Les Enfants de Dieu

      While working on the last blog entry, I realized that I had not yet described the school which is the location of all the massive events I've been talking about.  I chanced upon this place by the guidance of Moses, the wildlife guide I had chosen almost by random from the internet.  Moses and I bonded almost immediately in our exchange of emails, and from the beginning he was very accommodating in determining what I wanted from my trip to Rwanda and how he could help provide it.
     It was Moses who had heard about

The volleyball court and some of the buildings at EDD

 

Les Enfants de Dieu, and he made the original contact with the executive director there to see whether they could use a short term volunteer like myself.  On my end, I of course got on the web to learn as much as I could about the school.   There they call "the school"  EDD for Enfants de Dieu, so from here on out, so will I.  I loved their website; perhaps you will too.  Click  here.
    Two things jump out at you right away.  The school's name is obviously French.  Why?  Well, Rwanda used to be part of the Belgian Congo and had been colonized by the French-speaking Belgians, unlike all the other countries I've visited in Africa, which all had been colonized by the Brits.  For years since independence in 1962, French, not English, has been the second language  of Rwanda.  That is now fading, though, and more and more Rwandans are learning English and more and more Rwandan schools concentrate on English rather than French.  Interestingly enough, however, Rwandans do still drive on the right side of the road, whereas all the other African countries I've visited are left-hand drivers.
    

Sunday meeting at EDD

The second thing that even the most rudimentary of French speakers will ask is  "What is this 'Dieu' stuff?  Is this a mission school?"  The answer to this is no, EDD is completely secular, and is the home of both Christian and Muslim children.  They call themselves the Children of God in order to emphasize the importance of children to any society. 
    The Sunday morning I was there, I attended a discussion section at which Charles talked for some time to most of EDD's 160-some kids.  Their attention was rapt.  Of course, I couldn't understand a word Charles was saying, since it was in Kinyarwanda.  I was surprised when Charles told me afterward that it was mostly about safe sexual conduct and morality.
    EDD's mission is to provide education and a decent home for the street children of Kigali.  What are street children?  Well, Rwanda has had an extremely stormy recent history which has torn about the country's social fabric.  The 1994 genocide there decimated families and increased poverty immeasurably.   The result is that WAY too many children HAVE virtually no family, and even for those who do have a family, their family has means insufficient to sustain them.  WAY too many children have come to live on the streets of the country's capitol, Kigali, and sustain themselves by begging, stealing, scrounging, and prostitution.  Some of them wind up in police custody and eventually are transferred to EDD.  Some come by more voluntary means.  I was even sadder to hear that many of the children are simply the product of divorce--that a new stepfather just is not inclined to provide for another man's child.  Out they go.
    One former street boy told me that when he lived on the street, he begged to do dishes at restaurants.  He wouldn't be paid, but he could eat the food that diners had left on their plate.  That was a good deal for him.

Experiment in international relations, Part 1

    A year or so ago, I accepted an invitation from an elementary teacher I know in Rhinelander to visit her classroom and talk about Africa.  To my surprise, the kids actually seemed interested and had loads of questions.  That experience encouraged me to attempt something new, and with Shari (my teacher friend) I began a new "project."  This is how it went:
     I went to visit Shari's class at the Northwoods Elementary Charter School and talked to them about my upcoming trip to Rwanda.  We looked at the website for the school I was to visit and talked about what it might be like there.  Then, after I went home, the kids all wrote letters to "Dear Friend" at the school in Rwanda, and attached photographs of themselves to each letter.  I was surprised at how enthusiastic the Rhinelander kids were about this project--they REALLY got into the spirit of the thing.
     A few days before I left for Africa, Shari gave me a big envelope of letters from her students.  Some had drawings.  Some asked questions.  Some even made up some math problems for the kids in Rwanda to work on.  Well, my doubts about the enthusiasm of the kids in RHINELANDER were resolved, but I still had doubts about how enthusiastic the kids in RWANDA would be.  I knew most of the kids in Rwanda would be older than the 4th graders here, that the Rwandans would all be boys, and that they lived literally a world away from the kids here.  
     So I carried the letters from Shari's class there and from the first time I took the first one out of the envelope, they were a HUGE success!  The faculty in Rwanda was fascinated, and the kids were astounded.  I was pretty sure that none of them had ever received a letter before, much less from America.  For some reason, kids in Rwanda were mesmerized by the thought of America, and virtually every young person I met told me "It is my dream to go to America.  America is a very good country."  They seemed to have the idea that every day in the U.S. is like a permanent free pass to DisneyWorld, and while I tried to tell them that life in the U.S. could be hard, they remained unconvinced  . . . . and not surprisingly so, I guess.
 

     My job in this enterprise was to help the boys, first of all, READ the letters from the kids in Rhinelander.  Some of the letters WERE a little hard to read.  Some of the concepts were a little hard to understand . . . snowmen, for example, were quite baffling. 
     Then we talked about what to write back, what the kids in Rhinelander might be interested to know about THEM.  Then the boys had to labor mightily at writing the letters (it's hard, I know; I haven't done it in years)
     Then I would read their letters and make
suggestions about spelling, punctuation, and 
sometimes even content.

Here are the letter writers hard at work.  Word spread throughout the school, and soon I had more writers than letters, so I started re-using the Rhinelander letters.  Even one of the teachers was so fascinated that HE wrote a letter on behalf of his three-year-old daughter.  I wound up with quite a stash to take home!

In the painting studio

      I had been nervous about doing volunteer work at the school.  It had not been my first choice.  While I like to volunteer on my trips, it has always been wildlife that attracted me before.  I wanted to see gorillas, but I simply could not find any opportunities for volunteering with gorillas.  I knew I would feel comfortable around gorillas.  I was not so sure I would be around children.
     My experience with kids in Zimbabwe was very positive though, so when Moses told me he could find me a volunteer placement in Rwanda at a school for "street boys," I decided that could be rewarding--for me, anyway.  I wasn't so sure about the kids.
      I had to send my resume' over to the school to apply for a volunteer post, and I wasn't at all sure it would be acceptable, given my almost total lack of experience with kids.  However, I was accepted.  So there started the quandary of what on earth could I possibly contribute to these kids' lives?
      Well, I knew that one of the most rewarding things I'd been doing in the past year is painting.  My painting class is VERY important to me, and I have unconditionally LOVED it.  Perhaps the kids would like to paint with me.  Not knowing what sorts of supplies they had available, I took some watercolors, pencils, and paraphernalia. Turns out the kids had loads of art supplies, including, literally, GALLONS of acrylic paint.
     Charles told me that some of the kids loved to paint and were good at it.  In fact, they had a little gallery of paintings done by the kids which the school sold and split the profits with the kids.  He instructed the "Minister of Education" to show me the gallery and to help me get my very own class set up.  Much more about the school and its ministers later.

Upon walking into the gallery, I could see that these young artists had no need for instruction from an amateur like me.  Their work was, I thought, of very high quality.

Here, one of the artists begins work on a new painting.









Below are the two paintings in the gallery I liked best.

This painting is by an unknown artist.

Here, the artist known as Prince holds one of his more recent works.  This painting is now in the Eshelman collection.

  

       





We all got painting and drawing together, starting out with trees and African animals, until the artists who were present got bored with the subject matter and started searching my phone for more interesting material.  
Pascal found a photo I'd taken of a totem pole near Vancouver and drew his own version of it.

              

 "Is this your God?" Pascal asked me.
I found I really didn't know how to answer him. 

First 24 hours in Rwanda

     Well, getting into Rwanda was a jarring enough experience, but it didn't improve in the first few hours.  I was so tired when I arrived at the "house" that I barely noticed, but by morning some of its deficiencies became . . . . well . . . .  apparent.  No toilet paper, for instance.  Not to mention no toilet seat!  No hot water.  No towels.  No drinking water.  And this IS serious:  no COFFEE!!
     My new housemates were quite helpful--Ian and Allison, a couple of cardiac nurses living and working in London.  Ian had volunteered at the school several times in the past, but this was Allison's first trip and she was more uncomfortable than me (and I was QUITE uncomfortable).  After blearily getting up too early the next morning, Ian advised Allison and me to get our hiking boots on and trek to the nearest convenience store for supplies.  Since the school was located in a pretty urban area, I was surprised about the hiking boots.  Turned out he was right, though.  The bridge was being replaced on the road we needed to take to get to the store [Maybe the construction work explained the seemingly steady passing of incredibly noisy trucks since oh-dark-thirty], and it was quite a scramble through piles of wet slippery clay to get there.  Not exactly encouraging, but I did get water, instant coffee, and yes, TOILET PAPER.
     Feeling quite accomplished, we went back to the house, and over coffee, Ian and Allison informed me they were leaving for a few days to go sightseeing in Rwanda.  I nearly panicked, but didn't really have time to panic because they were suddenly GONE!  I sat at "my" kitchen table sipping my miserable black coffee and considered my situation.
     "I can't stay here," I thought.  The place had all the deficiencies I've told you about and more, and plus, what it DID have was a funky smell, dubious cleanliness, no WiFi, and no means to charge my phone, which was, of course, demanding to be re-charged.  I was miserable and began to think about escape routes.  I thought maybe I could rent myself a room in a little guesthouse nearby and simply come to the school during the day time.
     About the time I was sorting this idea out, a knock came at the door.  When I answered it, there were three kids standing there, ranging in ages from, say, 9, to maybe 16.  The oldest said "You have visitors," but I had to make him repeat it three times before I understood what he was saying.  Then I invited the three in, and they settled in around the kitchen table. 

Prince modelling my glasses

They chatted away, and soon I began to understand them better, and they began going through my stuff--looking at the photos on my phone and examing my watercolors and pencils.  Soon we were all drawing, painting, and visiting together, and it wasn't long before I realized I wasn't going anywhere.  These kids were well worth any inconvenience I was experiencing.
     It turned out that the two older boys were from the school and had heard that I had arrived and decided to come  greet me. The third was Delia, the daughter of the school's cook, who lived in the apartment next door to mine.  You will hear MUCH more about Delia later, but I'd like to introduce you to the leader of this little greeting committee, Prince.  You'll also be hearing more about him later.
     Well, I was late for my scheduled morning meeting with Charles and the school staff, but I sure felt better.  It was good to meet the staff, and it was good to encounter all the kids and hear their hello's being called out.  I sat in on the morning staff meeting.  I'd say there were about a dozen staff people there, including the night watchman, but only three could speak English well and some not at all.  I left feeling very impressed with the group's professionalism and egalitarianism and with a better idea of what I'd be doing during the next week.  I was admonished, though, that I was NOT to work the kids too hard--it was their post-examination holiday, and they were expected to have some fun!   I thought I could ---just---manage that.

En route to Rwanda

       You know how disquieting it is to receive the notification that your flight has been cancelled, but I was only bemused when I got that notification while ON the flight in question, from Harare to Kigali.  I was flying on Rwandair, and the services were by far the most deluxe of any of the other airlines I flew on.  For the first time, there was WiFi on board--or at least for the first half-hour of the flight (then it crapped out).  So I opened my email and found the message notifying me my flight was cancelled.
       Actually, it's only since I've been back that I figured out what happened.  I think Rwandair must provide separate flights to Kigali and Dar es Salaam when a lot of people are travelling.  But if there aren't so many, they combine the two flights.  
     So, unexpectedly, I found myself in Dar es Salaam.  I am a little ashamed to admit that I didn't even know what country Dar es Salaam is in and didn't find out until a couple of days later.  Now that I have found out, I can proudly add Tanzania to the list of countries I've "visited," even if "visited" only means I've been in a plane that touched down on a runway there.
     From there it was a short flight only to Kigali, but we were late.  And wouldn't you know, getting into Rwanda turned out to be challenging.  I always expected Zimbabwe would be the difficult country to get into, but Zimbabwe is a cakewalk compared to Rwanda.  I thought I had a great head start because I already had received my visa via the internet before arriving there.  But no.  The questioning was quite aggressive and intimidating.  They wanted to know the address of EVERY place I would be staying my ten or so days in Rwanda, including phone numbers.  I was stymied.
     Just when I thought that maybe I WOULDN'T get into the country, the immigration guys abruptly changed his mind and let me through.  I scampered before he could change his mind.  It was already 10:30 or so at night, and I worried that my new host, Charles, would have given up on me.
     In the underdeveloped countries I've been to, it's startling how you walk out of the airport and right onto a busy street.  It seems like the airports are right IN the cities.  Kigali is like that.  I walked into a crowd of pedestrians, looking for perhaps a sign with my name on it, when I encountered a worried-looking man who turned out to be Charles.  Apparently he'd been approaching every white woman coming out of the airport for an hour and a half saying "Are you Ann?" and had so far only received blank stares.  We were both relieved to see each other.
     I felt like I knew Charles already, because we'd exchanged so many emails.  He was every bit as kind and pleasant as I'd expected, and we bounced through the potholed streets in a truck that almost matched Jack's in Cambodia for disreputability.  It was in REALLY rough shape!  I was actually kind of reassured that I had indeed found a place that needed help and was clearly not a money-making outfit.
    Charles drove me to "my" little house located on the grounds of Les Enfants de Dieu school, and I barely took the time to brush my teeth before crashing.  I wanted to be ready for my first day of genuine volunteering in Rwanda.
    
 

Swedes in Africa, first installment

   Karin, the Imire volunteer with whom I shared a ride back to Harare, is an adventurous Swede.  She travelled alone to Imire and had a wonderful time.  She is a Swedish worker, outside of the "norm" for volunteers abroad.  She is neither a college kid on a "gap year" or a footloose retiree like me.  She is, in fact, a forklift driver.  You probably wouldn't conjure up her image when you think "forklift driver," but that is what she is.  
    The Scandinavian culture has infiltrated my consciousness quite a bit in recent years, not least of all because of Netflix.  Scott and I love the hundreds of categories of movies one can search for.  We've gone through many, but our favored one is "somber Scandinavian dramas," and oh my, have we EVER enjoyed some of them, occasionally several times over!
    Also, I've met so many volunteers from Scandinavia over the years.  I still think fondly of all the Danish friends I met in the depths of the Kalahari in Botswana.   I've been VERY impressed and wonder what we Americans should be learning from their governance.  
    And, also, you may know that this area of the U.S., northern Wisconsin and the U.P. of Michigan, happens to be the settling place for thousand of Finns, and one of our dearest friends is very much into his Finnish heritage and has actually lived in Finland and helps make Finland real to us.  And also, Scott and I spent a full day and a half in Iceland a couple of years ago and LOVED it!  And , , , , and . . . and.  You know how it goes:  once you develop an interest in something, you find references to it all over the place.
    Well, Karin and I spent a few dispiriting hours looking around the street markets of Harare.  Dispiriting because the people there are so incredibly desperate to make a sale--any sale--that they are REALLY persistent, and your heart goes out to them, but there's only so much  you can do.  So we went to the airport early.
    And there we had . . . . .  . FIKA!  I had already heard that "Fika" is the Swedish word for a little snack with friends that one has in order to share camaraderie and satisfy a moment's taste for something sweet or savory.  We found the perfect place for fika in one of the little cafes in the Harare airport.  We also remembered that we had had NOTHING sweet to eat since our arrival at Imire.

Karin and fika in Zimbabwe

GAME DRIVE!

     There are two new supervisors to look after the volunteers at Imire.  They are Morgan and Rob, two young, enthusiastic, good-humored, knowledgeable, and energetic Australians who seem made for this type of work.  They are friendly and calm, reacting to any perceived calamity with reasoned assurances, and they clearly LOVE Imire and consider life there as a continual BLAST!
     They are spontaneous and fun, and when there was a lapse in Sunday's rain, they organized an impromptu game drive simply to go look at stuff in the game park.  Great idea!  All us volunteers piled into the truck.

 I just can't get enough of those giraffes.  They seem to have been amazingly productive in the last year and a half.  There were only four when I was here last, but now there seemed to be about ten.  In the foreground here is one the youngsters.  You can tell by how light-colored he is.  He's not exactly small, though I guess he's only a few months old.  He MUST stand at least 10 - 12 feet tall.
     These guys free roam in Imire's huge  area (hundreds of fenced-in acres), but even so, seeing a truck coming means TREATS to them, and they're more than willing to pose for nice close-ups. 

 









Always room for one more giraffe photo.  They have to be one of the most aesthetically charming creatures in the world, and I'll never forget the ones I got to cozy up to at Giraffe Manor a couple of years ago.

Blast from the past (2015)

Well, we saw lots of stuff I didn't get good photos of, including a big snake, some zebras, a secretary bird--and for years now, I've been trying to get a good picture of one of my favorites--wart hogs.  They run around surprisingly fast, and they're unexpectedly hard to photograph.  Here's my best effort.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Two warthogs, too much action

                                                                  

A nice little herd of "bachelor" impalas

    The next day was Monday, and after many many good-bye hugs, another volunteer whose flight left about the same time as mine and I left for Harare, sadly leaving Imire in the rear view mirror.                                                                                                              

Still More Heroes and Heroines

    I often think of the memorable thing that Jack, my old friend from the Elephant Valley Project in Cambodia and Thailand, said:  "I came for the animals, but I stayed for the people."
    Like Jack, I travel abroad ostensibly to see, up-close, and personal, the animals I've only read about and watched documentaries about.  For some unknown reason, I crave physical contact with animals, and some of my most vivid and significant memories will always be the feel of an elephant's trunk exploring my foot, the feeling of a giraffe's neck curled around my shoulders, or, even further back, the feel of a ticklish, squirmy otter in my arms.
     And yet, though that was my "aim," what winds up being perhaps even a more memorable experience are the people I meet along the way.  And of those people, Mrs. Matsika from Zimbabwe has to be one of the most memorable.

Mr. and Mrs. Matsika and one of their grandchildren

      Mrs. Matsika is the deputy headmistress of Numwa Secondary School, which is located right on the edge of Imire's game park.  I met her as part of my first visit to Imire, and from the very first, I thought "I am never going to meet anyone more like Mother Theresa in my lifetime."  She radiates goodness, empathy, dedication, and well . . . . . love . . .  more than anyone I've ever met.
    She is absolutely dedicated to the well-being of the students at the school, not only in their formal education, but in their general well-being.  She is a part of the ladies' sewing club, whose mission it is to make low-cost uniforms for students who otherwise can't afford them, to provide a nutritious snack to all the students during their examinations and as often during the year as possible, and to provide support and guidance to current and past students.
    She loves her country and its culture and customs, and she is actively engaged in the struggle to preserve them.  Each Thursday night, she travels to the volunteer house at Imire, cooks a traditional Shona meal there, and fills out the evening telling the volunteers about Shona traditions, language, music, and food.  If one listens to her closely, I believe they will come away from Zimbabwe with a far greater understanding of its people than they otherwise would.

    A couple of years ago, she told me about one of her students who 
needed a little help.  While she is a very proud person and did not want to appear to be soliciting donations, she eventually let me know that this young man, who had no parents, had tremendous potential and dedication for a university career, but NO means to get there.  With her guidance, we were able to give him a hand.  This young man is now flourishing at university in Zimbabwe, obtaining all A's in last semester's grade reports, and setting Zimbabwe-wide records in track.  
    I'm so lucky to have had the privilege to get to know these people. 


                                         Here is our young friend, attired in a 
                                         suit donated by a generous friend!

Judy Judy Judy

     I suppose you could call Judy Travers the reigning matriarch of the Travers family,  even though she is not a Travers by birth, but "married into" the family by her marriage to John, the son of the iconic original Travers couple Norman and Gilly.
      While Imire was originally a farm dedicated to the raising of such crops as tobacco, it evolved over the years into a wildlife park fully sanctioned by the Zimbabwean government.  Anyone who knows anything about Zimbabwe knows that the past century has been hugely difficult.  There was the long bloody civil war in the 1970s and 1980s culminating in the overthrow of Ian Smith's Rhodesian government and its eventual replacement with the black government headed by Robert Mugabe and the country's new name Zimbabwe.  Mugabe initially tolerated the presence of the white farmers, but then in the early 2000s went on a rampage forcibly removing the white farmers from the farms they'd been cultivating for generations.   One of the few farms that was NOT forcibly removed from its white owners was Imire.
    Imire had firmly established itself as a extraordinarily well-managed refuge for Zimbabwe's disappearing wildlife--especially rhinos--and as a model for attracting the ever-desirable tourist dollars.  Political differences aside, all (or at least MOST) Zimbabweans remained in agreement that the preservation of the nation's wildlife was critical.
    I've met a lot of animal lovers in my lifetime--and I certainly consider myself an over-the-top animal lover--but I have never had the privilege of meeting ANYONE with the unqualified love and dedication to animals that Judy Travers has. It's only one example of thousands of actions she does on a daily basis, but who do you know who would tend to a baby rhino in her house for more than two years?   And that love and dedication also extends to the people of Imire.  No one has a stronger advocate for health care, education, nutrition, and job training than Judy. 
    Add to the mix that she is incredibly energetic, warm, funny, and smart, you have one of THE most interesting people you've ever met.  When you've spent a day with her, you feel exhausted but exhilerated.  And I have been fortunate to have spent several days with her.  She is tirelessly devoted to the well-being of the local people and this trip, she showed me:  A new community center provided with enormous generosity and attention to detail by a couple from Vancouver  who collected everything necessary for an extensive carpentry shop, a respite center complete with a dozen  beds and kitchen facilities, and a meeting area for group activities and gardening, packed it all into shipping crates and sent it to Imire. 

A new school designed by a graduate student in architecture who was able to secure most of the funding to actually build the school she designed.  

A clinic built on the premises of one the unfortunate white farmers who had NOT been able to avoid removal, but which now houses a full-time nurse to provide medical services locally.  

And to brag a little, she also showed me the well Scott and I had paid for (lest you think we're amazingly philanthropic, the well cost $400), which provides the water for the clinic and its outbuildings. 





I could write a whole blog of Judy stories, but here's one she told me herself that I think will tell you more about Judy than any other.  She told me that when her parents-in-law became too old and infirm to continue living at Imire, they moved into a care facility and left a huge void at Imire.  Judy and her children felt it acutely and felt they had to do something a little out of the ordinary to dissipate the gloom.  So they went on a several day camping trip by ELEPHANT back!
     They headed off to the nearest mountain barely visible from Imire on a clear day and rode through tiny villages all along the way.  People heard about their passage and flooded to the paths to see the elephants.  The Shona people all have various animal "totems"--about 20-- and so many are of the elephant totem.  Yet they encountered many people who not had only never seen an ELEPHANT, but they had never seen a PHOTO of an elephant!  They called the elephants "walking rocks."
    Bright was an elephant handler in those days, and he repeated to me how incredibly magical it was, riding those elephants, camping out, and waking to see them contentedly grazing in the morning mist.  And Judy said it was one of the highlights of her life--and hers is a life with many many highlights.

These three walking rocks were all on that trip.

Singing the Unsung Heroes

     Now that I've talked about the elephants and the rhinos, I'd like to talk about the guys who are responsible for their safety.  Many people worry about the dangerousness of the large animals at Imire, but it is impossible to over-state how great the danger is FOR the large animals at Imire.
     In 2007, poachers entered the game park and came to the little cluster of houses that are next to the "bomas,"  the corrals where both the rhinos and the elies spend the nights.  They simply cannot roam free at night.  It is impossible to protect them adequately in the dark.   These poachers first attacked the people living in the houses, beating them and tying them up.  
     That done, they attacked the rhinos.  There were four adult rhinos and a baby only a few days old.  All four adults were killed and their horns sawed off and stolen.  Somehow they missed the baby who was cowering in a mound of hay in the corner of one of the bomas.  That traumatized little guy was Tatenda, who wound up growing up in the Travers home, until he was two YEARS of age.  If Tatenda's story interests you, you might check out the little movie made about him called "There's a Rhino in My House," a 4-part series on youTube. 
     So, protection of the rhinos is VERY critical.  Although most of the Imire rhinos are tranquillized and have their horns removed regularly (the horns grow back just like fingernails), poachers are interested even in the bit of horn that exists under the skin.  Rhino horn is more valuable than diamonds or gold, mainly because some modern quack doctor in Vietnam claims to be able to cure cancer with it.  It is said to be worth upwards of $60,000 an ounce.  All this despite the fact that rhino horn has EXACTLY the same composition as human fingernails.

     
During the daylight hours, each rhino has a guard armed with an AK47 watching over it.  Thank goodness, no one has had to use one since 2007, but I'm sure that's due to the fact that it is well-known that Imire protects its rhino population so vigorously.




There are at least 10 rhinos at Imire and therefore LOTS of rhino handlers.  But there are only four elephants, and so there are only 4 elephant handlers.  I've spent more time with the elephant handlers than the rhino handlers, so I've gotten to know these guys better.  Here they are:

From left to right, that's Polite, Mr. Brown, and Blessing, accompanyied by some itinerant wannabe elephant handler.  Petros had the day off.

So, THANKS GUYS, for the heroic job you do, and thanks to the Travers family for going to so very much time, effort, and money to insure that "our" animals are protected.




    

SUPERSTAR!!!!!

     I guess you could call me a lucky traveller.  I just happened on my first trip to Imire to see Baby Tafika, a two-week-old baby black rhino.  And this time, I just happened to see Imire's latest arrival, an as-yet-un-named two-week-old baby WHITE rhino!  And to show you what incredible luck that is, there have been no other baby rhinos born at Imire in the three years between these two earth-stopping events!
     This baby has a nervous Mom, and so I wasn't able to get the great close-ups I was able to get of Baby Tafika, but I hope you can still get the idea.  I always associate animal "cuteness" with fluffiness and big eyes, but this baby is proof that cuteness doesn't end there.

 Here he comes!  This little guy is SO full of mischief!  When his mother tries to take a nap, he crawls all over her and head-butts her.  She is INCREDIBLY patient (and tired).

     You may notice that neither of these rhinos is "white" in the sense we understand the term.  Perhaps you already know why they distinguish the two kinds of rhinos in sub-Saharan Africa as "black" and "white,"  but here's an abbreviated version of the story.  The first rhinos observed by white settlers were called blacks, because . . . well . . . .   they WERE .
     Then it was discovered that there was quite another kind of rhino in the area.  The Boer settlers noticed that their mouths were much wider than the black rhinos.  In their Germanic way, they called those newly-discovered rhinos "weid,"  meaning "WIDE."  The later English settlers misunderstood the name, and soon they were called "white" rhinos, to distinguish them from "black" rhinos, even though there's no real color distinction between them.  And yes, due to poaching, they are both EXTREMELY rare, and about equally.

And there he goes!

 

The Unsinkable Mr. Brown

    Anybody who's been fortunate enough to visit Imire will tell you that one of the most unforgettable characters there is the elephant handler Mr. Brown.  Even if he weren't the character he is, he'd be really interesting.  Virtually all the people at Imire are from Zimbabwe's Shona culture.  Imire is smack in the middle of what used to be called Mashonaland, the part of Zimbabwe that has always been predominantly Shona.
    The "other" major culture in Zimbabwe is called Ndebele.  The homeland of Ndebeles (pronounce "en-duh-belly") is further south.  Hailing from Bulawayo, in Ndebeleland, is our own Mr. Brown, so called because his real name is unpronounceable for Shona and English speakers alike.  Shona and Ndebele people used to be enemies, but all that is behind them now.
    The first thing one notices about Mr. Brown is that he is a TERRIBLE liar.  He NEVER tells the truth if a plausible (or sometimes, not so plausible) lie is handy.  You know he's lying.  He knows you know he's lying.  You know he knows you know he's lying.  Et Cetera.  It's all in good fun.  I remember the first time I encountered Mr. Brown's lying was years ago when he and I were riding one of the elephants.  I was complaining about my being so old, and he announced--probably as an instance of one-up-manship--that he was 74 years old.  I believed him for about 15 seconds and then realized the joke was on me.
    The Ndebele language is a CLICK language, and Mr. Brown is more than willing to demonstrate that for you.  There are at least two different clicks--one from the front part of the mouth and one from the rear--that give the language many more ways of expression.  Even in the written language, they are symbolized by an exlamation point and another distinct symbol.  Here is the wonderful Miriam Makeba singing a song in click language.
    But the important thing about Mr. Brown is that he is a wonderfully warm guy who is genuinely friendly and caring and who has so much to share with all of us.  This trip I was lucky enough to meet his daughter Musa, who is as demonstrably embarrassed by her Dad as any teenager anywhere. 

A Wedding, Complete with Elephants

    There were about 10 volunteers staying at Imire during the time I was there.  Since I was only there five days, I didn't get to know them as well as I would have liked, but they were decidedly a delightful bunch.  There were Australians, Swedes, and several Americans.  Oddly enough, I had never encountered American volunteers at Imire before!
    First thing in the morning, we all went to the elephant bomas (corrals), or at least where the bomas used to be.  Apparently the elephants tore them down, which means now they have to be tied up at night again, since it is still too dangerous for them to roam free at night.  They just can't be adequately protected from poachers when 
it's dark out.
   





 I'd had some romantic notion that my 
favorite elephant Mac might give some sign
of remembering me, though I can't imagine
what such a sign would look like.  I didn't see one, in any case.  He was his usual amiable self though.

    







    One of the young American women was from California, and she had done numerous volunteer gigs all over African.  She had become familiar with the African custom of LOBOLA, or "bride price."  It is still quite customary in many African countries, and certainly in Zimbabwe, that when a couple wants to marry, the bride's family and the groom's family negotiates how much lobola will be paid by the groom's family to the bride's.  Usually, the "currency" involved is cows, but I understand that cash is also sometimes exchanged. 
    In any event, this young woman had apparently been making a game of negotiating lobola for her "daughter" with the elephant handlers, whom we visited our first morning together.  They  were negotiating for not just cows, but also rhinos, elephants, giraffes, zebras, whatever.  Everyone one was having a lot of fun negotiating.  Finally, an agreement was reached, and the young American produced one of the other volunteers as her "daughter," and a wedding was hastily convened, presided over by Bishop Mr. Brown.

In this photo, the "groom" is taking a photo of his bride (second from the left), her "mother" 
(second from the right), the three "bridesmaids,"  and Bishop Mr. Brown in the center.  More about Mr. Brown later. 





We were all laughing so hard that something magical happened.  The three elephants interrupted their breakfast and walked over to where we were goofing around and just stood and stared at us, ears flared.  They were "right there," and we all were struck by the magic of their company.

Here's one of the wedding on-lookers keeping a curious and benign eye on the proceedings.

Homecoming

    On that fateful night a little over a year ago, I only half-jokingly claimed that I would be the first American to be a political refugee TO Zimbabwe.  I said I'd rather live in a country ruled over by Robert Mugabe (or as Scott and I refer to him, ZimBob) than He Who Shall Not Be Named.
    When I expressed this thought to my friend Judy Travers, one of the owners of Imire, she replied:  "Ann, you'll always have a home here at Imire."  I can't tell you how moved I was.
     And indeed it did feel like a homecoming arriving at Imire.  The current batch of volunteers were out and about, and the volunteer house was peopled by the staff I've come to know and love over the years.  They were bustling around caring for the house,  but found the time to share hellos and hugs.  There was one new staff person, Sipi, who was temporarily filling in for Tafadzwa, who was on maternity leave and staying in Harare.  Sipi is the wife of Stocks, the chef, and she was friendly and pleasant.
      I wandered around, re-acquainting myself.  There have been changes.  The kitchen is light and airy, with new appliances and more work space.  Stocks was VERY pleased.  "My" garden that I've enjoyed working in has been allowed to go to seed, and now there is a much smaller garden, but it is situated in a greenhouse, primarily, Newton told me, to keep the monkeys out.   He was tired of growing his vegetables to near perfection only to have the monkeys descend and cut a destructive swath.  The greenhouse was all planted, and I saw there wasn't much for me to do in the vegetable department.
    On the other hand, it was obvious that MBG had been hard at work during her recent visit.  The flower gardens looked spectacular, and the staff was still marvelling at how hard she had worked and how generous she had been in bringing in plants! 
    I was assigned a bed in the "dorm,"  where I would have two roommates.  Here are some photos of what I encountered at Imire: 

MBG's flower garden at the volunteer house at Imire




















The "dorm" at the volunteer house at Imire

The exterior of the volunteer house at Imire.








So I had time to settle in, and then the volunteers returned!!

A few words about Harare

    Harare--the capital of Zimbabwe--is a city so strange it is almost spooky.  It simultaneously has a vibrant population and also an air of abandonment about it.  There are thousands of people walking everywhere, and some traffic, but so little infrastructure the overall impression is of chaos.  It is fantastically poor, and people from all over the country are hawking vegetables and cheap plastic stuff on the streets, trying to scratch out a living somehow.  It is said that the unemployment rate is over 90%.
    Despite the shocking signs of incredible poverty, though, there are strikingly beautiful parts of Harare.  There are skyscrapers downtown;  there are lovely parks and lovely houses;  there is Robert Mugabe's palatial home, surrounded by armed guards.
    "My" little corner of Harare was one I found through AirBnb.  I was a little worried before I got there, because the streets were in such poor condition I couldn't imagine what I was getting into.  Not only were the streets unpaved, but they were rutted and potholed beyond belief.  But once I got to my lodgings, a little island refuge opened up.  While the house itself was rather ordinary, the grounds were nothing less than spectacular.  Manicured, irrigated, and tended to within an inch of its life.

 There was a lot of turmoil and excitement going on in this place.  I learned the explanation when I encountered, of all people, the President of the Harare Climbing Club, and he announced there was to be a huge party convened there in two days time.  He seemed to be confident that I would be in awe of the importance of this upcoming occasion.  You know, it really ISN'T every day that one meets the President of the Harare Climbing Club.

Soon, Dairai came to pick me up, and we were off to Imire!

Harare, Sweet Harare

    Arriving in Harare felt strangely like a homecoming.  It was the third time I'd arrived there, and the airport there really isn't much bigger than ours in Rhinelander.  I knew where to go, what to expect, and, knowing Zimbabwe even the little I do, I expected a friendly, non-threatening welcome.  It was even easier this time because my new friend Moses had advised me to get an "East African Tourist Visa" on line, because that would cover Zimbabwe and also Rwanda AND Uganda.  I had followed Moses's advice, and my visa was waiting for me, paid in full.
    Entry into the country went smoothly as always.  All three of my bags arrived safe and sound, and for the first time, a guy at Immigration showed some interest in my bags, probably because of their size.  His interest was no more than friendly curiosity, though--he spotted some of the solar-powered fans I'd brought over as gifts and was genuinely interested in them.  We chatted pleasantly about solar power and he waved me through.
    I suppose everybody has encountered some truly memorable smiles in their lifetimes.  In my lifetime, one of the most notable smiles belongs to my friend Dairai Manyati, who provides transportation for volunteers arriving in Harare for transfer to Imire (about 50 miles).  The first time I arrived in Harare two years ago, Dairai's smile was a beacon of reassurance when entering a country that certainly SEEMED dangerous.  And, though Zimbabwe doesn't feel particularly dangerous anymore,  Dairai's smile is still a welcoming sight!

 And I'm here to tell you that Dairai's character matches his
smile.  He is as kind, generous, and perceptive a friend as anybody could hope for.  We've stayed in touch over the years, and I really wanted to meet his wife and kids.  So Dairai had his wonderful wife--who is now on maternity leave, but is a teacher by profession-- and three of his kids with him when he picked me up. 
    They drove me to the little guesthouse I had reserved through AirBnb, and we sat and drank ice water and chatted together for a nice long visit before they had to leave to pick up their other children.
    I was particularly interested to meet McDonald, Dairai's oldest, who is nervously awaiting his examination results to see if they are good enough for him to study law.
    We made arrangements for Dairai to pick me up the next day so we could drive out to Imire, and I looked forward to the opportunity to do some further catching up.

Yet MORE time in the air (and waiting to get back in the air)

    It was quite late by the time we reached Nairobi.  Originally I had planned to stay at a guesthouse near the airport, but when I calculated how short a time I'd really be there--less than 9 hours--I decided it would not be worthwhile to get a visa, and airport transfer, and no doubt a nervous night worrying about whether I'd get back to the airport on time for my 7 am flight.
    Some of the more modern airports have in-airport hotels, which I've visited successfully before (in Qatar and the Emirates) but there was nothing like that in Nairobi.  So I'd made arrangements to stay in an airport lounge, something I'd never done before.  This one was run by Turkish Alliance Airlines, and it was REALLY nice.  There were showers, a buffet, a bar, very comfortable lounge chairs, soft lights, and soft music.  I was tired without being sleepy, having slept quite a bit during the flight, but it felt unimaginably good to relax the night away in this lounge.  This was a fine idea, and I will certainly do it again if the opportunity arises.
    The staff at the lounge keeps track of departing flights, and they let you know when it's time to go, so there was no anxiety about making the early morning flight to Harare, which was right on time.
   On the flight to Harare, I was seated next to a well-dressed African man who was reading a ridiculously complex book dealing with political science (I couldn't help but notice.)  When he took a break, we started chatting.  It turned out that he was a Zimbabwean gastro-enterologist (which are very unusual words to go together in my experience!) returning from a conference in Kigali.  I must have seemed like a TOTAL idiot to him when I told him:  "Oh!  A gastro-enterologist!  I've met several of them!  My husband has Crohn's disease!"  He told me he did his advanced study in gastro-enterology in Capetown, South Africa, and was fascinated to find that while South Africa's "colored" (mixed race) population frequently suffered from Crohn's, black populations do not, leaving the conclusion that Crohn's must somehow be linked to being at least part white.
    This led to a very interesting discussion of genetics and disease, and this gentleman was as learned, articulate, and insightful as anyone I've ever had the opportunity to talk with regarding this subject.  His name was Leo, and I considered myself very lucky to have made his acquaintance and learned so much.  The several-hour flight to Harare went by very quickly.
    Marc, you've suggested I should have taken photos of my seatmates.  I just didn't feel it was polite to do so, interesting as they were.  Even so, I WOULD like to have in my possession a keepsake of their appearances!

Amsterdam to Nairobi

    By far the longest leg of my journey was from Amsterdam to Nairobi.  Days before I left, I had been contemplating seat selection for my flights.  As you know, nowadays one has to pay for a selected seat, ANY selected seat, and I decided there was only one leg of the whole trip I was serious enough about to fork out the requisite $25--Amsterdam to Nairobi.
    Why?  Well, one time I flew from Amsterdam to Johannesburg and had the most remarkable flight ever.  Flying over, first, the Alps, then the Mediterranean, and then the Sahara was fantastically scenic and interesting, and I hoped for more of the same.
    Imagine my dismay, then, when I arrived at my seat and found some one sitting in it!  Under normal circumstances, I would have simply deferred, but when I remembered I had actually PAID for that seat, I decided to stick to my guns.  The lady in my seat was astonishingly over-dressed.  She was clad in what surely looked like a mink coat, and over the top of that she wore a substantial down vest.  These were over what appeared to be "traditional" African dress and heavy boots.  I surmised that she was trying to wear everything she couldn't cram into her luggage.
    Her English was rather rudimentary, but she finally realized what I was saying about the seat and, rather ill-naturedly, moved.  We were the only two in the three-seat row, but she elected to sit right next to me, and man!  With all those clothes, she took up a LOT of space and exuded a LOT of heat.  Plus, she had a very nasty cold and coughed long, hard, and often--and without the benefit of covering her mouth.  I sat there, feeling trapped, and fuming about how sick I was going to get.  
   It turned out to be totally cloudy anyway, and I couldn't see a damn thing, so, generous soul that I am, I eventually got up to visit the toilet and then offered her the window seat and then sat myself in the aisle seat and was quite comfortable.
    Until, that is, they handed out the customs declaration forms.  I didn't need to fill one out since I wasn't disembarking in Nairobi, but she did.  It became clear that she couldn't read the forms, and she asked for my assistance and advice.  She seemed to be nervous about some "medicine" she was carrying, but her nerves subsided after she made a judicious trip to the toilet (and presumably its wastebasket.)  Then we became quite chatty.
   It turned out that she had been working as a housekeeper in Canada for the past couple of years, and now she was going home.  She was able to tell me how phenomenally cold it had been in Canada and how excited she was to be returning to Kenya.  I imagined that she had been given somebody's old mink coat and down jacket and that she was prepared to really wow her family and friends back home.
    So we parted on good terms after spending a "mere" 14 hours together, and now I will never see her again.  I find myself wondering how she is and what her friends DID think of that fur coat.

Logistics and Qualms

    There's nothing like a day and a half in the air crammed into a space as small as the average modern airline's economy seat to get one thinking about how the hell one got into this position in the first place.    
    For years, I have been longing to see gorillas.  Scott, on the other hand, was longing for me NOT to see gorillas.  In fact, one time he extracted a promise from me that elephants, OK; rhinos, well, OK; lions, ok; but gorillas, not OK, emphatically.  That's where the matter stood until two separate events.  First, Judy and John Travers, the owners of Imire, went on vacation to Rwanda to visit gorillas and gave a spectacular account.  Scott was still not impressed.
    But then, one day in the parking lot of our favorite local grocery emporium, Golden Harvest, we met our friend DB, who was our veterinarian for years and is now having splendid adventures in retirement.  He told me about HIS seeing gorillas in, I think, Uganda, and when I told him about Scott's decree, he talked to Scott and assured him of the relative safety of gorilla visits.  His reasonable assurances caused Scott to release me from my promise!  Thanks, DB!
    I hoped to be able to volunteer somewhere with gorillas, but could find no such opportunity .  I think mountain gorillas are SO rare and require SUCH professional care that their care would not be entrusted to an amateur like me.  So, I decided to see them as a tourist and started an internet search for a tour company that would arrange my visit.  I found Nature Adventure Africa Safaris Ltd. and started a correspondence with Moses, and that correspondence turned into a friendship.  In addition to arranging an itinerary for me, Moses also found me a place to volunteer:  a school for "street boys" in Kigali, Rwanda.  He gave me an email for Charles, the executive director of the school Les Enfants de Dieu, and WE developed an internet friendship.
    So here I was, hurtling through the air in the rather profound hope that my instincts were correct in trusting these two gentlemen Moses and Charles on the basis of many email exchanges and nothing else.  Scott was more nervous about this than I was, but still, put a person 36,000 feet or so in the air for 36 hours, and doubts seem to follow.

 

Doubts notwithstanding, O'Hare was soon WAY behind me and I found myself in Amsterdam on a dark early morning.  I had a layover of a couple of hours to contemplate the amazing efficiency of the airport there.  As day dawned, I found myself calling the place "a miracle of concrete and logistics."

Oh. My bags are packed. I'm ready to go.

  Yes, it HAS been a long time.  Somehow it took me much longer to decide on this upcoming trip.  Where to go.  Alone or with somebody (ies).  Volunteer or tourist.  What animal to concentrate on.  When.  Etc., etc., etc.
   Somehow, some decisions got made.  Where?  Rwanda!  Alone!  Both volunteer AND tourist!  And, yes, GORILLAS!!  In November!
   At first I wasn't going to go back to Zimbabwe, thinking it was time to "move on."  But then I realized I just couldn't be right in the neighborhood (the "neighborhood" being the behemoth African continent) and NOT go to visit my friends in Zimbabwe.  So I decided to jam three different trips into my three weeks--one in Zimbabwe, one in Rwanda volunteering at a school for former street boys, and one in Rwanda and Uganda being a tourist.  Easier to do all three than to make a choice!

So.  Here I am, all packed--with meticulous care, I might add--and off to O'Hare prepared to be whisked away to Harare via Chicago, Amsterdam, Nairobi, and Lusaka (Zambia) in a "mere" day and a half of air travel and airport layovers.  LOADS of luggage, because of course I can't go without taking lots of stuff for lots of people.
   Scott and Aramis are prepared to drive me to Chicago and drop me off at O'Hare, and thus will begin my 5th trip to Africa and my 6th volunteer trip.  I have more reservations about this trip than my previous ones though.  I don't particularly feel like leaving home.  I am nervous about my itinerary.  I am unsure as to whether I am up for travelling alone anymore.  I am unsure of my reception at my destination.
   And, as usual, I question my own motivation.  It sometimes seems to me that if I really wanted to help people there, I would not spend all this money on getting my butt to Africa, but rather just send the money it takes over to them.

I never really have resolved that matter, except to understand that yes, I really do want to go there and see for myself, selfish as it might be.  Therefore, I'm leaving on the proverbial jet plane.