the thought process was. And I would play these little cinematic episodes (yes even after the age of 10) in my head of what I would do, and for some incredible reason I always possessed Herculean powers and Jackie Chan skills. (I am kind of assuming that this is "normal." If not, please wait for at least 2 weeks before sending down the men in white coats.)

And now in Arusha - I am faced with the same imagery I was faced with in 1995. Then I think (which is not always a good thing for it takes too long for me to come to any conclusion, and often I never come to one, which results in weeks, if not months of insomnia.) In the Hague, I did not sleep for weeks after reading witness testimonies in Kunarac et al, in New Orleans, debates with one's self kind of took over the hours normally dedicated to resting those brain cells. I suppose that was a a blessing somewhat for it meant very detailed blog entries. ;-) And now, not only am I quite disturbed by some of the material I am reading, but it is creating emotions in me that are not wholly conducive to my abolitionist stance. Arghhhh! I feel like a complete fraud. *

Anyway, for those who have not seen it yet, it is an amazing film. I would urge you to go see it.

------------------------

Footnotes

1. And for anyone else over 6 years of age who is not quite sure ;-)

2. Yes, New Orleans counts as "exotic" to an African farm girl!

3. This does not include UN Admin staff or certain male relatives. ;-)

*Alison G - do not worry! I am alright - slightly confused but alright. However if it prompts more photos of your cute little child, who am I to say no???

Patience and an S.O.H.

2005-05-24T18:42:00.000+03:00

Courtesy of "Flatmate X" (2005)

There are two very important virtues here. Patience and a sense of humor. Without either one of them, you would seriously contemplate committing GBH.

I have spent the last 2 days checking in! So the above two virtues are very IMPORTANT! I have checked in with literally with every department possible, including building management services (to learn about how this building operates), transport (even though I never will borrow a car!) and staff unions (despite the fact I am not eligible to join a union.) But all almost done. The medical was survived - nice doctor actually and now I only need to learn how to fill in the forms so I can get some stationery. It might help if I could find them, but I am sure that will soon become abundantly clear. I arrived on Saturday evening having had a consultant for a foundation HIV hospital as my "plane buddy." Needless to say that we discussed everything under the sun for a considerable period. I was met by a taxi driver who had my name in orange fluorescent letters. Bless!

Susan's house is ERNOMOUS, beautiful and I discovered that European chic in an African home can actually be tasteful! My bedroom houses a double Zanzibarian bed, complete with net canopy and possibly straight out of "Out of Africa" - colonial implications I know, but please rest at the imagery.... Woke up 12 hours later! Lunched in gorgeous hotel, which unfortunately seems to be an ex-pat drinking hole so will have to be avoided. Missed a seminar that started at 9am that morning but hey as the travel department will confirm - I was not technically here ;-)

I miss New Orleans so much though. Anyway, I digress. .... Sunday was a lazy day. Read a lot - need to catch up FAST! Monday I arrived in work at 8am. Met the President of the Tribunal, Judge Mose, who is lovely. So lovely. Apparently I do not actually possess a portfolio - will soon find out why I am here which should be interesting. I am however officially a "misc!" His words not mine! He is a slight gentleman with a very easy manner. Very accessible, generous with his time, good sense of humor (this comes in very handy as I mentioned before!) and incredibly intelligent. Pictures to come.

The rest of the day was spent tracking down relative "chiefs" of different departments in their relative chiefdoms as they threw about their little "bits of power" in several directions. By 4pm I was screaming - seriously! I wanted to kill. I had just been informed that due to the fact that past staff members had been given an advance on their salary and buggered off without doing a days' work, I could not get an advance unless my section Chief personally guaranteed that he would pay the Tribunal back if I went AWOL! I felt so insulted. So I got my section chief's authorization, at which point I was informed that further enquiries needed to be made re. the bleeding U.N. rules. Yes, an S.O.H. is important. Highly recommended you come with your own and in huge supply!

Then there was Archie! There is always one who will bring sunshine into your life! Now, how bizarre is this:

Week one in New Orleans: a Liberian family takes me under their wing;

Day one in Arusha: a Liberian man takes me under his wing!

Weird, huh?

Archie is approximately 47 years (I would hate to over estimate his age), who is lovely. He gave me a tour of his "fiefdom," offered me a cup of tea and a comfy chair to take the weight off the strappy high heeled sandals I stupidly wore on my first day of work! My feet looked good though. Archie will surely be a blessing. Yes he flirts incessantly and is a charmer but totally harmless and in any case may prove to be good practice for me. I need retraining!

By Monday evening, I was ready for bed at 8pm, stress headache and all, to prepare for another day that would require well honed tracking skills. Climbed into my delicious 4 poster Zanzibarian heaven and was out!

I am here

2005-05-23T13:57:00.000+03:00

Finally in Arusha! It has been an experience since day one. Cannot wait to tell you all about it. This place gives new meaning to the term inefficient. One thing that still has me smiling is - they could not send someone to the airport to pick me up because I did not confirm the date I was arriving. This would have been fine, except they booked my ticket!!!! When I pointed this out, they said, I still needed to confirm my arrival date. It was incumbent on the incoming staff member to confirm with the same travel department that booked their non refundable, non transferable, non endorseable ticket, their arrival date. I laughed! What else to do?

Love being in Africa though. Love it. And found Charity too. Will tell you all about her when I get another minute on a computer. Network dies here on a frequent hourly basis so forgive me if I do not post as often as I would like.

Missing New Orleans ALOT!

Karibuni!

2005-05-13T06:36:00.000+03:00

This is an experience I look forward to sharing with you. For those who "journeyed" through New Orleans with me, hopefully you will want to experience "Arusha" experience with me too. Yay!

To my new "blog subscribers", as the new kids on the block, I expect frequent feedback ;-) well actually I hope for it, for those currently on the New Orleans blog-roll are "terrible. " Stir...stir....stir...hee hee hee!

This is bound to be a slightly more entertaining journey in my life than New Orleans (if that is possible) considering the bureaucratic nonsense that I have had to deal with already and what I am sure is to come. I might not actually get there for I am supposed to leave on Saturday and they still have not paid for my ticket ;-) Now no offence to the West Africans I love and cherish - but surely, are there no West African men that I can get along with in that place? The ones I have had to deal with are so up their own importance, so incompetent and inefficient that I wonder how the institution they are supposed to be holding together with admin support stays standing. Ha ha ha! We shall see if I get there.

Anyway...Welcome to my very bizarre world....