meanwhile, in rwanda

Right this second I'm sitting in Shokolat in Kigali, or rather lying in Shokolat in Kigali, as I am essentially stretched out horizontal on this incredibly comfortable couch. Jane is sitting/lying next to me and we are happily ignoring each other while soaking up fast internet. Shokolat is our new favorite place because they have high-speed internet and they don't kick you off after an hour, like damned Bourbon, which is now the scourge of our souls. Shokolat has a cozy feel, complete with a large library of books in English, and they sell chocolate chip cookies that may or may not be warm.

John just walked in and said "I no longer have a kettle" the way some people might say "I am no longer married to Marie". He went to the Chinese shop and they wouldn't give him a new kettle but refused to relinquish his old one once he had given it to them, saying that they will try to fix it and give it back to him "maybe on Monday". The shop owner gave him a paper with a number on it and a lot of handwriting in Chinese and then shooed him away. Pretty standard.

Things in Rwanda have been a little tumultuous since the start of the second term, and everyone from the WorldTeach group seems to be having bit of a tough reentry into teaching and Rwandan life in general. For me, things were pretty tame; the worst of it was when my iPod, hotplate, and computer power cable all broke in the same week, and I got sick, and my roommates thieved so many of my things that I started locking my kitchen and hiding my radio, leading to a cold war in the house that still has not lifted. One of my best friends here, Susan, undoubtedly has the worst return to school. She had gone back to the US for the break, so readjusting to Rwanda was rough, but she also had to contend with roommates from hell, an incredibly apathetic student body, and a remote placement in town with zero resources. As a result, she decided last week to leave WorldTeach, but thankfully to stay in Rwanda. We were all having a hard enough time to inspire my Field Director to host a contest where we all had to come up with our best strategies for fighting foreign-living frustration. The contest winners were meant to be announced at a WorldTeach-funded party in Kigali this weekend, but then our faithful FD contracted a bad case of malaria and is currently out for the count (but doing better every day, thankfully). Long story short: Blargh!

In spite of the hiccups, I think things are starting to look up here in the big RW. I've been teaching computer science, creative performance, and English this trimester, and having much more fun with that lineup than I was with entrepreneurship. The kiddos are CRAZY for computers; even stuff that we might consider boring, like formatting Word documents or creating Excel spreadsheets, is apparently great fun for them, and I'm having all kinds of cheesy teacher moments, when I show a kid how to do something and their eyes light up. We just started playwriting in creative performance (thanks to the breakdown of my iPod), and I've been trying to get the students to write about their favorite quotes, songs, photographs, and memories to get them talking about what motivates them so they can figure out what to write plays about. This has been going surprisingly well, and I can't wait to see some of their performances in a couple weeks.

In an effort to become less computer-dependent, I went up to a quiet part of the school last night with a great view of the surrounding hills and watched the stars come out. It was fantastic. One frustrating thing about this country is that there are people everywhere all the time, so even on a long walk or in the house, it's really hard to find a quiet moment to yourself. The part of the school I watched the stars from is where the new dorms are being built; I don't think the students are moving in till next year and the workers all leave at the end of the school day, so maybe I'll spend more evenings there, soaking up the calm.

Not much else to report at the moment. Time seems to be moving along pretty quickly for now; hard to believe that we've got just eight more weeks of teaching for this term, then exams, then break...! Right now, I'm looking forward to our midservice conference in a couple weeks, the World Cup in June (not a diehard soccer fan by any means, but I am surely a fan of mass hysteria), a quick visit from Jason in July, and then a monthlong romp through southern Africa with Morgan! Thanks to WT friends, support from home, plantains, epic books, friendly cafe owners, sharp students, The Avett Brothers, starry nights, and BBC Focus on Africa with Hassan Aruni, I think the day-to-day in Shyorongi should be pretty swell until then :)

searching for the loch ness monster

We are still here at Monachyle Mhor hotel. As spring issues idle promises to put leaves back on the trees and the warmer weather lets us keep our door open to the world, lambs begin to fill the paddocks, rumors of sheep dog puppies down the road can be heard, and daffodils come and go, we continue to balance work and play and plan our trip south. Of course things don’t really seem to change here at Monachyle; if it weren’t for our regular days off giving us reference points in time, I’d swear time was standing still. On our last three off days we have climbed stob binnien, road tripped to the north in search of the loch ness monster, ticked a few things off our gear list, and cycled from here to Killin and back. We have 12 days 5 hours and 7 minutes until we finish work here.

I will miss this place and I won’t miss this place. The solitude is a blessing and a curse. I cannot put in words nor capture in photos the beauty of this place. I love sitting here in my room with the door open staring out at he mountains on my doorstep towering above the green fields and trees, watching the trees gently sway as the wind moves through them, the sound of the wind and the feel of the wind while hearing lambs and birds, watching the birds play, as the constant shhh of the river reminds me of that beautiful feeling I had once and I could happily close my eyes and dream with the door open. Yet while it is beautiful and we have a great group of people working here, we are so few that when one of us has time off nobody else does. It would be really fun, and good for everyone, if all the staff could get out and do something together. But we are always working. That being said nicki and I do get time off together and being out here affords us ample opportunity for outdoor exploration.

From the summit of stob binnien, at about 1165 meters, we were looking down on all the mountains surrounding the hotel. (The mountains which normally tower above us) It felt like we were on top of Scotland. We saw far. We could see Ben Nevis to the north and Ben Lomond to the south. From where we were, on top of Scotland, it seemed the mountains stretched all the way across this country. The walk was a good one. Another one of those Scotland walks where we start in shorts and t-shirts and by the end of the walk we’re fully bundled for cold weather. It took us about 5 hours from the hotel and back, 3 up and 2 down. After cycling from here, the walk began with a steep ascent for the first 700m, then followed along a ridge for about a mile before climbing steadily to the summit. It was really neat to be able to see the topography of the area north of the hotel, and hopefully we can use our understanding of the terrain to come up with a good route up Ben Mhor.

So we took a trip up to Inverness and Loch Ness, kind of searching for the monster but also wanting to see Scotland. We saw some signs of Nessy, as you can see in the photos.

This wave can only have been caused by a monster

Can loch ness support large aquatic life?

Nicki tries to lure nessy...

On the way up we drove past aviemore and the Cairngorms national park. The Cairngorms are large and mountainous wilderness area a few hours north of our hotel. Aviemore, on the west side of the park, is home to Scotland biggest skiing area. It was there we camped as we made our way up to Inverness. It was a beautiful spot next to a loch. Waking up here the next morning was one of the highlights of the trip. It had that smell. (When Trevor lost his sense of smell I asked him how it was affecting him. He said it sucked. He is forever left with a lingering new car smell on his nose. Yet he adjusted fairly quickly. However, the smell he missed the most was the smell of clean fresh air after it rains. As it rains on and off a lot here, we get that a lot. You can also smell it outside early in the morning amidst the freshly settled dew. We have started calling it Trevor’s smell.) I love waking up in the mountains. We drove up to the base of the ski field just to have a look. Inverness is a nice medium sized Scottish town.

It was also on this day that we put a picnic in a blanket on a stick and found a spot on the beach of the black isle north of Inverness.

We leave in two weeks. Just booked our train yesterday from Edinburgh to Milton Keyens. Tomorrow I’ll write a letter to granddad letting him know when he can expect us. We’ll stay with him for three nights then go to Brighton for three nights before taking the ferry to Dieppe in France. Then it’s just us and the bikes. For people who haven't seen our crazy idea here it is:

The route may change as we go, depending on how we go.. All of our gear has been bought, some is still in the mail. If anyone’s interested in checking out other peoples bike touring pages check out the trento bike pages web site. I'm still not sure how we will stay on touch during the trip, but we'll try to keep up blogs of our progress. We plan to meet up with Nicki’s friends in Carcassonne for a few days, hopefully cross paths with the tour du france as we pass through gap, see our friends in embrun, and also meet up with more friends when we get to Dubrovnik. The realization and excitement of the trip dawns on us more and more as we get closer to the day. just two more weeks here at Monachyle Mhor

Run

The running starts slowly, slowly and painfully. Joints ache, bones ache. Tired muscles, sore from yesterday, not used to running. Not breathing heavy yet, not in the first steps, but soon because lungs are tired too. Trot, trot, step, step, step, across the dusty lot in front of the mods, down and up through the empty dry drainage ditch, slight turn onto one of the streets that leads from the middle of Camp Bastion to the perimeter. To the right are the enlisted dorms, tents, with shitty air conditioning and external bathroom trailers. The bathrooms in the mods are small, but at least they're proper and clean, and we each get our own room. To the left is the JFH(A), Joint Helicopter Forces (Afghanistan) operations center run by the British. Good that they let us be here to help, good that they let us fly from Bastion and work side by side. Past that some more trailers and tents, not much I know. Neat blocks of trailers and tents, trailers and tents everywhere. And dust.

Try to think of a song to play in my head while I run. Sometimes Lil' Wayne, sometimes Pirates of the Carribbean, sometimes Pink Floyd, sometimes Dragonball Z. No need for an iPod, screwing with the armband, earbuds uncomfortable, tracks coming on I don't like. I can listen to anything I can remember.

South down the side of the dusty road to the edge of the base, and now a decision. Wind from east to west today so I turn left, into the wind for the beginning and the end of the run. Not bad now and sprints on the back stretch will be easy, but the last leg will be hard. That's fine. Sprints today so I'll be tired anyway. Left across the road and stay on the left side, between the ditch and the cars and trucks. They kick up dust when they come by, dry dust that's hard to breathe but harder to escape. Crosswind is best for the dust while running, into the wind is next best. Bad, but it goes by quickly - breathe in from down low and out to the front. Past the Base HQ and cross the road that leads out the main gate, dodging slow cars, wave of thanks for getting in their way.

Muscles less sore now, still running slow to warm up but the breathing's coming along too. At the end of the block turn north again, down the most boring stretch. Fences on either side, contractors and construction on the left, and helicopter flightline on the right. All the British squadrons first and then we're down at the end, the small compound of a few tents that makes up our home. Not there yet though - not the longest leg of the run here but it seems it for the fences, and today it's where the sprints start too. First one nice and easy, start out slow, make the strides longer bit by bit, build about halfway to a full sprint and stay there for just a moment, then slowly back down and trot some more. Nice and easy, no hurry, just to get used to the idea.

Two more sprints on this stretch, both closer to a full sprint but not quite there yet. Hold it for a little longer, and fast on the third past our squadron. Feet starting to feel lighter, listen to the chorus in my head, all stretched and loose and fast. Slow down again, trot some more. More dust, more ditches, more fences and trailers and trucks. Some days I run free, down and up every ditch, over walls and shipping containers, flowing across everything, but not today. Trot to the end and turn west, out along the long stretch down the backside of the base. Today is about speed.

On my right is a long wall, nothing on the other side but the dump where they burn the garbage. On the left is all construction and logistics, building materials, cement plants, watter bottling, contractor housing. Trailers and tents, down the stretch. Glance at the fence to the left, pick a start for the first sprint, pick something to sprint to. One hundred yards will do, but more or less will do also. This dent in the fence to that culvert there, perfect. Go.

This one's a real sprint, and now I'm light and fast and strong. Two long strides to get going, and then I'm flying with the wind. Twenty yards, forty. Fling the feet into each stride, breathe deep and fast, use the arms and the stomach and the chest and the back, move the legs faster and faster. Can barely feel the ground. Thirty yards to go, twenty, ten. Stay on the gas all the way to the end, nearly there, don't quit early, don't quit, stay fast on the toes, faster faster faster, done! Then relax and skip along as I slow down. Breathing hard but not tired, eager for more. Pick some part of the fence to jog to, let the music calm down and trot along. Recovery comes fast, breathing slows, heart slows. Muscles not sore anymore, ready for another right now but that's not the way to go, rest is important too. Be glad for the rest, be thankful. Plenty of sprints still ahead.

More trucks and cars go by, and with the wind is the worst. They kick up dust all along the stretch, and all of it will blow by me. Hard to breathe, hard to see. But, wave to the drivers anyway. Get a smile and a wave back, that British soldier there, that Pakistani contractor across the road, that gang of local workers. Wave and smile, it goes a long way. Always use the right hand - the left can be an offense here - but I still think the smile counts more.

Next few sprints are great, flying every time. Get to the start and launch, sprint hard, light and fast, letting the vision blur, listening to the song in my head. Blur of speed, to the end, slow down again. Hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest, hundred yards sprint, hundred yards rest. Sprint to this trailer, rest to that ditch. Sprint past that truck, rest to that next street. Sprint, rest, sprint, rest, all the way down the stretch.

Next to last sprint before the turn, I look ahead to the end. One more after this, a long one, then a long trot to the corner. Getting tired now, getting winded. Each rest seems shorter, each time barely enough to be ready for the next one. Finish the next to last sprint and I'm winded, breathing hard. Rest, look ahead to the last sprint. Hundred yards to that culvert, then a full two hundred trot to the end of the road. One more, then a rest. Launch into the sprint, couple of long strides, decide to slowly build this one. Faster, faster, flying now, lungs straining for air. Fifty yards, seventy-five. One hundred isn't enough, no long rest. Keep going, stay on the gas, sprint a full two and rest half a block. Energy will come from somewhere, it always does. Remember to breathe, remember the music.

I finish the sprint and my lungs are bursting, muscles shaky from the effort. Breathe, breathe, keep the trot going, now the corner's only fifty yards, thirty yards. Round the corner to head south, feel the loss of the wind at my back. This is a good stretch, south down the west end of the base. Gravel processing plant on the right, otherwise looks much like the rest of the base but somehow neater, prettier dirt roads, better looking trailers and tents. Plus it's well away from the exit, so nobody ever comes down here. No foot traffic, no convoys, no contractors. Cement wall, cement guard towers, dusty road, fences, ditches. Peaceful.

Tell myself a couple of easy sprints are deserved here, then ignore myself and run them hard. Each one feels like the last now, two miles in, have to find the energy to keep going. Pick an end for each sprint and then burn trying to get there, broken and out of gas each time, scraping across the finish line. Each rest too short, shaky and gasping, heart pounding. Try and slow it down, try and rest, get ready for the next sprint. Start point's coming, ten yards, five. Maybe rest longer, can't sprint again yet. A few more and you're done, you wimp, sprint again now. Now! Struggle to find some music, struggle to find some air, stagger to the next rest. Four or five sprints down the stretch, each one an eternity of effort and pain.

Round the last corner, back east to the starting road. I tell myself I can rest here, then tell myself I can rest later. Every day the same, not sure how this lie still works on myself, but I sprint anyway. Quarter-mile stretch, and I rest then sprint then rest then sprint again. Second one's long, all the way to the road. Somehow ignore the pain and fly, full speed, past the point of breathing, past the point of seeing, fifty yards, a hundred yards. To that road, wait, to that truck, no, to the end of that fence. Two hundred yards, two-fifty. No more music now, just one long scream, push, push, rage, muscle, heart, feet, dust, bases, trailers, tents, helicopters, convoys, walls, fences, roads, lights, soldiers, guns, fire, war, blood. Run.

The road back to the mods goes the same as always, a slow build, back with the music, some words of wisdom echoing in my mind. After the sprints the build is easy - no reason I can quit now. Great strides by the end, down the road, across the dirt lot to the mods. Finish the same every day, gasping and exhausted, find some water, stretch, try to cool down, try to get some air. Soon it's shower and off to work. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I'll decide it's not worth it, maybe tomorrow I'll take a day off. Maybe tomorrow it'll still be worth it though - maybe tomorrow I'll run again.

TanziZanzi Part One

Here's an unnecessarily detailed description of our Tanzibar adventure so far. Written at the wee hours of either morning or night, so please excuse any grammar mistakes, factual errors, or wildly antisocial statements. Also, sorry about the formatting; when I copy-paste from Word it goes all screwy like this and takes hours to finish, and my internet cafe session is surely timing out soon. If a family member wants to hack in and tidy this up a bit, I wouldn't be averse...otherwise, happy reading :)

Day One: Nyakarambi to Kahama

We decided to leave Nyakarambi, Kyle’s town, as early as possible on Saturday morning, since we were still harboring vague hopes of reaching Moshi that day. Kyle had heard rumors that there was a bus that left Nyakarambi at 6am, so we were showered and out the door by 5:45, loitering on the side of the road a few minutes later. Several taxi busses came by but inexplicably wouldn’t pick us up. One wanted to charge us Frw10,000 (that’s about $5 per person, or five times the normal rate) just to get to the border, at which point I stood in the
middle of the street and started ranting about literal highway robbery. Finally, at around 7am, a bus with a reasonable and compassionate driver rolled through, and we officially set off on our Tanzanian romp.

The border between Rwanda and Tanzania is marked by the Akagera River, and the bridge to cross goes right over beautiful Rusumo Falls. Kyle’s colleague, John from Uganda, tagged along to get his first look at the falls. He turned out to be a total cutup, masterfully mangling English catchphrases with just enough earnestness and charm to have us all belly laughing over our chapattis and tea, which we took on the Rwanda side of the river. After a few token photos of us and the falls, John caught the bus back home, and we submitted our passports to the visa process. We crossed into Tanzania and hiked up a somewhat mammoth hill to get to customs, and amused ourselves to no end by taunting a nearby flock of turkeys while we were waiting for the officials to decide that we wished no harm to their country. Finally, with our passports all inked up in the Tanzanian style, we asked around and found the bus to Kahama.

As we boarded the bus, Loren got a text message from a savvy coworker telling him that the bridge to Kahama was “broken” and that we would be better off taking another route to Moshi. We asked our bus driver about the broken bridge, and he gave us the standard battle cry of the
muzungu-weary: “No problem.” By this time, we had given up hope of reaching Moshi that day due to our late start and our breakfast with John at the falls, so we decided to stick with our Kahama plans and find out what a broken bridge looked like. The dalla dalla (taxi bus) we were on was crowded, and Meghan had about half a seat to herself, but this was expected. We stopped approximately every five seconds to pick up passengers or to just heckle people on the side of the road, trying to convince them that they needed to ride our bus, so
naturally, the journey that was supposed to take three hours quickly became four, with no end in sight. Our dalla dalla pulled off the side of the road at a medium-sized town, and the driver told us that we had to get off, but we could leave all our luggage behind. Yeah, right, we thought, and put our packs on our back as we followed the rest of the passengers up the road, following someone we couldn’t see to a destination we didn’t know. After about half a mile of walking, a bus pulled up in front of us – the same one we had offboarded fifteen minutes before. Everyone piled back on, we shoved our bags back where they came from, and off we went again. Eventually, we came to a long line of trucks, busses and cars, and the dalla dalla stopped again. One of the sharper English speakers with us explained that we had reached the famed bridge, so we all had to get off again. We grabbed our bags and followed the rest of the passengers about a
quarter of a mile up to the broken bridge (it was over a tiny little
stream, but the concrete had completely caved in, and there was no way
for any vehicles to cross). We proceeded to stand around and look at
the bridge for a few minutes until someone told us that we had to go
back to our dalla dalla. We walked the quarter mile back, and gave
our tickets to a man who demanded them. Our questions about what was
going on were met with a few mildly quizzical stares, but mainly just
with total apathy. We settled down in the shade of a huge truck and
waited for instructions. After about half an hour, someone told us to
follow him back to the bridge, which we did. We then proceeded to
follow the stream of passengers as they scrambled down the bank and
forged the stream. Some, like Loren, just waded on through, but
others, like me and Meghan, tried to use the random rocks and drainage
pipes that littered the stream as stepping stones. This nearly cost
Meg her dignity as a lunatic Tanzanian jumped onto a tiny drainage
pipe that she and her giant backpack were still occupying, nearly
shoving her whole ensemble face-first into the stream and forcing her
to make a wild flying leap to the next rock. I managed to dip my toes
in some nasty black sewer mud and didn’t notice until we got onto our
new bus, which earned some glares from the local women, who somehow
manage to remain spotless in all circumstances. Our new bus was very
similar to our old one, but with slightly less padding. We bounced
into Kahama in style at just past the seven hour mark.

The dalla dalla men were extra nice to us, and took us straight to the
big bus park in Kahama. We booked our tickets for Moshi the next
morning, and then were shown to a guesthouse by the ticketing agent.
The guest house cost a little less than $4 each for the night, and had
electricity, a working tap, and beds with mattresses thick enough so
that you couldn’t feel the wooden bedframe. In other words, we were
in heaven. We dumped our stuff and then headed back to towards the
taxi park to get some dinner. Roasted corn from the side of the road
as an appetizer, followed by brochettes and chips cooked in the middle
of the town center with pineapple Fanta (pineapple! Rwanda has never
seen such exoticism) cost us less than $2. We hadn’t known what to
expect of Kahama at all, since it was a last-minute addition to our
itinerary and wasn’t in any of our guidebooks, and all of us were
totally pleasantly surprised. Just a few hundred kilometers south of
the border, Kahama showed us that Tanzania is a completely different
world than our Rwanda. There’s a casualness and a general relaxed
enjoyment of life here that we’ve certainly missed in somber, tense
Rwanda. The streets are still bustling with people after dark, and
when people call out to you, even calling you a muzungu, it’s playful
and lighthearted, rather than demanding or malicious, as I usually
feel it is in Rwanda. We talked to people easily (partly because of
their excellent English, but partly because of their demeanors as
well) and felt comfortable. After a failed attempt to find ice cream,
we trooped back to the guesthouse and crashed.

Day Two: Kahama to Moshi

The bus from Kahama to Moshi was scheduled to leave at 6am, and we had
strict instructions to arrive at the taxi park by 5:30. We left our
hotel in complete darkness, tired and already aching a bit but raring
to go. We ran into Christopher, the ticketing agent from the night
before, on the path from the guesthouse. He was a different man at
this hour of the morning, grumpy and monosyllabic, but the others at
the taxi park were full of life. We were shown to our bus, the
technicolored “Mohammed Express”, which inexplicably had the names and
photographs of every member of the Liverpool Football Club plastered
all over its sides. We had picked seats close to the back of the bus
as those generally seem to have more room, ignoring the advice from
the bus manager (every bus has a driver and a manager-type, who
handles the tickets and deals with passenger issues, of which there
are many), who said that the back would be too bumpy for us. Too
bumpy! Ha! Clearly, he thought we were regular muzungus, not ones
who had braved Rwanda for three months and knew a thing or two about
African busses. The bus took off at 6am sharp (!), and we immediately
realized that we had underestimated the manager’s intelligence. On
the unpaved city streets of Kahama, we were bucked about like jumping
beans. The Mohammed Express was the size of a Greyhound, but with
virtually no shocks or cushions to speak of, and we were sitting
directly above the rear wheel well. We finally reached the main
tarmac road, and with the exception of a few spine-rattling potholes
here and there, we settled in for a comfy ride, enjoying a beautiful
sunrise over Tanzania.

Four hours into our trek, we stopped in Singida for breakfast. I was
delighted to find that chapattis are alive and well in Tanzania, and
that the tea is decidedly different from the standard Rwandan
sugar-milk bilge. During our meal, we met Ada, a girl from a town in
Michigan near where Meghan grew up who was working in Mexico for the
National Public Health Institute and had been sent to Kigali for a few
weeks to teach some local university students to use Stata (turned out
she was working in collaboration with four Berkeley econ students who
had just finished econometrics with the same professor I had three
years ago). She had a week of vacation before heading back to Mexico,
and was using it to somewhat hectically haul across Tanzania and back.
We found an ice cream vendor on the way back to the bus and all
bought chocolate-covered cones for a dollar, happy as kids at the
circus. Heeding the bus manager’s warning that the road was no longer
paved and the ride would be heinous, I snagged a seat right at the
front of the bus. This turned out to be one of the best decisions of
my young life. I was sitting directly behind and to the left of the
driver, so I could stretch my legs out onto the odd little padded
section next to him while leaning back in my seat. The front of the
bus doesn’t feel the horrifying lack of suspension like the back does,
so I could nap and read in total comfort. It was essentially like
cruising along the Tanzanian plains in a Lay-Z-Boy. I eventually
moved my whole body down onto the padded section, so I was stretched
out front and center in the bus’s window, basking in the sun, enjoying
the scenery, loving life.

The bus manager was sitting on the steps next to me and clearly took a
shining to me because I am blond and have breasts. Once he had
established that I was 23 years old (too young for him) and already in
a relationship, he became a pretty great seatmate. He was loud and
opinionated but very funny, and he would lean out of the window at
pitstops and buy treats like cookies and guavas for me and Loren, who
had by this time joined me up front. We had protracted discussions on
the difference between Shia and Suni Muslims, the existence of God,
and, weirdly enough, Mark Wahlberg (that is, we talked about Mark
Wahlberg, not the existence of Mark Wahlberg, which was never
questioned). He was upset that I had never read the Holy Quaraan and
made me promise to find an English copy in Dar es Salaam to read on
the beach in Zanzibar. He talked about his kids and his country,
especially his hometown of Arusha, with the utmost of pride. He’s the
kind of person that I’ve been happy to meet in Africa, and just as
happy to wave goodbye to at the end of the ride and never see again.

Like our dalla dalla on the previous day, the Mohammed Express had a
tough time meeting the extremely optimistic 10-hour time limit that
its owners had placed on our trip to Moshi. We neared Arusha at
around the 12-hour mark, just as it was beginning to get dark. We
were told that the Mohammed was stopping there, and the manager would
find another bus that was going on to Moshi for us to get on. This
turned out to be more difficult than anyone had anticipated, but
finally a bus was located and we piled on with our bags. The driver
and his posse tried to get us to pay extra money for all permutations
of possible extras, like 2,000 Tsh for our bags, or a 1,500 Tsh
transfer fee, or 3,000 Tsh because it was dark. We shot down all of
these demands and sat stone-faced in our seats, clutching our bags,
until they gave up and we started moving. It was dark by this time,
and it quickly became apparent that the headlights on our new bus
weren’t really up to par. It looked as though they only had parking
lights, and both the regular headlights and the brights were out of
commission. So, in this crippled tin bus with about twenty people
standing in the narrow aisle, we crawled from Arusha to Moshi. The
journey that normally takes about 45 minutes took us two and a half
hours, and we rolled into Moshi at 9:05pm, just over fifteen hours
since we had left Kahama. We found our way to the Kilimanjaro
Backpackers’ Hotel and booked rooms for $9 each per night, ate cheese
and chicken sandwiches from the bar upstairs, and slept.

Day Three: Moshi Town

We woke up at sunrise after what might have been the best night’s
sleep I’ve ever had. The mattresses at the KBH were thick and soft,
and the thin blankets were just enough to keep us warm in the already
balmy night air. We’re in Moshi during the low low season, and I
can’t imagine being here during the “hot” half of the year. Looking
out our window, we caught our first glance of Moshi in the sunlight.
I know that this is largely because I’ve been in Rwanda for three
months, where the buildings are a little homogenous and not too easy
on the eyes, but when I caught my first glance of Moshi town in the
sunlight, I thought of Paris. Many buildings here are old and so have
a charming run-down look to them. The strong Muslim influence in this
country leads to some interesting architecture, with far more curves
and circles than I’ve been used to. Basically, Moshi feels like a
city, and my oh my I have missed the city. Our windows looked out
over a hodgepodge of balconies where people were drying laundry,
laughing and chatting, preparing breakfast, enjoying the morning. The
sunrise was beautiful.

Meghan and I poked around the hotel until we found the breakfast
spread, which consisted of coffee, tea, milk, bread, butter, jam and
watermelon. Coffee, butter and watermelon are definitely not part of
my regular food rotation nowadays, so I tucked right in and totally
enjoyed the breakfast. The top floor of the KBH overlooks Moshi’s
main street. The view is obstructed just a bit by some trees right in
front of the entrance, but these trees are teeming with tiny birds
that are hilarious to watch. They’re so jumpy that they seem like
they’re moving in stop-frame animation, ceasing to exist in one place
and then reappearing in another, rather than actually moving around.
Loren came to breakfast and told us that the hot shower in the hotel
would give us pause, so I finished up and headed to the shower room.
It is not possible to hype this shower too much. For one, it’s HOT.
As in, you turn on the hot tap, and hot water comes out, and doesn’t
stop coming out until you turn the hot tap off again. It’s also got a
constant stream of water with a wide diameter and consistent excellent
pressure. Also, the shower room is big and white and clean and has a
drain in the lowest corner, so all the water flows right on into it.
There’s a ledge to put your shampoo on, and multiple hooks on the door
for your towel and clothes. After months of “showering” in dark
cement rooms with icy buckets of water and a single hole in the floor,
trying not to get our clothes wet as we scrunched them in the driest
corner, this shower was beyond amazing. We all stayed in for about
half an hour each, reinforcing my fear that at the end of this year, I
might become a resource-gobbling inconsiderate beast, rather than the
more conscious and respectful person that I was hoping for. We’ll
see.

Loren and I set off to wander around Moshi town. It feels kind of
like a college town on the weekends; a little sleepy but happy and
relaxed, totally comfortable. There are all the usual alimentations
and fabric shops, but there was also an ice cream parlor and an animal
health clinic and lots of cool stuff being hocked on the street.
There are people all over with little medicine stands, who can whip
you up a cure for everything from malaria to back problems from their
hundreds of little bottles of brightly colored powders and seeds. I
bought a delicious, unnamed piece of food that seemed kind of like a
deep fried crumpet from a woman who had a bunch of them in a bucket.
They also sell chapatti on the street here, as if chapattis need to be
easier to access. We caught up with Kyle and Meghan and spent the
rest of the day relaxing in the town. Yummy coconut curry for lunch,
Fantas at the hotel roof with our books, a walk beyond the main strip
to find a primary school with cool murals and classrooms, all in view
of the snow-capped tip of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

For dinner, we headed to the rooftop bar of the nearby Kindoronko
Hotel, which got top marks from our friend Jane and was frankly one of
the main reasons we decided to stay in Moshi, rather than Arusha. The
view is nothing short of amazing. The sunset over the town to the
west was gorgeous, and to the north, Kilimanjaro is stretched out in
all its glory. Every cheesy cliché about this mountain seemed true.
It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring, it’s Africa’s rooftop. We pulled
the bar’s tall, comfy chairs up to the edge of the roof facing the
mountain and enjoyed delicious local wines, beers and ciders for
equally delicious prices. I hadn’t had red wine since moving Jane
into her Nyanza house. Sitting and relaxing with good food and drink
and good friends in that perfect climate, my biggest dilemma being
whether to focus on the sunset or Kili, I was having a pretty epic
life moment. I thought of the family and friends I wished could be
there with me. I thought of eleven of you in particular, one by one,
and said a little toast to each in my head. We watched Kili till it
was out of sight, then played a nail-biter best-two-out-of-three game
of Yukka, which Loren and I won as Meghan’s alertness waned. We had
mangoes for desert, walked two doors down to our own hotel, and
climbed back into those crazy comfy beds, tipsy and happy.

I know it is out of turn but I thought our readers might appreciate this ...
http://video.foxnews.com/v/4137279/winning-hearts-and-minds-in-afghanistan

Jamie’s compassion

Last night there was a sheep stuck in the cattle grid. Dark, cold, snow on the ground and in the sky, we carefully made our way down the drive through the slush towards our abode and there it was, this docile and benign mound of wool just stuck there like some insane gatekeeper standing out in a blizzard to greet the midnight arrivals. We almost didn’t see it. Indeed we would have walked right past, were it not for its instinctive (and rather short lived) attempt to avoid us, which of course was thwarted by the circumstances. Can’t just leave it there. It could freeze, or get run over. So I went back up to the hotel to enlist some good men to help me help the sheep. After talking the situation over with the kitchen staff and realizing that none of us had ever handled a sheep, in walks Jamie (the new trial manager from New Zealand).
Jamie, I said. You’re from New Zealand, have you ever handled a sheep?
Yes. Why? He replied suspiciously. (No doubt my question reminded him of an unrelated matter I had mentioned to him earlier, wherein as a prank I had planned to acquire a sheep and put it in someone’s bedroom.)
There’s a sheep stuck in the cattle grid, I said.
That was all I had to say, he was out the door, didn’t even bring his jacket. And there’s Jamie standing at the end of the drive in a snow storm in his white shirt and tie lifting this sheep out of the cattle grid. An image forever burned into my mind. The night we learned of Jamie’s compassion towards animals.

The weather in this country is so incredibly changeable. Arctic winds from the north have brought freezing temperatures and snow back to us. We are being told these conditions should last for about a week. It has been snowing here for three days, before that the rain hadn’t stopped in almost 3 weeks.

The poor weather conditions are becoming increasingly more bothersome as we look to prepare for our cycle trip. Our aim is to get as much riding in as possible on our days off, but in this weather it is difficult. Weather aside though, we have been slowly collecting all the gear we need and planning the logistics for the beginning of the trip. We have bought a pair of new touring bikes off the internet; if all goes to plan they should be arriving in the next day or two. Also, we bought some regional maps covering the north of France to get an idea in our minds of the start of our route. They cover all the way from Dieppe and the Normandy coast down to the Loire valley. Nicki is pretty excited about cycling through the Loire. And, sort of by accident, it looks like we might be cycling along the D-day coast on the anniversary of D-day. So we’ve marked these maps up mostly with campsite locations to get us started and as we head further south we will buy maps and plan as we go.

The list of stuff we still need:

Panniers
Cycle gloves
Water bottles / holders
Cycle shorts
Tools / spares
Sunglasses
A repair kit for my thermarest
Dry bags
Travel pillow
Extra sarong
Extra bike lights
Extra loud bike horn?

We are thinking of leaving here around the 20th of May (ish), then doing some touring in Scotland before we head south. The tricky thing there is that a lot of our camping stuff is down in Brighton, and we have a few things up here we wouldn’t want to carry on the bikes. This means trying to fit an extra trip to Brighton in sometime in the next month. Also, there is an area of Scotland called Wester Ross. It lies in the far North West corner of Scotland, and comprises some of the most rugged and remote terrain in the UK. I would love to go there before we leave

Contest

Greetings everyone from neverneverstan, the land of I can't tell you anything. Eventually I'm sure I'll be able to mention again where I really am but I'm playing it cool for the time being just to be sure. Things are going well here, wherever here is, I get to do stuff, and there's uhm, people, and things, and the people do stuff too, and it all might be really interesting or it might be really boring. Can't really say. Anyway.

Thanks to sister for planting the seed for this idea: The one-time-only Opsec Censorship Blog Mad-Lib contest is now underway! The rules are simple - all you have to do is take one of my previous blog posts and replace all the occurrences with your own ideas and send it back to me. This is completely no-holds-barred, any theme, content, subject matter, and/or language is acceptable. Entries will be judged by me, solely on the basis of how entertaining I find them. If I decide your submission is the best you'll not only get your entry posted in the blog, you'll also receive one of the following: A free dinner date at an awesome restaurant (if you're female) or a free night of drinking at an establishment of your choosing (if you're not). I'll be accepting entries until whenever I lose track of time and stop, so don't miss out - send your submission via email as soon as you can!

Hope to hear from everyone soon, bye for now!

Le Weekend

During the weekends, I’ve been trying to alternate between staying home in Shyorongi (first, because I like it here, and second, because I want my fellow Shyorongians to feel like I’m actually a member of their community, not just a weekday worker) and traveling throughout the rest of the country (first, because there is honestly sod all to do in Shyorongi, second, because the rest of the country is beautiful, and third, because I’ve got a great collection of fellow volunteer friends to catch up with). This last weekend was spent away, and it was one of my favorites yet.

I left Shyorongi on Thursday night, rather than Friday morning, due to an uncharacteristically trying week of classes that left me wanting to escape. Even though Shyorongi is only half an hour from the outskirts of Kigali, entering the capital feels like landing on another planet. Standing on the side of the muddy road in the rain while waiting for the bus in Shyo, being laughed at by a pack of hyenas/teenaged boys across the street while trying to deflect questions from a heartbreaking man who wants nothing more than fast-tracked United States citizenship, seems like a hazy dream while I’m sitting at Kana Khazana, an amazing Kigali Indian restaurant, having perfect lentils and chicken spooned onto my plate while chatting about novel writing with my buddies. I hated Kigali when we first arrived, and I still prefer the beautiful mountains and fresh air of Shyorongi, but I have definitely learned to appreciate the amazing convenience of the capital. As Jane says, Kigali is like Disneyland: crazy expensive and covered in a pleasant artificial lacquer of convenience and comfort.

However, just like Disneyland, Kigali makes me want to throw up after a day or two, so I was excited when Jane, Susan and I parted ways with the rest of the group on Friday and bought our tickets for the 2:30pm bus to Nyagatare, where we planned to spend the weekend with Zach and Evan. We commandeered the whole back row of the bus, which is a great victory (five seats between three people is basically akin to flying on Air Force One) and settled in for a comfy ride. We were slightly concerned when it took about an hour just to escape the borders of Kigali proper, which usually only takes about twenty minutes. The rest of the ride followed suit, and the journey that should have taken us about two and a half hours managed to take four. This is probably due to the fact that busses here just stop whenever anyone wants to get off, rather than stopping at a predetermined central location in each tiny town, so you stop to drop one guy off in front of his house, and then stop again fifty yards down the road to drop the next guy off in front of his house. This was infuriating, but here we don’t get infuriated, we just get belligerent, so to pass the time the three of us decided to sing the classics at full volume from the back of the bus. We belted out oldies like Build Me Up Buttercup, I Think We’re Alone Now, Lean On Me, and other greats, much to the delight of the locals, who often applauded our acappella efforts. We finished up with a prize-worthy version of All Shook Up just as we rolled into the Nyagatare taxi park. We tumbled off the bus, scooped up Zach and Evan from the Nelson Mandela Bar, and headed off to a great café where we ate mélanges (like a random mix of all the Rwandan favorites, including chips, mashed plantains, rice, pasta, beans, veg, etc.) and drank tea (the best tea I’ve had in Rwanda so far!) for just 900Rwf, or about $1.50 US. Afterwards we trooped back up to Nelson Mandela to relax and chat over surprisingly ice cold beers. I haven’t been able to see Z and E much at all since orientation because they live so far north, so it was a real treat to hang out with them. These guys manage to seem like opposites (Zach is pretty soft-spoken and reserved while Evan is louder and crazier) while still both being funny, uber intelligent, and excellent hosts. At around midnight, we got motos for the three-mile journey back to their house and went to bed.

When I woke up at 6am on Saturday, I fell in love with Z and E’s little patch of Nyagatare. The area just beyond their back porch is covered in lush trees that house more bird species than I thought existed in Rwanda, and there’s no traffic noise anywhere to compete with them. Zach (the other early riser in the group) showed me their garden, which was planted last year by the students using another volunteer’s seeds. They’ve planted way too many seeds for the small plot, so Zach is hard at work strategizing how to thin things out, but for now they’ve got basil coming in through the window, and some cucumbers will be ready soon. [As soon as the torrential rains calm down in Shyo for five minutes at a stretch, I hope to do a bit of gardening myself.] When the others woke up, we had a breakfast of corn muffins with blueberry jam (from a farmers’ market in Georgia) and cheese (from Kigali, courtesy of Susan) with cups of tea, which ranks among the best meals I’ve had so far in Rwanda. We hung around reading until it was time to start the walk into town for lunch. The walk in takes about an hour and is gorgeous. It had been hot all morning, so we were in short sleeves and had little (Evan and Jane) to no (me and Zach) rain gear, which is probably why the gods above looked down at the arrogant muzungus thinking they could predict Rwandan weather hours in advance and decided to send the most torrential downpour of softball-sized raindrops to gush upon us. At points, the rain was so strong that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and by the time we got to town, we could easily have canoed down the ditches at the side of the road. We were as wet as if we had just climbed out of swimming pools, and in this totally presentable state we parked ourselves at the café for another mélange, this time with double portions of tea. Thankfully, my friends are Huckleberry Finn-esque in their capacity to appreciate adventure and find the humor in things, so all of us loved every minute of it and had no complaints. After lunch, we treated ourselves to moto rides back home, piling two per moto to lower the cost. Slipping and sliding along the mud roads in the pouring rain on a moto with Jane was terrifying, unforgettable, excellent. Back at home, we dried off, changed clothes and hunkered down in our sleeping bags for a marathon of the third season of Dexter, while the rain raged heavy outside. Sheer bliss.

The rain calmed down and fully stopped by late afternoon, so we set off to accomplish our one solid goal of the day: to see a monkey. Evan had heard that monkeys come out to play in the trees around the Akagera River at dusk, so we headed out at around 5:30pm for the two-mile trek to the river. After the day’s rain, the walk down the mud path was fully ridiculous. At one point, the path devolved into a knee-deep lake, which we had to wade through, steadfastly not thinking about what heinous diseases and creeping things were probably swirling around our bare ankles. We were heading towards the gorgeous orange sunset the whole time though, so had no real complaints. We eventually reached the serene river, and after about fifteen minutes of tree-scanning, we saw our prize: a lone monkey hanging out in the upper branches of a tree on the opposite bank, stretching out his long limbs just enough for us to see his monkey-ish silhouette against the sunset. Sweet success. We retraced our steps, this time in the dark, and the only really hairy part of the walk home was when we realized we were being pursued by a pack of longhorns, traveling just a little faster than us up the path. We thankfully lost them at an intersection. The electricity was on when we reached home, and Zach whipped up delicious spaghetti with fresh basil, garlic, and onions for us, after which we lapped up some more Dexter and finally slept.

The next morning, after more corn muffins and jam, I got the welcome news that the next day, Monday, was a holiday off from school. Getting news like that is an interesting process here; no one from my school mentioned anything about it to me, even though I talked to many teachers and students about a test I was planning to give on Monday and told all of the students that I would see them on Monday and that they had assignments due on Monday, etc. I heard a vague rumor from some of my friends that their schools had a Monday holiday, and once the rumor was confirmed for more than half of them, I finally sent a message to my Dean of Studies about it. I got a reply back right away, telling me that there was no school. So while I’m pleased for the extra day off, I wouldn’t have been averse to hearing about it ahead of time. It seems like you can get any information you want here if you ask the right questions, but it’s only through blind luck that you discover the right questions to ask. Anyway, the longer weekend took off the pressure for getting any work done on Sunday, so we didn’t have to rush home. The ride back to Kigali was pleasant (another conquering of the whole back seat of the bus) and fast (just three hours!), and after a late lunch in town I was back in Shyorongi before evening. I’m always happy to be home after a long weekend away, to come back to my own space and my routine. So now it’s Monday morning, and it’s raining to end the world outside but I’m warm and happy in here; I’ve got a cup of tea and bananas for breakfast, and plenty of time to work, and plans to visit my friends up the road in the afternoon. Happy for weekends like this, where I end up appreciating the whole country more, even my little spec of it.

tuesdays hair of the dog

again all appologies for my late blog lagging at the end of the line, lost in a stack of papers somewhere on someones desk (dog knows not mine as i have no desk), perhaps forgotten and found again and again until at last, at the last minute in my usual style this unedited collection of days remembered in type is offered up for who to read? anyone with a password

I am saddened by bens censored blogs. I enjoyed reading these entires and hope he can come up with way to continue to describe his situation to us without using any descriptive words or phrases, nor any informations on locations, dates, policies, procedures, equipment which might jeopardise security. Such as it is i suppose, truth be told i was surprised someone hadnt censored sooner. ben im sure you can make it work.

February 18th

'nae bother! it dinae mata tae me. but if ie'were up tae me, id haf t'ho tin outa n pu in a wee gas burner outside. ts jus no in line wi the current technology. nae bother. ah il jus ga n tal i tom n fi wa na hablena be. bye the noe!'

So we've been having this problem with the arger in out house. The arger is supposed to perfrom the double function of being a stove and heating water for the radiators in our house. The problem is that while it does heat, it does so with the side effect of filling the house with smoke and soot. A shame, because otherwise the house is set up quite comfortably. The above quote is from the engineer who came to fix our stove. He was pretty awsome. A scotsman, he was a very loud talker with such a thick accent that most of the time i had no idea what he was saying. As the root of the problem has yet to be discovered, he as well as others have been here several times attemping to remedy the situation without success, ultimatley only making more mess for us to clean up. On his last visit it seemed he had given up and said the arger should be replaced. But as he says nae bother. He had a device with him that could read gas levels in the air and he said there was no carbon monoxide in the house and that the situation was not bad for our health.

Febrary 25th

i step out of the kitchen and stand in front of the hotel. My black leather shoes sink into several inches of snow, and the cold and the blizard flurry around me - a cold welcome after the smokey heat of the kitchen. I warm my hands against a half pint of roibus tea, the hot amber liquid visble through the glass as i stare through it out towards the loch, thinking about the events of that morning and the possible application of cluster theory.

the power had gone out some time inbetween my leaving the green house and when i walked in to work just before 8am. There were 10 people in for breakfast and 2 servers, inge (sounds like inga) and myself, scheduled on. by 20 past 8 no chef had arrived and the power was still out, i began to wonder what kind of breakfast would be served.

I stepped out for a moment im not sure why. When i returned Tom had shown and had obviously dealt with power outs before. The stove tops were gas so he got those going to boil water. We took the scones over to his house to cook in his oil powered arger. Then i went off to help jim set up a generator. After passing up a couple that didnt work we found a good one and got it going. Jim brings it over with the tractor close to the hotel. Run the cord ovens are on toasters working. By the time i got back to serve, a few guests had arrived and the scones ready for them. As the remaining diners filtered in we lit the fire in the bar and set up some candles. Service continued as usual save the dark kitchen. As breakfast wrapped up tom said something like 'It's really great having it so quiet in here isn't it? you dont notice it when its there but without the hum and buz of all the fridges and lights you can really tell the difference.' We all agreed. Then as Inge left the kitchen to take toast to a table she said, 'Silence is golden'.

February 22nd

I had a day off and nicki was on a split. If you google map us - monachyle mhor, fk19 8pq, scotland - you'll see that, as the crow flies, loch lomond is 15-20 miles west of our hotel. This was our target destination when we set off early afternoon this day.

We cycled as far as we could. About 2 miles of tarmac followed by another four miles of 4wd track winding its way up through a wide valley to the west. At the end of the 4wd track we left our cycles and set off on foot to hike up to a low point on the ridge at the end of the glen, from where we hoped to have a view of loch lomond. This was before the snow came last week. The terrain was mostly frozen wild grass, with snow on the north faces and the ridges. It was sunny and cold. We went from fully bundled up while biking to hiking in shorts and tshirts through the sun. By the time we reached the top of the glen the temperature had dropped and we were back to wearing thermals, trousers, fleeces, jackets and scarves hats n gloves.

At the saddle the terrain really flattened out to reveal our view to the west. As we were not using a real map, we were not sure what the terrain would actually be like once we reached this point. As it turned out there was a mountain inbetween us and loch lomond. however, we were able to see loch katrine to the south, and we had reached the end of the glen. We rested, ate, enjoyed the last of the sun and began to head back to work.

On the way back we talked to a sheppard who said it was possible to reach loch lomond without having to go over the moutain we saw. To do this we would have had to head north before reaching to saddle at he top of our glen to loop around, and bring a proper map.

Oops!

Some of our readers will have noticed that several posts (namely, all of mine) have been deleted and that our blog is now invitation only. This was entirely my fault - I was politely informed by my chain of command the other day that some of the things I was writing about constituted a violation of operational security and needed to be removed. Apparently more people read this blog than I thought!

Anyhow, my apologies if I've disappointed anyone. Over the next few days I'll be modifying and reposting my previous entries sans the security violations, and we're collectively deciding whether to continue invitation only or not. In the meantime, if you know anyone personally who would like to read this blog and can't, please feel free to email one of us and we'll get you invited asap. If you don't know our email addresses you can try contacting the US Department of Defense directly; they seem to be pretty good at finding things on the internet. ;)

That's all for now, look forward to writing more soon!

<<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> Sortie - Part I (Warning: This blog entry may contain acronyms.)

Unfortunately this entire entry is censored for OPSEC purposes.

Keeping the Home Fires Burning.

Surprise, here is a random contribution from the ones left guarding the bags, so to speak. We still count as part of the team, so here's what it's like from our end ...

Under "Life goes on" we have working at Bart including meetings, capitol verses operating budgets, homeland security, the commute and so on. Also, house and home, dogs, pond life, spirituality and recreation. All goes on much the same as usual.
For "Seasonal Changes" we have fog and rain and clouds giving way to large patches of blue sky and sunshine beginning to make itself felt. Weeds sprouting alarmingly all over the yard/creek/neighborhood/town. Bulbs bravely poking their little heads up amongst it all - crocuses, tulips, daffodils and some surprise things that I planted and forgot about. Buds forming on the hydrangeas and wisteria and camellias out in full force in the front yard.

Stetson has been back for a few days and Rutland just put in her first appearance as I was typing this sentence, no kidding.

We are enjoying the fire pit on the patio every chance we get, sitting in the great outdoors cocooned in our own little circle of warmth and light and love :-) Australian open over, we move on to SAP open in San Jose this week and soon Pac Life Open in Indian Wells, and on the telly, starting today, the Race is on.
Under "Supporting our Troops" we can list car covers x 2 (custom fit, no less) for Ben's cars,

packing up and storing Jo's things, faithfully searching for and reading blogs twice daily (if not hourly) and - our new way to exercise creativity - care packages! Don't worry Ross, yours is in the works. It is just a bit harder to think of things that we could send that you don't already have in superior form where you are. I still actually think you should be sending packages to everyone else ... haggis anyone?
"New and Exciting" has to start with the Work Shop (not shed). All consuming. Taking up every inch of space in the yard, every spare minute of Dad's evening/week-end time and large chunks of budget. It will be GREAT when it's finished. Could even turn into a second career/home. Well worth all the above.

A close second in this section is Grandma's visit - countdown is at T-14 :-D We are going to make the most of having her to ourselves for the first time ever. Also in this section we have the new and (the jury is still out on this) improved street view due to neighbors installing solar panels and consequently cutting down large, decades old tree. Opens things up a bit ...

Oh, and also my new camera - how am I doing so far?
Final category is "Ways to Take Minds off Stuff". Here we can include running, spinning, Louie, chocolate, facebook, reading, plays, dining in or out, playing cards, pumping iron(?), helping other people and now blogging.
Life is good.

SCHOOL or Why I'm Here I Guess

So far, nothing in Rwanda has really turned out at all as I expected. Sometimes, I've expected doom and gloom and received sunshine and comfort, while other times what I expect will be painless turns out to be a giant and taxing ordeal. Surprisingly and thankfully, my first two weeks of school turned out to be a perfect example of the former.

I've never taught before, fullstop. My ESL experience in the United States consisted of me observing a slightly antiquated English class for adults in the Mission, just kind of sitting quietly off to the side and listening to a melancholy group of students repeat ridiculous sentences about their brothers looking for tomatoes but buying carrots instead in stilted English. Hardly rock solid prep for handling 27 hours per week of Rwandan teenaged girls in groups of 40 or more. We had some practice here during our teaching practicum in Nyanza, but there were three of us then for a class of less than 20, and we were teaching English, and there was no curriculum. Again, helpful, but not enough to erase my nerves about suddenly becoming a full-time high school Entrepreneurship teacher.

So I planned my lessons thoroughly. I didn't leave a single minute where I wasn't sure what I would do. I had topics to lecture on, work for the students to do in groups, ice-breaker exercises, writing work, reading work, reasoning work, problems for them to solve, tough semi-ambiguous questions for them to think about. I stuck with the curriculum and tried to measure out a reasonable amount of work for each class, and the more planning I did, the less nervous I became.

I showed up to school on the first day at 7:30am (which means I left my house at around 7:28am; huzzah for living inside the school walls!) and sat in the teachers' lounge, meeting my colleagues and going over my lesson plans one last time. School started on a Tuesday, which is one of my long days: all eight periods spent teaching, all four different classes represented. As 8am drew nearer, I was expecting some kind of extreme terror to take me over; I had been so nervous for so long about the first day of school; surely some kind of miserable sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach should be hitting right about now, yes? I held my hand in front of my face, like I usually do when I'm nervous, to see if it was shaking. Rock steady. Huh. I walked through the door of my first class at 8am on the dot, still waiting for the heavy weight of gloom and terror to paralyze me. I started in on my lesson. I explained class rules. I had them introduce themselves. I gave them an assignment. They handed it in. We had a discussion, they were a bit quiet, somewhat painfully so at first, but by the end of the short period, they had opened up considerably. The school secretary rang a bell to signal the end of period one. I checked my schedule and headed to my next class. Similar experience, except these kids were older and therefore more engaged, more feisty, more fun. The period passed quickly. Class number three. The rest of the day kind of whooshed by, with its fair share of awkward silences and embarrassing mistakes, but with one overwhelming theme: each class was taught with a complete absence of nervousness on my part, and shockingly, incomprehensibly, each class had at least a few moments that were fun to teach. This day that I had feared and fretted about since I began considering applying to this program back in February 2009, that I had dreaded for a year, was somewhat uneventful, and was even a little fun.

Weird.

Since then, there have been ups and downs; some periods have been rough, and others have been a blast, but there have been no disasters, and on the whole, the trend continues: teaching is not terrifying, and is actually pretty fun. I'm finding that it's a bit like acting. I get to go up in front of the class and be whoever I want to be. These kids have no idea that I'm nervous talking in front of groups; they don't know that I'm terrified of talking on the phone or of meeting with people one-on-one. They aren't aware that I've never taught before, and they sure as shit don't know that I'm actually younger than the oldest student in my class.

In coming to Rwanda, I found what I thought was a rare opportunity to reinvent myself. I'm generally and broadly ok with who I am, but like most people (I think?), there are some significant chunks of my personality that I wish were different. When I came here and found myself an anonymous stranger in a foreign land, where even my "friends" didn't really know me at all, I realized that this was my chance to break away from some of the personal ruts I'd allowed myself to slip into. I started thinking about some of the things that I had an almost crippling fear of back home, simple things like speaking in front of groups, dancing in public, playing sports. I hated to be watched for fear of being judged and of coming up short. But I knew other people who did these things freely and seemed unfazed. I wished so often that I could be like them, that I could break away from my fear, but I had already established myself as someone who couldn't let go in front of other people. Here, I hadn't established myself as anything. I was free to pretend to be whatever I wanted. So I pretended that I liked to dance, and I danced like an idiot until 3:30am, and it's on video somewhere, and I had an amazing time. I pretended that I liked to play group sports, and now I'm essentially leading a running troupe through the trails of my rural village most mornings. I pretended that, rather than being ready to throw up at the idea of speaking in front of a classroom, I was raring to go, and now I actually look forward to keeping my students on their toes, being unpredictable, having control of a class, lecturing, leading discussions, listening to what they have to say and responding, adapting, even teaching. Here in Rwanda, I've been pretending to be who I want to be. There are still big, ugly rough patches in my personality that I'd love to smooth out; I still can't seem to shake my inability to shut up (hello, blog post!) or my fear of being out of the loop, but I'm working on them, and that's alright for now I guess. But I'm relishing this chance to change, and starting to realize that I probably didn't have to wait for an intercontinental move to take it.

Before I left, I saw a documentary called Proceed and Be Bold! (which I recommend sans reservation) about a man who, in his mid-40's, junked his pleasant middle-class life and started making printing press posters full-time. Talk about jumping out of a rut. I don't think there's anything wrong with a pleasant middle-class life; I hope to enjoy one myself. But he wasn't all that happy doing what he was doing, so he struck out to change it. His words at the end of the film have been on my mind every day since I first heard them:

"Do you want my life? You can have my life. All you have to do is declare yourself crazy, then go out and do whatever you want."

So family, friends, here it is: I have gone crazy. I'm doing whatever I want over here. There's really nothing to stop me, and it's a pretty damned good time.

It's worth saying, in light of the whole idea of this blog: I am lucky and proud to come from a family that has already declared itself crazy, and is spread all over this world as we speak, doing whatever it wants. Keep it up, family. Keep building, keep flying, keep trekking. Thanks for the inspiration <3

The day before yesterday

Breakfast split; 8am-11am, 630pm-close. Breakfast service is always more relaxed than dinner. There’re no pre-drinks, only 3 courses, table cloths aren’t ironed on. A lot of people had the porridge followed by a full Scottish. How do they fit it all in? Once they all left we set up for lunch/dinner service – change the used table cloths, iron them all, add some more silverware, put out the glasses and decorative plates, vacuum and mop. Then I was off.

It was a brilliantly sunny day. Finally. Nicki had bought me a new cycle computer as a present so I thought I’d take it out for a test ride. Not to be deceived by the weather, I packed my camelbak with an extra thermal top and my rain jacket, and set off just before noon. Since we arrived Nicki and I have both wanted to ride the cycle trail which connects us to Calander (the closest town with more than one street), so I chose this for the ride. This section of National Cycle route 7, or the lowland highland route as locals apparently call it, crosses our glen road at Balquidder 4 miles from the hotel. It stays on the road for a while passing through beech and pine forests gradually climbing before opening into a 4wd track with views down the loch towards Calander. (photo). It then drops down slowly becoming a single track trail through farmland, and runs through the bottom of the valley on the west side of a loch. For the last few miles the trail is a nice gravel path running next to a river and then more farmland til it hits town. I kept looking at the cycle computer knowing that with each mile further I went I would have to go that much further to get back home. By the time I got to Calander I had ridden just over 17 miles. I sat for a while on a bench by a river watching a father and son feed the ducks, and ate the apple and the orange I’d brought in my pack. Bought a snickers to eat and two huge blocks of cadbury’s chocolate for the house and set off again. At 20 miles my legs were tired and at 25 they were fairly jelly like. But as I got closer to the hotel I felt a second wind and the exhilaration that comes as the end of a long ride approaches. To my surprise the sun was still on the glen road as I turned on for the last 4 miles towards the hotel. Finished the 35 miles just before 4pm with plenty of time to relax before going back to work at 630. This was the first real ride I’ve done since we got here and it felt good.






Yesterday

8am-4pm shift. I wear a black shirt, trousers, apron and shoes. Black tie with red stripes. Brown socks. This was a quiet morning with only 8 guests in for breakfast. Again the sun was met by a cloudless sky around 10am as it rose above the mountains facing the hotel. With most of the guests checking out and the newcomers not arriving until the afternoon, I kept myself busy cleaning the conservatory windows, polishing glasses and organizing the cellar, and splitting logs for the fires. There were a few walk-ins for lunch. The residents (this is what we call guests after the first day, if they are staying for more than one night) returned just before my shift ended from a long walk up Monachyle glen with tales of having seen a large stag silhouetted by the sunlight upon a ridge. I left them talking over sandwiches and pints in the bar by the fire.

Today

Off today. A sleep-in was very welcome as the ride from the day before yesterday seems to have caught up with me. I had a bid of time to play the mandolin (which I’ve not been playing enough) before nicki came back from work at 11am. The weather being unseasonably nice, I suggested a bike ride. We headed the other direction this time towards inverlochlarig – where, incidentally, Rob Roy spent his later years leading a relatively quiet farm life. After just a short 2 mile ride to the end of the tarmac road we locked up the bikes and set off on foot up a mountain to the north. Nicki had to be back at work by 6:30 so this was only a short excursion. However, had we had more time this is the very same route we would take to reach the top of Ben More, the highest mountain in our area at just over 1100 meters. We had been comfortably biking in just shorts and tee-shirts, but after we rose above 500 meters it began to get cold. Time to put on the thermals and fleeces we had brought. We stopped in a sheltered spot at about 700 meters for a feast of hot soup from the thermos, sandwiches, apples and chocolate. From our vantage point we saw the potential for many other outdoor excursions. To the south a couple of glens head towards loch Katrine. To the west a farm road leads to loch Lomond. To the north Ben More and the Crianlarich hills. And of course east back to loch Voil and the hotel.

<<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> only has one <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, for starters - sorry if I upset anyone by massacring the spelling in my previous post. Other than that it's referred to as <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> (for <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>), and is a dusty, generally dry military base southeast of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> in the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> province of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. The terrain is <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> and doesn't contain much that isn't a building of some kind, but occasionally a small tree struggles to find some <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> in the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, and provides some welcome shelter from the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. It's winter and the air itself is relatively pleasant, but the sky is always clear and it'd be easy to get scorched by staying out too long.

We arrive at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> or so, strung out by the long day and travel delays. It's dark and we are herded this way and that like cattle, given some lectures on rules and whatnot, and eventually wind up in a yard pulling bags off trucks and setting them in rows while trying to find our own.
As this is going on we are saved by the first sergeant of our assigned unit who has managed to locate us and has a far superior plan to the one laid out for everyone else. The gist of it is that we will drive to the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, drop off our gear, and then head to our rooms and go to sleep.

Sleeping arrangements aren't ideal but the beds are clean and fresh linens are provided which we appreciate with gusto. Space on <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> comes at a premium, and for the time being we're <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. The rooms contain plenty of beds but with <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> being maintained someone is always on a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, so as we come and go we're required to <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> . On the plus side, the bathrooms have a steady supply of hot running water and are cleaned daily. <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> is available by the bottle, replenishable by palette upon palette stacked outside everywhere, and after a welcome night's sleep we learn techniques for <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>.

Speaking of outside, I get my first look at <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> when I emerge from our <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> sometime the next day and am nearly blinded by the sunlight. <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. We're housed in <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> - a modular <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> containing <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> bedrooms and a bathroom - which sits close to the middle of an area probably two <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> full of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> buildings. The streets within the mods are square and wide, forming neat rows with every building surrounded by <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> walls which look exactly like the ones you get down the middle of highways except these are roughly <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>. We depart <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> for the <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> - it's not far - and as we leave the mods we discover that the planning process was apparently abandoned outside the housing area in favor of the 'build things wherever there is room and leave a space wide enough for a truck here and there' school of force development. The crooked streets, nonsense traffic, and general bustle remind me of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, the main difference being that instead of actual buildings the blocks of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> are crammed with either rows of <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> doubling as buildings, <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>, ongoing construction sites, or all manner of tents, shanties, lean-to's, and vehicles. Although most of the military presence is <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> is actually a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> post and both military and civilian personnel from countries all over the world are represented en masse, indicated by the phenomenally attractive smell of everyone's feces burning in harmony with the garbage somewhere in the distance. <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>.

As entertaining as a <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>> can be, my main focus right now is to get to work and discover what life is actually going to be like out here. Questions abound: <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? <<CENSORED FOR OPSEC>>? Guess we'll find out all this and more, soon enough!