sarah fretwell photographs

The DRC's Mineral Curse - You can help end it!

2011-03-08T16:49:00.001-08:00

Three jars of peanut butter, 98 slices of white bread, 89 bananas, 54 boiled eggs, more goat than I will eat for the rest of my life, countless cups of Nescafe and my gut tells me it is time to leave the Congo. Exhausted from continually having multiple sets of eyes staring at me no matter what I do, it is time for a break. Everything I own and every crevice of my body is covered in a fine silt of red dust. I am sure I will continue to discover remnants of the dust along with my Congolese life lessons for years to come.

It has been 50 days since I few into the unknown of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Not sure if I would like it here or if I would even be able to walk down the street alone, my experience here has been surprisingly calm and quite magical. The Congo will really go down in my book as one of the most amazing travel experiences ever. If nothing else, it has been very real. The most raw elements of life and humanity in every way. Some of the most kind people I have ever met and five minutes later quite possibly one of the most evil people I hope I will ever meet. The most light I have ever witnessed and moments of the deepest despair I have ever felt.

As you have read, the contradictions of the Congo has been difficult to sum up. Not wanting to sensationalize the situation here, there is so much going on it is hard to write all the details. All of the things I have discussed soldiers, police, looting, and rape they are going on around us, but the majority of my time here has been peaceful and fairly relaxed. The situation here is not chaotic. It is systematic, calculated, and predictable.

As my farewell to the people of S.Kivu, Alana and I decide to do the 30 km walk from the Crosiers to Butembo. It is the drive we take everyday, but during that time we pass hundreds of people on the road walking to the market with their goods and to the fields to cultivate their crops. The walk took several hours, but it allowed us to take in even more of the scenery and interact with people. One woman we pass every morning came out to greet us with her newborn twins, a grandmother going to cut firewood stroked my white arm, and as we passed the school we picked up a small mob of 200 children who walked with us for several kilometers. When we talk to people along the way –especially the elderly- and they learn that we are from America their eyes light up with the realization the world has not forgotten about the DR Congo.

One description I read about the Congo compared the entire country to a sick water buffalo being gnawed at by hyenas (all the countries surrounding the Congo and foreign players). The Congo is 2/3 the size of Western Europe and the estimated population is only 50 million. Many experts (including our UN friends agree) it may only be manageable if/when it is broken into four countries.

Unlike my prior perception, the entire Congo is not a chaotic mess, but a systematic arrangement of alliances and political power plays. At many junctions it is impossible to tell who is “right” and who is “wrong”. Most of the key players are shape shifters who change alliances when it works to their benefit. Without a government that truly wants peace, an international organization with a mandate that has some teeth, and enough pressure from the outside world, the situation in the DRC is an unsolvable Rubix’s cube.

Now the good news.

The DRC is a resource rich country with thriving land with a RESILIANT population that wants change. As demonstrated numerous times by the COPERMA staff and the really amazing group of prostitutes we worked with, common people of the DRC are organizing themselves and working for what they believe is right. Willing to risk personally safety for change, they want to live in peace and have justice in their country.

They are working tirelessly towards this end.

So what can you do personally to help change the situation in the DRC and why should you care?

To put it simply anyone in the world who has a laptop, cell phone, or digital camera has a direct connection and an ethical responsibility to help the people of Congo resolve the problems in their country. Why? At is core, the fighting in the Congo is for control of it’s mineral rich land that contains coltan, diamonds, tin, copper, gold, and almost every other precious mineral in the world. Over a million dollars worth of minerals leave the DRC each day on the black market and the common population living in mud huts sees none of the benefits. These minerals are transported to other countries and refined into usable products that are then shipped around the world for use by electronics manufactures. There is currently no standard to ensure that companies are not buying “blood minerals”.

While we may feel powerless to help, we must remember we vote consciously and unconsciously with our dollars. While I am typing on my Mac laptop and listening to tunes on my ipod, I need to remember at what cost they are produced. It is not that we should stop using these products, but it is time to join consumer movements (like the “Enough” project) that are demanding ethical mineral sourcing from companies such as Mac and Nintendo.

What I have walked away with personally is that I need to learn even more about foreign aid and specifically why it does not work in Africa. While it is comforting to think the UN is helping and the World Food Program is doing food drops, there is no one working for long-term sustainable solutions to end the conflict in Congo. By paying attention to our governments foreign policy and having an active voice in it we can create the atmosphere of consumer pressure that is needed to create lasting peace and stability in Congo. Really it starts with you.

Where can you start right now?

1. Repost this to your FB page
2. Join the Enough movement and get on their email list -www.raisehopeforcongo.org/content/take-action
3. Have a discussion tonight with at least one friend about conflict minerals

The “Alpha Job Hotel”

2011-03-08T16:24:00.000-08:00

One afternoon a few weeks ago, bored with our daily

routine, we got off of work early and decided to go to a hotel we heard had a pool table. As we walked across the green manicured lawn our timing it seems was uncanny. About five feet from the outdoor pool table was a rectangular table surrounded the military, police, and local business men. The unusually long rectangular table created a scene akin to the last supper. Except this supper had the commander at the center of the table flanked on both sides by police in blue uniforms, the military in green, businessmen in impeccable suits (possibly the mayor?), AK-47’s, and beer.

Having already descended across the lawn, by the time we surmised the scene there was no turning around. It would be even more obvious that we thought something was up if we tu

rned around and left.

As we awkwardly began our game of pool, some UN workers happened to show up for an after work drink. They hesitantly sat at the table on the opposite end of the last supper. Pretending to focus on my pool game, I did everything I could to nonchalantly steel glances at what was unfolding before our eyes.

The scene was awkward and unspoken. We were all working each day to address the same issues in Congo it is just that we all have very different roles in everything that is going on here.

As the meeting finished, the military com

mander and a few of his men strutted over to the pool table. With guns slung around their shoulders and fingers ready to reach for the trigger, they

came over and gave a little macho display of force to make sure we had not overheard anything at the meeting.

Assured that we did not speak French, the police stood by the gate to the hotel compound. As they stood guard several "civilian" vehicles with tinted windo

ws, black as night, roared out of the hotel. That was about 5:15pm.

The next day when we arrived to COPERMA we discovered our co-worker "Joseph" was trapped in his house with his family. At 5:30pm the night before police and military had descended on his

neighborhood and set fire to the local city hall of sorts. They remind the locals if they share a dissenting political view against the majority party (the president) they would be punished. After that the DR Congo’s own military began raping, looting, and intimidating the neighborhood.

Our only thought was we need to let the UN know. Surely if they know what is going on and that women are being raped they will stop it. Wrong. Dead wrong. People fro

m the neighborhood did contact them, but even now a few weeks later, no one we talked to saw any UN enter the neighborhood. They have granted a safe house to prominent people who may be in danger, but as far as going to the neighborhood to prevent raping and looting, we have heard no accounts so far.

The top priority for our coworker once he got out of his house was to go to show up at work! We told him to go home and take care of his family that work could wait! “Joseph” moved his family into a friend’s house, but two day later he moved his family back into their house. That night the military entered his house uninvited. Very controlled, they demanded to know if there were weapons and to see photo albums. He said they were looking for photos of anyone in the military.

About five days later things had finally calmed do

wn enough

for us to enter “Joseph’s” neighborhood. Not really sure if we were supposed to be there conducted a very sketchy interview in a local schoolyard with a lawyer who lived in there. As Amy translated questions I carefully positioned my camera to only show his mouth so he cannot be identified. Everyone else looked around uncomfortably and jumped at the sound of any noise. Pretty sure the police and military would not be cool with a foreign interview, the people of the community were willing to take a calculated risk to get the word out to the world.

A few weeks ago while the world was paying attention to the Ivory Coast, the president Kabila held a “vote” to change the voting process from a primary and an election to just one election. The majority (Kabila’s party) won and parliament and the judiciary committee broke out into a massive fistfight on national television. As Amy recently described it best in one of her bogs, “The scene

would be comparable to Colin Powell punching Hilary Clinton in the face while Nancy Pelosi is kicking Rahm Emanuel between the legs.”

Since then, the capital agreed if the minority party collected 100,000 signatures they would consider changing the elections back from one final round of voting bac

k to two. The neighborhood in Butembo had collected 60,000 signatures and the majority party was worried it was getting too close to 100,000.

The frustration of the neighborhood was expressed by the lawyer. It is not that they want to overthrow the government, the just want justice. And by that they mean they want a chance for peace and the freedom to question the government if they do not agree. As is in their countries name, they would like democracy, not to pick a fight with the military.

A bit rattled, but glad we made it out of the in

terview unscathed we left with more questions than we had come with. Where is the UN in all of this and why have they not responded? Are they on the side of the government, are they apathetic, or are they responding and we just don’t know.

Looking for answers a few days later we headed

to the UN’s weekly meetings for non-profits.

In a stale cement floor meeting room with a rattling air-conditioned, I listened for two hours pretty much not understanding anything that was going on. Taking video and audio, Amy would periodically mouth to me “Are you getting this?” so I knew what he was saying must be good.

As the debriefer acknowledged and discussed the numerous security problems that were arising he agreed they were connected to the elections. He described the people of the neighborhood as ignorant and “uneducated”, but based on our co-worker and the lawyer we knew that could not be entirely true. Again, it seemed the UN was glossing over the important details wanting to give the impression that the situation had been handled, but really probably nothing had been done other than a written report about the incident. Cited as one of the most failed UN missions in history, even UN workers I meet are disillusioned with the agency’s mission in the Congo.

While no one has been willing to even go anomalously on record the consensus seems to be that the UN mandate and will does not have enough teeth to effectively do anything here.

Shifting my Paradigm

2011-02-03T11:16:00.000-08:00

I have been trying to understand the DR Congo through a less “American” framework. The roles of men and women in society and their rights are just drastically different. It is hard not to want to filter them through my western paradigm, but I am trying. The thing it is difficult to ignore here (especially living with priests) is the role that organized religion plays in perpetuating the situation here and at the same time keeps women subordinate. While religious organizations have built schools, hospitals, and unnecessarily elaborate churches, I find little evidence they are involved in helping society address core issues that will allow them to grow into the peaceful and thriving society the DR Congo could be.

Every time I drive past the construction site of 1 of the 5 new cathedrals going up in the area, it is difficult not to think of other (more useful) things that the money could buy. At times I wonder if the church has become such a fixture in the Congolese good old boys network that they have entirely lost their way. Not to mention the general sense of religious fatalism mixed with the disillusion of years of war that has now seeped into the national psyche.

It seems the church has become more of a cultural norm than a religion. You just are Catholic (some Protestant and Anglican). It is definitely not your fathers Catholicism. It is a chaotic collusion of violently clashing cultures and diabolically opposed belief systems that have led to a tangled web of social norms in the DR Congo today. Traditional tribal practices of multiple wives, a culture of war, and a “democracy” run by a military regime sandwiched between hellfire and brimstone Christianity. It is like a peanut butter, sardine, and mud sandwich on rye, an inexplicable combination.

Mentioning to a few local men we know that we had hung out with the prostitutes (Post - When I grow up I want to be _______________.), they began to explain their relationship with their wife's to us. These are two upper middle class well educated Congolese guys. They are Catholic (the norm here), they practice family planning, and they both have daughters they are going to send to university. Their lives and views are quite progressive, yet when we talk about women and men I feel we are back in biblical times.

My friend’s explanation started off something like this, “Let me tell you something. In Africa, in my country, the man is King”. I said, “Yeah I have noticed, the women do all the work here”. Everyday I pass men riding their bicycles loaded with goods and the women with even heavier loads bent at a 90-degree angle walking just as far carrying their goods like a mule. Several times I have wondered aloud why I have never seen a women with a bike. When Alana and I replied in unison, “Do you think that is fair?”, they said, “No of course not, but that is how it is”. They explained, people get engaged and during that time you are not supposed to, but people do have sex. That way if the man thinks it is bad (or that is bride to be is not a virgin) they can leave her (hopefully not pregnant). In an ideal relationship the man always gets his way and the women submits because he is the man.

Our friends estimated that 80% of the men “go outside” (sleep around) on their wife, but of course without protection, as the Pope does not allow it. We asked, what about the women? Do they go “outside”? Our friend raised his voice, “If you are my wife and you go ‘outside’ I kill you”.

Immediately, despair washed over my entire soul and body. If these are the modern educated guys of the Congo, tomorrow’s brighter future, the women of the Congo are seriously screwed.

“So you both go ‘outside’ on your wife?, I replied”. “Yes, when we want”. I could not resist, “Well let me tell you, if you are acting this way I am sure your wife is going ‘outside’ on you!”. Looks of surprise followed by some reassuring glances to each other. In unison they replied, “No, not my wife”.

A few days later when I was teaching a workshop for COPERMA a local male nurse joined us. During a break when no one else was round he asked about my family and I about his. He has a wife and three daughters. He began to ask me why I did not have a baby. After several minutes of very personal questions, he said I should let him give me a Congolese baby. Caught off guard, I was taken aback. I dryly replied, “Besides the fact I don’t want a baby with you, you are married! And aren’t you Catholic?” He replied, “Well yes, but the body has needs and God will forgive me”.

I walked out the room to find Amy. I told her what had just happened. We walked back into the room and she began berating him in French. I only understood a bit of what she said to him, “Aren’t you Catholic and don’t you have a wife? H-A-P-A-N-A (NO)!”. As he insisted, it was OK and not a problem, she came up with the only line she could think of that could usurp his predetermined superiority to us and all the women in Congo,

“You are going to burn in hell if you treat your wife that way”.

I nodded my head in disgust. I could not have put it better myself. Knowing we had no say in what ultimately happened to his soul, it did feel like a momentary victory for all women in Congo to put a brother in his place.

When I grow up I want to be _______________.

2011-02-03T11:05:00.000-08:00

A) Jobless

B) A mineral runner

C) A soldier

D) A prostitute

E) A cultivator

As we zoom down the broad dirt road of the frontier style town of Butembo shrouded in a cloud of red dust, I always try to make a mental note of all the businesses.

There are a lot of small businesses here as there is no development. Wooden kiosks a bit taller than a child’s playhouse, that sells everything from use of an outlet to charge your cell phone to a “Saloon” to get hair extensions. There are few jobs for non-entrepreneurs.

The main road is about three miles long and every inch on either side is full of vendors. They sell everything from my old Nike “Airs” that I donated to Goodwill after 8 months of running to the blue tattered bleach stained bathmat you donated to Value Village the last time you moved. There are entire blocks dedicated to old curtains, ski jackets, t-shirts, children’s clothes, belts/socks, and old pants. All of the vendors selling like products sit side by side for city blocks at a time; I guess it makes the comparison shopping easier. The things that America and Europe have discarded after a few years come here for a second, fourth, and ninth life. They will be used until they are threadbare rags. An old pair of men’s red plaid boxers will be worn as a little boys shorts and he will wear them every day even when crotch or buttocks no longer exist. I am not sure when clothes get washed as few people seem to have much more than one set of clothing. As I pass a man who is 5’4” in a suit jacket that looks like it was designed for an NBA basketball player, I could not help but think he looked like a child whose parents bought his clothes big enough to grow into. Only this man well into his 40’s and he is not going to grow any taller.

I always wonder how are the business owners doing and are they making enough money to survive? The majority answer seems to be “No”. But still the vendors show up every day and sit side-by-side selling the same goods in hopes of making some money to help them survive.

So what are the job options here?

My best guess by power of observation is that the highest paying job would be to be a mineral runner (diamonds, coltan, and gold among others). The only problem is the payoffs are big because the danger and death rate among the mineral cartel is high. Also, it is not the most ethical business model. The minerals are largely responsible for funding the war. But since a million dollars of minerals a day leave the DR Congo on the black market, someone is getting rich. I am just not sure whom.

The next option would be to join the military or police. When they get paid the make good money, but there is risk associated. With the political instability the “in” party of today can be gone tomorrow and their alliances are shaky at best. There is a great reason you are not allowed to take a photograph of their face, they are all guilty of something and most of them have reformed alliances and melded with former opponents several times.

It seems three really great legitimate businesses are being a major cell phone company, owning a gas station, or owning a hair “saloon” as everyone in the country has a cell phone, all cars and generators need gas (there is little electricity in this part of the Congo), and most women have extensions.

The next most profitable career seems to be a technical skill like being a mechanic, seamstress, a moto driver, or a cook. The pay varies widely, but at least it is a job that usually offers subsistence living…depending on how many mouths you have to feed.

Then you could be a cultivator and sell vegetables/fish at the market. This is hard work and at best subsistence living. If you run a business like this on a one family scale you can bring in approximately $20 - $100 a month depending on what you sell.

Considering that school fees are $60-$90 a month plus a uniform and notebooks, no wonder the average family cannot afford to send one child, let alone 8-10 kids, to school.

So if you are a single woman whose husband died or abandoned you, a young woman who is a single mother by consent or force, and you have no resources, but mouths to feed you can sell banana beer from your home. And if you are a “woman who lives alone” - you sell sex.

Sex. It is like the most versatile and powerful tool in the world. Depending on how it is used, it can be a symbol of love, an income generator, and an tool that takes power from another. In its extremes it can be used to create a future or destroy the fabric of an entire society.

Now first I guess I have to address my own personal bias against prostitution, by that I mean the beliefs I hold about the career and people who work in the profession. And wrongly, my view used to be that the women involved in it are dirty and they had a career choice. That perspective was blown out of the water in Phnom Phen in 2000 on a balmy Cambodian night. As I zoomed down a three-mile stretch of road in the back of a pick-up truck, the entire stretch was lined on either side with wooden shacks. Teens and young women of all sizes and shapes stood on the porches bathed in colored lights. As we slowed to our destination we met an entire family sitting outside in lawn chairs, as their daughter/granddaughter/sister stood five feet away dressed in black tight western clothes and heels “for sale” below a red light bulb.

It happens in every country in the world and it has been a viable career for women for centuries. If it is a woman’s choice to sell sex, she is not kidnapped or forced into it, well I guess she is just being a good business woman working with the most valuable asset she has. Her body. It is just that most of the time if a woman does not have an education, a husband, or there is no job economy it is not so much “a choice” as it is “the only choice” if she wants to eat.

COPERMA has discovered through the grapevine that many of the girl mothers (young women who have children as the result of rape – a few of them by consent, but the man left) with a child to feed they are now accepting money for sex. The girls have little to no education, they have a child, no technical skills, if they go work in the field they face the risk of rape, so I guess they figure they may as well get paid for it. Upset for the girls and wanting to know more about the state of women in Congo in general, we set up a meeting with some local prostitutes.

Amy ran into a guy at our “expatriate” mini-mart who runs a NGO for prostitutes in Butembo. Later, after we had spent the day with him, he revealed his motivation for being the only man who runs a currently unfunded NGO for 6,000 women. When he grew up his mother was a “woman who lived alone” and his mother, brother, brother’s wife, and uncle all died from AIDS a few years ago.

He let us know that in this city of approximately 800,000 there are 6,000 sex workers they officially know of. There are probably thousands of others they have just never met. As we met to interview several of his members in a sort of round table format, we were not sure which questions were taboo, so we just asked. How many clients a week do you have? Where do you work? Are you worried about STD’s? Have you been tested for HIV? Do you have access to condoms and do you use them? How much money do you make per client? How much do you make a month? Are you happy? Do you want to continue doing this business? What would you tell your children if they want go into this business?

Kindly and patiently, they answered all of our questions no matter how stupid or rude they may have been. The women spoke articulately about their situations. “No of course I do not want to be a sex worker, but what other choice to I have? My children need to eat”. Most women had 2-3 clients a week, but some who were quite resourceful businesswomen had up to 5 clients a week. The prices are set individually by the women (there are no pimps or Madams here) and they charge anywhere from $1 - $5 per client. Sometimes they agree on more and they guy does not pay or he pays them less.

The women also commented on the fact that many of them had been raped in the course of every day activities and during work. In fact, the problem is so prevalent that when they have them, they wear female condoms when they travel or walk alone at night. So if they are raped at least they will not get pregnant or infected with STD’s.

After what could have been a heavy interview, we asked the women if they had any questions. “Yes, will you promenade with us?”. After we clarified what “promenading” is we agreed to parade around walk the neighborhood and be seen with them so everyone could know they were hanging out with Mzungus. After, I agreed (or was it that I was suckered?) to buy the women lunch and a drink. I explained when we ordered that I only could only spend $20 for lunch, but the bill was $38 for fried goat meet, fried tilapia, and copious amounts of French fries. A ridiculously expensive for the Congo, that is more than most people monthly wage. Thinking I had a $50 budget to buy the condoms, the lunch left me with $12 to buy 10 prostitutes condoms. It was however a great informal chance to visit and get to know the women personally. Actually, it was a little in reverse asking extremely personal questions and then getting to know then after, but they took it all in great stride.

All in all it was one of the most my most fascinating days in the DRC. It really drove home the point for me that women bear the brunt of war in so many ways. The “women who live alone” are some of the most proactive and articulate women we have met here.

Savvy businesswomen we did leave them with two suggestions use condoms anytime you can and raise your prices.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part II

2011-01-24T14:29:00.001-08:00

In the mud hut all day.

We listen to testimony of survivors. Amy interviews, one of the staff members translates, and when I get permission from the interviewee I film and shoot stills. Most of the interviews are palpable. Since the survivors rarely show emotion you do not want to be the one to grimace or cry. No matter the story or my emotion, I have to contain it. The older women’s stories are sad, but somehow less desperate. Most of them are already married and have children. They are traumatized and need help, but they have a level of emotional maturity from the hard life here that helps them seems to help them move on. The testimony that gets me is the young girls. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Not only are they traumatized; many of the hopes for the future have been devastated. They are now stigmatized. ‘Used goods’. They are not eligible for marriage. As an angry 13-year-old put it, “What man would want me?”. In this society marriage does not only mean a life partner (hopefully), it means economic stability, social standing, the ability to buy/sell land, and some level of protection. Women cannot do many things socially and legally without their husband’s permission. Without a husband to serve as the intermediary with society, women have no place, no rights, and no future.

I try not to feel their despair and hold the space for a brighter future, but then my anger seeps in. One careless soldier trying to regain an ounce of his misplaced masculinity in this fractured society just effected the entire course of this young girls future. I want to hug the girls. Tell them it is not their fault and that we will try to catch the man who did this to them. We know the soldiers name and his commander, but I know he will never be caught. The commander will just deny it, even if he was there. He is the supreme authority in the area. Even if the soldier is caught, he won’t get in trouble. And the girls will have to deal with this mostly on their own for the rest of their life. And then I wonder what am I really doing here? It is not like I can give her anything tangible beyond food or take them to the free clinic. What is the point of acting as a voyeur into someone else’s pain?

Always more girls/women waiting to meet us than we have time for, Mama Marie usually walks into an interview and tells us it is time it is time to go because it is getting late or because soldiers are near. Racing against the dark of night. It is usually raining on the way back to Butembo. Sometimes we listen to hip hop music as we bump along the road. Wyclef. Acon. Backstreet Boys. N’sync. We have heard the same tape about 100 times. When we have the energy, I ask questions about observations I have made that always seem to stir a great debate. Kinande , French, and an occasional English translation spewing across the car on the way to Butembo. Everyone has a different opinion as to why all this is happening. Since we cannot stop the war on our own, arm all the women, or get rid of all the soldiers, the only solution that we can immediately come up with is we need more money. How can money help? To send the kids to school to school, give girl mothers vocational training so they do not have to become prostitutes, so the families can buy seeds to cultivate, so they can eat, and replace what the soldiers have looted. Everything seems equally important. On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs we work daily just to try to meet the bottom rungs. Most of the time we aren’t even able to address those. The thought of being able to work with the survivors’ emotions and personal enlightenment seems an ever evasive glass ceiling.

Once in Butembo we hop on motorbikes and race against the darkness. If we have time we stop at the only “Expatriate” mini-mart in town. Look for something edible and recognizable is my general plan. An apple, a can of tuna, some peanut butter, or a Guinness. As we drive past fruit stands we hunt for a tomato, avocado, or an egg. We pass the soldier barriers before nightfall. Making it home in the nick of time or a little too late…

At the Crossiers we search for cold leftovers white rice, maybe cabbage, and if I am lucky beans, if not some mystery meat. If there is electricity I rush to check my email and connect with another reality before it turns off.

The evenings are precious because it is our only time to try to relax and decompress. If we have the energy, we spend time discussing the traumas of the day.

One fifteen year old just told us today that there are other girls who were captured by soldiers and taken to the bush. She was there for a week and escaped. Right now as you read this the girls are still trapped at the soldiers camp in the bush. Even though we know where they are we can’t get a hold of the UN to report the situation. Even if we can get a hold of the UN, there is no guarantee they will or can go there. Usually full of ideas, I am at a bit of a loss as to a plan that would actually rescue the girls and not put us into serious danger.

We usually end up drinking a beer and singing/playing some music. Voice therapy releases our emotion and lightens our spirits. You have to be able to joke and relax. Being serious about everything would kill you here. It is yet another contradiction of the Congo, laugh in the face of fear.

I fall into bed at night. Waking up intermittently in the night to download and transfer files so my gear will be ready the next morning.

As the day breaks my alarm clock is a mother goat bleating for here babies. Her call sounds like a human woman in the midst of an excruciating birth. Finally the babies answer back. She stops. I check my watch. It is anywhere from 6-7am. I open my cabin window over looking the taro patch. I gaze out on the forest of green trees enveloped in mist as the warm morning light filters past. I take a deep breath inhaling the beauty of the Congo.

It’s time to do it all again. I hope today we can really help.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part I

2011-01-24T10:27:00.000-08:00

The Light and Dark of Congo

For the last few weeks I have been struggling to keep up with all that goes into working and living here. And at the same time, I wrestle on a daily basis with how I can sum the vast light and dark of the DR Congo. Unsure how to capture with words or images all that exists here, I have sat in silence taking it in, hoping it would come to me. In life I guess we would not know good if we did not know bad. It is just that here it exists in the extremes. At times I feel I can make a world of difference here and at others I feel I am contributing nothing.

My morning begins with a forty-five min motor cross ride to town. Then a two-hour drive to whatever village we are visiting that day. Sometimes the ride is fine. Other times, as my rear hits the seat with a “thud” my spine compresses and I crack my head on the top of the 4 Runner I want to yell. There are miles of breathtaking mountains and valleys as far as the eye can see. When you turn the bend in the road the forest that has been slashed and burned for farmland. Around the next bend, a young green eucalyptus forest sprouting from the once clear cut land. In the background, vast lush hillsides that look as if no one has ever set foot on them. On the roadside we meet a kind loving man holding his newborn son. This man is the exception; he stayed with his family even after his wife was raped. He also, stayed through the war even though he has been unable to support them “like a man should”. Driving up the road we hear tales of other men who have abandoned their wives and 12 children. They have taken another wife in hopes of starting a better life. We make appointments to assist their abandoned families who now with no property or rights in society, they fight for themselves. Further down the road we meet a girl mother impregnated by rape who would have taken the morning after pill had she known about it, but greatly love their child. Her beautiful daughter who will never know her rapist father is like a beam of sunshine. With a smile on her glowingly innocent face she proudly tells us she dreams of becoming nurses so they can help others.

The Bush

2011-01-23T01:58:00.001-08:00

We have visited several villages in the bush. Never knowing who we will meet along the way or what the situation really is until we get there (or sometimes how we will get there), it is always an adventure.

We have gone to one village 3 or 4 times now. It is called Isalie. It is an enchanted place built on the steep hillsides. Most of the homes are $5 mud brick shacks with million dollar views. With a pristine landscape, red mud that has been patted completely flat, and children’s laughter echo's off the terraced hillsides. Many times I have to pinch myself to make sure the idyllic setting it is real. Well until we see the soldiers’ camp that is. You see the FRDC (Congolese government troops) have moved onto the tallest hillside overlooking the village and “Garbin” (the valley) below. From a vista as close as I dare to go, I can see one main brick compound in the middle of the green rolling hill with makeshift A-frame tents big enough for two people dotted across the hillside. The troops are here to keep other rebel factions out of the area, but in the meantime they are raping women, looting the market, beating the husbands when they take everything the family has, and recruiting young boys to fight. The soldiers foot path off the mountain runs right behind some of the COPERMA member’s huts.

Shocked by the proximity these members have daily with the soldiers; I could not help, but remember a line from a bible verse I learned at Lutheran school. “Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….”. It goes on to say, “Thy staff and thy rod comfort thee”. The only problem is that these girls literally live in the shadow of rape and death, but when I meet the 13 year old survivor I see that even God is not able to protect them. They have to go each day to the “source” to get water, to the forest to collect firewood, and walk to their land miles away to cultivate crops always running into soldiers along the way.

We finally made it to the new village only when one of the COPERMA staff takes a personal loan from a friend. More shocking than any village we have visited. The soldiers have been though five times and taken everything. The crops, the firewood, the women, the clothes, and the dignity. As we wait in the most private room we can find, the interviewees come in one after another. It seems each time another walks in the door they are younger and younger. Some able to smile and look at us. Some completely shattered. So angry, embarrassed, or vacant from the experience they physically turn away from us and look at the wall during the interview.

One girl knows the name of the soldier. He kidnapped her back to his camp and made her his “wife”, in his mind this forced marriage is a lesser evil than rape. Two soldiers took turns on her for a week. Another girl in the group was not taken as a wife and raped by 10 soldiers for the week. After about eight days the girls were sent to the market to buy food, but they ran away instead. The soldier that took her, his name is “Justin” (she heard other people talking to him). Some of the other girls and women who were captured that day were still there when she fled and she has not seen them since. We are worried they are still there. Even with the name of the commander, the soldier, and the location we can’t go get the women/girls who are there. Our only hope is to call Amy’s friend at the UN, but we cannot get a hold of him. Even if we could the UN here is so overwhelmed I am not sure they have the willpower to deal with this. I think of the last time we visit the UN headquarters in Lubero and how all the troops were in gym clothes playing volleyball. Everyone needs R&R and the entire Congo is too big for any one organization to police, but I really hope when they hear about something like this they can move through the bureaucracy and act.

Before we leave the village we dine on white rice and some very tasty salty cabbage doused in palm oil. Luckily, it is not a repeat of last time white rice and goat intestines. It is hard to complain when you see that these people have nothing and you cannot refuse a meal, but they really do not have the means to be feeding all of us.

Always racing against the setting sun, while I want to be here these extreme events have become so normal (interviews with survivors, dirt bike rides, meeting demobilized child soldiers, starving children, and families who have nothing) it has almost become monotonous. Or maybe is my soul trying to numb my conscious mind so I will not become completely overwhelmed. Just about the time I feel ready to check out of the Congo, an adorable child’s eyes will light up at the sight of me. His lips move and I hear a barely audible “Muzungu”. He stands reverently on the side of the road. His face look as if has just seen the last golden unicorn on Earth and he is in awe of what he has witnessed. The local women will blush and laugh as I return local greetings. As we pass the market where we buy our fruit, the entire market, all 200-300 vendors, raise their hands and shout greetings as we zoom past on the dirt bike.

With all the hardship and human evil that exists, it is the heart of the Congo’s people that keep drawing me extend my stay here.

Back at the Crossiers Amy, Alanna, and I hang out on the porch. Amy has a cigarette in one hand and a beer in another. Alana is strumming her ukulele and drinking tea. I am downloading files on my computer and having a glass of wine. It is the night before the full moon, the air is damp and misty and we all have on jackets. We talk about how intense the last few days of interviews have been. Amy says she has never head of this before…women who have escaped and knowing the location of the others. She tried to call her friend at the UN again, but to no avail.

Tonight we go to bed knowing there are still some women somewhere out there in the bush that have been captured and serving as concubines for soldiers and there is nothing we can do.

It is truly an awful feeling.

I decide I need to retire early to my room just to relax and veg out. As I say my goodnights, Amy says, “I don’t want to worry you, but you should hide your electronics. A parish about 40km away was pillaged last night”. But don’t worry no one was hurt or raped, just robbed”.

Walking down the hall to my room I grabbed a large can of insecticide, I am sure it can act like mace in a pinch. I lock the door and secure it with a chair. I hide my hard drives and money. I go to be fully clothed in case I have to leave quickly. Thinking of the women I cannot save and the possibility of soldiers visiting my home I listen to every bump in the night. Tossing and turning my sleep is deep and dark.

I wake up at 6am to see the light of day, thankful to have made it through unscathed. As I open my window the morning light reveals the assortment of weapons surrounding my bed, a heavy glass bottle of alter wine (the brothers bottle) that I figured may daze someone if hit on the head, by my pillow my defunct Nicaraguan switchblade that can barely cut an orange, the can of insecticide, the cockeyed chair barricading the door, my headlamp, and gold cell phone by my head. The assortment or blockages and random weapons across my room looks like the aftermath of a day of play in a child’s fort.

Would any of these things really help me if soldiers visit our compound? I am not really sure, but very glad I did not have to find out.

COPERMA

2011-01-23T01:56:00.000-08:00

COPERMA

I am not sure I have properly introduced the staff from COPERMA. They are truly an amazing group of dedicated humanitarians, all Congolese. They show up with smiles to work each day. They arrive from their mud brick and stick huts dressed in their immaculately pressed business clothes. Many times the morning is spent in search of gas money in order to fill up the gas tank. Often, they take personal loans from their friends and family to go into the bush to meet new clients, check on projects, and deliver goods such as medicine and plant seeds. Often on the way they have to get out and push the 4 Runner up a particularly steep section of the road, since the bald tires no longer have any tread. If we are in the 4 Runner, we break down at least once on a trip. If we are in the truck, we break down at least 4 times. The driver/mechanic, Fisto, is key to our operation. He always seems to know exactly how to fix the problem and we are usually on our way in 10 minutes. If we get to the field and see that someone has stolen a part of the crops COPERMA uses for members, they grab hoes and in their business clothes (with their laptop case strapped around their neck) everyone works as fast as they can the to harvest the entire field. They work the whole day without a break for lunch or a snack. With no choice, we stay until all of the potatoes are out of the ground. This means we will drive home in the dark. Otherwise, thieves will steal the rest of the crop and all the initial investment, sweat equity, and potential income for members will be lost. Wanting to be safe, I can’t really ask them to leave the potatoes in the field to keep the mzungu safe, so I go along with the plan.

When in Congo [Rome].

So, the team members drive back through the bush on the road where last month the country’s president, Joseph Kabila, was stopped at a roadblock and robbed by his own soldiers. They drop us off at the Crossiers on the way back to Butembo. We ask what time everyone will be in the office in the morning. We assume it will be later since everyone will not get home until 9pm. “Nine in the morning, same as usual”, is the reply. They bump back to Butembo hoping they will make it unscathed through the next two roadblocks. All this and no one is sure how much they will be paid at the end of the month, if anything at all.

I go back an forth between thinking they are the most amazing people on earth and feeling offended a few of them still see any white person (i.e. me) as a money pot who has access to infinite amounts of cash. The other day when Alana (the visitor from Hawaii) asked Mama Marie what project she could work on for the next month, she was handed an itemized list of needs that totaled $30,000. Her job order was, “Find this!”. Alana squirmed. She attempted to explain she was thinking more along the lines of helping COPERMA achieve 501-c3 status, so people could make tax deductible donations. Mama Maire shook her head and said, “No, we need this”. I resent being seen as a money pot, but I do get their point. We are a rare opportunity. A resources to be exploited before it is gone. In America the streets are paved with gold (well ok at least with asphalt) and everyone is a millionaire (well when compared with the earning power of the average Congolese). Even if I am middle class in America I have more earning power and more opportunity than most of them ever will. Hence, I have access to a vast amount of resources they do not. Excellent at making split second decisions that potentially involve life and death, Mama Marie has summed us up and our greatest resource is access to seemingly infinite amounts of cash.

When COPERMA cannot go to a new village for over week to meet 26 new rape survivors because they cannot find the gas money to get there I begin to see that maybe she is right about us.

As we meander into the bush, Mama Marie will sometimes recount stories about near life and death misses. The stories are told with a smile on her face. Jerking along the path in the truck, I asked her what the round shatter pattern is in the windshield. It’s shape and placement looked as if the driver had stopped suddenly and the passenger firmly embedded their forehead into the glass. “Oh that? That is from bullets when we were rescucing three girls from their father”. “So someone shot at your head and it did not make it through the glass?”. “No, no. We had to go into the bush to rescue three girls who had been molested and impregnated by their father. We got caught in a gun battle, me, the girls, and the driver were all naked in the car …strip searched by soldiers”. Stunned silence –a million more questions on my mind-. “Was that your most awkward work moment?”, I had Amy ask. [Mama Marie erupts in laughter unable to speak] “No, no”. “Well what was your most awkward work moment then?”. Mama Marie went on to tell the story of one time when she had been on a bus with a preacher who was preaching hell fire and brimstone to anyone who would listen. “Women should not become prostitutes, even if their children cannot eat”, he proclaimed. God would help them in all situations and would always keep those who were faithful safe. Not that Mama Marie disagreed with him, but she was a bit embarrassed as his endless evangelizing to the entire bus. At a roadblock the bus was stopped by soldiers, the entire bus (including the preacher and Mama Maire) was stripped naked and robbed. Luckily, Mama Marie managed to slip ten dollars into a hiding spot she refuses to mention. In the midst of her story she was unable to speak due to laughter, all she could get out was, “You would not believe where you can hide money. So far away that no one can find it!”. The soldiers cut off all the women’s hair in ensure they had tucked money under their head wraps. After the soldiers left, the entire bus continued to the next village, buck naked. Still laughing so hard she could barely talk, Mama Marie recounted how embarrassed everyone was (especially the pastor) trying to cover their “sexes” with both hands. The preacher was silent. At the next village Mama Marie retrieved the $10 she had stashed and bought sheets for everyone so they would not arrive at in Goma naked. That was her last $10 for her journey and she was a good 6 hours from home with no food, no place to stay, and no clothes! But that is Mama Marie, doing what is needed in the moment trusting it will work out.

Out of necessity that is pretty much how COPERMA is run. By the seat of their pants (or sheets) with whatever they have at the time. With a list of needs that is ever growing and new survivors every week they continue to expand their programming based on need (not resources), because no one else is doing this work.

I am in awe of their vision and passion. I know few people who in the face of this many years of war and hardship, would have the stamina to work as hard and selflessly for the future of their country as the people of COPERMA.

Obama and a sewing machine - Part II

2011-01-05T10:16:00.000-08:00

Ironically, the next group of people we were interviewing were several young girls all of whom had been raped and fled their village within the past month. They had previously received services through COPERMA and had been placed into foster families in the local community. Today was a chance to check on them and see how they were doing. Up until this meeting I do not think I had emotionally processed anything that I was being exposed to in the Congo. But this testimony was different. There were these incredibly sweet, innocent, young, and traumatized girls recounting their stories of being raped by multiple soldiers when their communities were attacked. My instinct was to hug them, but in Congolese culture that was not appropriate. Angered, horrified, and moved I sat there taping and shooting as these girls divulged the specifics of the attacks and how they were now doing. Since I do not speak Kinandie, I peered over Amy’s shoulder as she took notes in English. As I listened to a particularly enduring 14 year old who had been raped along with her two sisters something in me snapped. She continued to express her worry for her family and her village. Her sisters had fled in different directions and she was worried about them. The story was so intense I had to remind myself it was real. I began to wonder if we could figure out a way to get these girls guns to protect themselves. What is their other option? Just wait and get raped again?

During a pause in the conversation, I asked Amy if I could pose a question. “Is there is anything you need that could help you protect yourself?” I asked the girls. There was a brief pause while the translator went from French to Kinandie and back. “Yes”, one girl replied, “a sewing machine”.

Well that was defiantly not the answer I was expecting, but OK. I get it. Mostly, the girls were looking for something to keep them busy to keep their minds off of the trauma. They were also looking for a way to become self-sufficient.

Here I had been thinking about running guns and the girls were thinking to the future. Again amazed by their perseverance, Amy made a note to look into getting a few sewing machines.

Obama and a sewing machine - Part I

2011-01-05T10:07:00.000-08:00

sewing machine

This was no ordinary day it was December 31^st the last day of 2010. The office was bustling with excitement. Not only was is the last day of the year, but we were also going to a village to meet with some new COPERMA clients recently demobilized child soldiers and to interview some young girls who had to flee their villages after being raped.

When we arrived I was not sure I would be allowed to shoot at all, but hoped that Amy would ask if it was possible. Some of these kids were minors and I wanted to be very sensitive to their traumatized state.

In general there is great debate about photographing rape survivors at all. My feeling is this. Rape is not a comfortable subject. People do not like to talk about it or think about it. It is a subject most people would rather ignore than face. In all honesty it is more comfortable for the general public to not look at images of survivors. Not the other way around. These women have survived one of the most traumatic events you could experience and still physically be alive. If they want to share their story and telling other people will empower them I want to help make their voice heard. If a girl was raped when she was 15 and she is now 17 years old, estranged from her family, and supporting a child alone I feel for all practical purposes she is an adult and has a right to make the decision to speak publicly. That said, I feel very protective of the younger girls who may not be able to fully understand the lasting repercussions of speaking out about being raped.

As we settled in for the interviews a COPERMA community member offered their two-room mud hut for our meetings. This time we sat on a straw bed with a foam mattress in a dank mud brink room. There was one small window that filtered enough light we could just make out each others faces.

First, we interviewed three teenage boys who had recently defected from a paramilitary army. After several years of fighting they had returned to this community to live with their birth families. Today COPERMA wanted to see how they are doing and get a feel for if they were readjusting to life in the village. Kids who reenter their village under COPERMA have to sign a contract that they will not return to the army, but there is little anyone can do to enforce it. Sometimes the kids are recaptured by the military and other times disillusioned with the limited job options they return to fight.

The three teens squeezed onto a small wooden bench and leaned on each other. Four of us sat in a semi circle opposite of them. The first boy about 16 was cocky and it was obvious he had few social skills. His eyes were weary and sad. His grin was more like a mischievous smirk. As he talked, he looked away from us into the corner or covered his face with a red handkerchief. He never made eye contact. It all seemed like a game to him laughing and offering what seemed to be agreed upon answers, it was a frustrating interview because it was apparent he was just handing us BS and though it was funny. The next boy seemed almost angelic. With good manners and a genuine smile he began to answer questions more openly, until the first boy began to continually interrupt and feed him answers. Frustrated we told them we wanted to continue the interviews separately, but they refused and said they wanted to stay together. We told the first boy, who seemed to have some pull over the other two, to stop feeding them answers or go outside.

They all talked about killing people, so many people they could not possibly remember. Old people they thought were sorcerers and anyone else who got in the way. They told us about a tattoo they all had that protected them from bullets. It was a small cross that looked like a brand someone had made with a needle. They also said, “If a soldier rapes his tattoo does not protect him and we kill him”. A few different times we tried to ask if they knew anyone with the tattoo who had ever been killed, but they always said, “No”. Asked point blank if they had ever raped anyone they all point blank denied doing so.

Who knows the power of belief is mighty. Maybe no one with the tattoo has ever been shot or maybe it is because none of the villages they attack have guns. After the interview we asked the teens if I could photograph them as long as I did not show their face. They agreed. As I photographed them I realized that one of them had an Obama belt buckle. Of all things, that was the absolute last article of clothing I had expected to run across that day. Pants so torn the thread was barely holding them together and shoes that looked as if they had been worn for years. Somehow this guy in the middle of the bush had found an Obama belt buckle. Hey do you know where I can get on of those?

PART II - Next Post

The Village Elections

2011-01-04T22:51:00.000-08:00

As my alarm went off I drug myself out of bed. Today was my 9^th day in the DR Congo and while I still really wanted to be here the novelty was beginning to wear off. Faced with the knowledge that it had been pouring rain most of the night the roads were going to be even worse than normal. Already tired to the bone, the prospect of getting tossed around on a 45-minute moto taxi ride no longer excited me.

Amy let me know that she had stuff she needed to work on that day so she was not going into town. It would just be me with COPERMA. As I packed my gear for the day I ate some bland cassava porridge and drank some muddy instant “Coffee”. I thought to myself, “Does this stuff even have caffeine in it?” Truly, it makes Nescafe instant coffee seem like the best cup of your life. I just wanted something anything to make me feel a little less tired and miserable!

My moto taxi arrived and as an afterthought I grabbed my ipod. At least I could check out and blast some music for a while. Driving down the road I cranked some old school Pearl Jam. As Eddie laid it down, I also belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. It just made me feel better. Not sure if I was trying to talk to him or what the heck I was doing, the moto taxi kept turning his head to see if I was up to. Tired of being on display I only waved to a few kids along the way. By the time we reached town and Eddie crooned “I knew that I would not ever touch, you hold you fell you in my arms. Never again, again, again…” The voice therapy had worked and I felt much better.

Arriving at COPERMA, they were worried that I was ½ hour late. “Yes, sorry it was a long morning. So are we ready to go?”. They told me come inside we are almost ready. Once inside I realized that since Amy was not going to be there to translate they had requested that their “English teacher” stay with us for the day so he could translate for me. Having heard their English classes the day before I was pretty sure that he was going to benefit more from practicing English with me, than I was going to glean from him being my translator. I greeted him. We quickly established he was eager to speak non-stop the entire day. At first I had no desire to try to make incessant small talk, but as he charmed me with his desire to practice English I realized now had a personal translator / assistant. Hey maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

We waited for over two hours while Mother Marie went to find some money and some gas to put in the car. Good thing I had not come at 9am! Once we were set 7 of us piled into the 4 Runner, which had grown progressively dirtier from the combination of mud puddles from rain and the red dry dust that engulfed us everywhere we went. As, we drove out of town I looked in my French dictionary to try to explain to my “translator” the events that had transpired the previous day. It turns out that the word for “ransom” in French is pretty similar to English. As I pointed at out team member and explained they were going to hold him for “ransom”, everyone in the car (including the driver) erupted in laughter. It seems the Congolese way overcome trauma and near disaster is with laughter. They prodded my why Amy had not come that day. I said, “…well she has to work on her article and…I don’t know maybe she is stressed”. Mama Marie who barely speaks English replied in plain as day English, “Stress? I am the one who is stressed!”. Again the car erupted in laughter. With everyone’s mood lightened we bounced down the track further into the bush than I had ever been.

We arrived at a stunningly picturesque little village. Situated on the edge of a cliff overlooking miles of bananas, a tree studded valley, and another mountain range in the distance. This was our outdoor classroom for the day. As the COPERMA team members pulled a full size school blackboard out of nowhere the local community assembled around us. Men, women, children, and babies today was going to be the COPERMA elections where they would select a president, vice president, secretary, and discipline committee. The committee would work to help run the COPERMA programs for the child soldiers attempting to reintegrate to normal life, the girl mothers, and the petite finance. As Mama Marie introduced me and got permission for me to photograph and film the women gathered around and greeted me with a song. Partially in Swahili, the song repeated over and over, “… Karibu, Karibu (welcome, welcome) come into us”.

As the names of candidates were written on the blackboard in white chalk, Mama Marie explained how the elections would work and what duty each candidate would need to perform. With out much input in life outside of their family the process of having this “democratic election” empowered the women and men. They suddenly had a voice in what was happening around them and what they said was going to matter. The atmosphere was bustling with excitement. The process seemed like maybe an election you would have in high school for your student council where each candidate spoke about why they would be a good fit for the job, but it was one of the most transformative moments I have seen so far. This symbolic gesture of an election among multiple villages that had come together to form this collective was giving people back their voice. Retuning “power” from the corrupt government and defunct police force back the community. How things were before the first war (minus the colonists). The atmosphere was one of excitement and serious debate. The elderly and the young wanted to be heard.

As the sky darkened with the threat of a storm in the distance the final elected members stepped forward to except words of wisdom from Mama Marie. They publicly made their promise to be faithful to their office and the duties bestowed on them. As the afternoon light filtered through the green of the banana leaves I snapped photos of the new community council.

Walking towards the car the village followed us. Once we were securely inside the 4 Runner they waived us off. The elderly and children a like squealed in delight as I used the few words of Kinandie I know, “Thank you” and “Go well”. As we pulled away, the tropical rain began to cover the windshield.

Elated and still exhausted to the bone we lurched and wheezed down the road. It was ironic that I could barely get out of bed this morning because in a lot of ways this had been my best day in the Congo. It had all been so real, the village so beautiful, the project so symbolically powerful, and the people so genuinely welcoming.

Detained (A.K.A Mom and Dad do not read this until I get home J)

2011-01-04T22:46:00.000-08:00

The next day we headed to Isalie. A bit nervous to go there as I had heard attacks had just happened the week before. Every time we left Butemebo (where the COPERMA offices is located) we would drive 40-60km on the pothole ridden red dirt road alternately splashing through large mud puddles or becoming engulfed in a cloud of red dust depending on if it had just rained or not. About 15 minutes outside of town in any direction we eventually pass a “checkpoint”.

The checkpoints look like the cross arm from a parking garage but these cross bars are made from tree branches and it is FDRC soldiers and police who raise the bar as they feel. Many times we are waived through, but today we were stopped. They told us they had no money and that they needed some. The guy was in plain clothes, but was obvious by his dark aura and pushy demeanor he was a soldier used to doing what he wanted. We apologized that he was out of money, but told him that we had none. He pressed his face against my window. There was a scar like massive road rash on the left side of his face and eye. He said, “Why do Americans never have any money”. I replied in English, “…Because I knew that you were going to be here”. Luckily, no one translated my response. Surprisingly, he suddenly said OK and let us drive on.

In Isalei it was the “market day” and we were going to check on some women who had been given “petite finance” (micro loans) to start small businesses like selling peanut oil, fish, and some clothing. On the way there we slowed as we came to a hillside lined with tents and a building on top of a hill. This was where the soldier stayed overlooking their layer, the entire valley. It was a chilling feeling knowing that we really were on their turf…even if it was daylight. As we arrived at the market we were the talk of the town and there was no way to blend in.

With people everywhere I lost sight of Amy and just followed some of the other COPERMA team members through some alleyways to the back of the market. After looking around I asked them if it was OK to shoot? They looked for any sign of green uniforms. The coast was clear and I was given the go a head.

I set up my tripod and camera on the stairs overlooking the market. The difficult thing about shooting here that too many people want their photo taken. I can hardly complain as I thought it was the opposite problem I was going to have. But the thing is I have to be quick on my toes if I do not want every shot to be about 200 kids crowed around me grabbing the lens with their hands and dancing! As quickly as I could I set up and began to film. After about 5 minutes I could no longer see the stairs or the market and the crowd of children had amassed in front of me.

Just as I was going to ask them to move one of the COPERMA team members gently said, “…we need to leave. NOW!”. I took my camera he grabbed my tripod and not sure where we were heading. I followed him. Back to the car? But I still want to shoot and where is Amy? In the car was Mama Marie and Fisto the driver neither of whom speaks English. Used to not having a clue what is going on I stood by the door waiting, but they made me get inside. I asked if I could go shoot and they said, “No”.

I began to ask where Amy was and at the same time one of the team members came over to get me. Trying to convince me to leave my camera gear in the car I refused and they reluctantly said, “O.K. follow us”. I was told we were going to an office and by the way they were acting I assumed I needed to be off the main road.

We approached a small building. Amy was sitting inside with four men and one of the COPERMA team members. On the way to Isalie she had mentioned to me that she was going to interview some of the husbands of rape survivors. I assumed these were the guys she was interviewing. With my bag strapped to my back I sat down next to here on a wooden bench. I waited a few minutes for a pause in the conversation and asked, “Are these the guys you were talking about? Is it cool if I shoot?”. Dumbstruck by what I had just asked. She replied, “No these are the police and soldiers. I just got caught taking a photo with out permission and there was a soldier in it”.

Oh crap!

I looked around the wooden room. I guess I should have guessed from the old calendar of Saddam Hussein and all of his sons dressed in Camo gear proclaiming “Saddam Hussein the greatest President of Iraq”, that this was not just another interview. She explained they had brought me into the room so she would feel more comfortable. There were three men behind a desk and one very serious looking man smoking. As I looked around and there was also a poster of Obama with his family and Oprah. Next to that was an anti child soldier poster.

Now I was not exactly worried, I felt like this was a manageable situation, but Amy the focus of the investigation was visibly shaken. The funny thing is that morning I had a feeling we should buy some cigarettes in case we ran into any soldiers. Having mentioned that to Amy she has bought some moments before they brought her into the “”station”.

The room was filled with testosterone. Amy and I cracked a few jokes in English about what we could do to get out of this. I threw in a sarcastic comment about pulling out my camera. Amy did not see the humor. We talked and thought it prudent for her to pull out the smokes and ask for a light. That would throw them. Women do not smoke here. As she raised her cigarette and asked for a light, the look of surprise on their faces was priceless! The entire tone of the room changed and they were suddenly at her beck and call. I am not sure exactly what they said, but it was something along the lines of, “… get this girl a lighter, pronto! “.

As a few people scattered to find a light, one man sitting looking at a book got this kind of smirk on his face. As he leaned over the desk towards us, his tone of voice changed. No translation necessary I knew what he was saying. He told Amy, “ You are asking for us to pardon you…but the wrong has to be righted…so maybe you will give us something (a bribe)?” Playing the meek dumb American she pretended to by miffed at what he was asking and raised her pack of smokes to offer to the room. Everyone laughed like you have to be kidding. And as they lit her cigarette I could see her hand shaking.

She let me know they were asking for $200 USD. Now that is a lot of money in the Congo and there was no way in hell we wanted to pay it. All I could think was good thing they have no idea I have almost $10,000 USD worth of camera gear strapped to my back! They explained, they are a professional army and they needed the money for the police chief and the community. At this point, they walked Irvine, one of the male COPERMA team members outside. They basically told him if we don’t get the money you are spending the night. Translation, if you don’t come up with the money you are going to stay and we are going to torture you.

Somehow Amy settled on $120 and her cell phone number for the captain who was sure to let her know he was a single father of four. Mama Marie could barely contain her disgust at a man with four children bragging that he was separated from his wife, but she tried.

As we left the station Amy and I assumed we would be leaving immediately. The COPERMA people were like are you kidding we have work to do. And on second thought we did just pay $120 to be here and take photos. With that in mind we headed of to the pharmacy to interview the husband of one of the rape survivors as originally planned.

Shifting gears we were suddenly in the middle of a very serious interview. It is rare for men to speak out about rape in the Congo and this was Amy’s first chance to speak with one of the husbands. Worried he may be nervous he actually offered way more detail than the women ever do. He was a handsome man with a kind smile and sincere eyes. The father of 15 children, he was proud to have stood by his wife. Unfortunately due to the social stigma many men leave their wife (and children) after she is raped.

He described watching and listening as his wife screamed, but being able to do nothing to help her because the soldiers had guns. How months later they both cried when they tried to make love for the first time since the attack. As sobering as it sounds, he said it all with a smile very open to sharing his story with us. He said during the attack, “I was with God and I knew that [the rape] was from Satan” and that is how he has rationalized the situation. I listened amazed at the lack of resentment and desire to move forward. He smiled and continued to discuss how he and his wife were doing. Life was still not back to normal. She was not sleeping well and had bad dreams sometimes. But he had hope that things would continue to get better. The perseverance and eye to the future of the people of the DRC continues to amaze me. (To read at length about this interview visit Amy Ernst Blog hosted by NY Times - thekingeffect.blogspot.com ).

Since much of our time had been taken by the police incident, after the interview and a few photos we had to leave so we would have a cushion of time in case anything happened to the car on the way back to town.

As nine of us piled into the back of the 4 Runner we were all exhausted from the events of the day. And luckily we were ALL headed back to Butermbo.

As we drove home everyone in the car seemed exhausted from the events of the day. Not necessarily down, the car was not as filled with lighthearted conversation as normal. The further away we got from Isalie the more the severity of the situation and what could have happened set in. Good thing Amy’s Godmother had wired her a few hindered dollars for Christmas and she had picked it up that morning otherwise our COPERMA friend would be in a very dark place right about now.

Once back in Butembo we had to jump on the dirt bike exhausted from the last few days. As we raced against the darkness I thought two more rules I had forgotten for the bush (see previous post).

Rule #8 - Always stash extra cash in your bra to pay a bribe.

Rule #9 - Always carry cigarettes on you for the soldiers and if it seem like it will lighten the situation smoke one too…

Girl Mother

2011-01-04T22:45:00.000-08:00

Today was my first village visit with COPERMA. Basically going outside of Butembo means that we are entering soldier territory, which is fine during the day if you follow some basic rules.

Rules for the Bush:

Leave with ample time to get there and back should you have any car problems or get stuck in the mud.
Your driver should also be a very resourceful mechanic.
Spare tire.
Call a head to see what the situation in the village is.
Try not to interact with any soldiers or police.
Make if past all roadblocks before dark
If you do interact with police/soldiers or you are detained be respectful.

As we climbed into the very old Toyota 4 Runner there was not enough room for everyone so two of the COPERMA team members climbed into the back. There were seven of us. As we drove to the village Amy explained where were going and who was there. This was the primary center for “Girl Mothers”, girls who had been raped and had children as a result. The center was a place for school and meetings. Today they were going to train the foster community that had taken them in on counseling techniques and how to help care for the girls.

As we drove I posed several questions to the team. They told me that most girls/women in the Congo who are raped never make it to a hospital. Even if they do make it there is no guarantee they will be tested for STD’s / HIV. Most do not even know that there is something called “The morning after pill”. Many who now have children (and love them) said they would have taken it if they had known about it. Others are given the pill without even telling them what it does. And even if the girls receive treatment there is no guarantee that medical records are closed so a blabbing doctor or nurse could potentially release details and stigmatize a girl/women further.

As we got to a very steep muddy section of the track the car sputtered and slid backwards down the hill. There was no choice everyone had to get out in push. All of the team members including the women in their immaculate dresses and dress shoes stood behind the car in the mud. It was all in a days work for the COPERMA team and we were just getting started.

A few minutes later we arrived at our destination. Asking where the toilet was I lead down a path in the banana grove and was shown to a mud brick outhouse. Amy said, “Don’t look down”. Inside the rugged outhouse is usually a hole in the mud or if it is a deluxe a piece of wood lines the hole. Of course after being told not to I could not resist looking down. At first I though it was just the stench and reflection of liquid, but the liquid was moving. It was millions of maggots. I thought well at least I won’t be hungry for lunch.

Walking back to the two room building I entered the room on the left. Mama Marie was inside with adults from the community giving them a training on how to work as a counselor for the foster children (girl mothers and child soldiers). Shooting and filming as they role played I felt like I was making them nervous about role playing so I went next door.

In the other room were about 6 black sewing machines that looked ancient compared to my grandmothers. The machines were powered by a wide push pedal the girls would rest both feet on. Up, down, up, down the machines chugged along. The girls were taking a sewing class form a tailor. They were making clothes for themselves, their children, and making school uniforms to sell at the market. They were quite accomplished seamstresses and the clothing they were creating quite well sewn.

Everywhere I went there were COPERMA team members interviewing people and taking notes checking on all of their programs in the filed. With nothing else to do I set up to do some filming outside. I was paying with kids and just goofing off when Amy approached me and said, “Are you almost done?”. I said, “ Sure I am just goofing off. Why are we going somewhere else?’. Someone told us there are soldiers in the area and we need to leave now. A bit taken a back they would wait for me to film when they knew there were soldiers close by, I gathered my things as quickly as possible.

We piled into the car and waived our goodbyes to the people at the center. It is strange to me that I have the fortune…the means to insert myself into their lives and leave at will. The soldiers are there and they have to stay, there is no other choice.

As we sputtered along I let Amy know, “Anytime there are soldiers, no matter what I am shooting, I am ready to go!”.

Motorcycle Meditation

2011-01-04T22:42:00.000-08:00

On Saturday Amy asked if I would like to go see the other Crosiers in a place called Mulo. She warned it is an hour on the motorbike on really bumpy roads, but that the drive was beautiful and Mulo itself was a stunning town higher up in the hills. We agreed to leave early the next morning, but when we pulled out the dirt bike the back tire was going flat. Slightly delayed we set off 2 hours later on what we thought would be an all day adventure.

As we lurched down the path on the motorbike we finally came to a new section of road that we had not yet been on. Thrilled to be headed in a new direction so I could see more of the glorious countryside, I had this realization that the “roads” are more like a series of motor cross tracks that wind around the country side. The “roads” offer an array of driving pleasure with massive pot holes that can launch you 5 feet in the air, large water obstacles, gravel the size of baseballs, and washboard tracks that will loosen even the best dental work. The ride is never relaxed and you continually readjust your weight as you bounce along so you do not fall off on the next bump.

As we crawled along the hillside I struggled with how I could possibly describe the natural beauty that exists here. The earth is rich red dirt that only gets more red with rain. The green hills have every shade of green that exists in the “Jurassic Park” cliffs of Kauai. The terraced maize filled hillsides cultivated at precariously steep angles are reminiscent of the hills of Guatemala. The homes and lifestyle remind me of walking past the doorsteps of the families that live in the Everest region of Nepal, except the huts here are made of mud and sticks and everyone was yelling “Mzungu”.

Everywhere we go here it is like we are some sort of celebrity. When we drive in a car or on Amy’s dirt bike everyone gives a second look, most people stare in a mixture of shock and amazement, and most children shout greetings raising both hands in the air and waving frantically. As times the celebrity of white skin is fun. Everyone is excited to see you and we shout back greetings in the local language, which always elicits a laugh of surprise back. At times however, we have become more like exotic animals on display in a human zoo. Once we reached Mulo we were surrounded by 100’s of children just staring. After a while I felt a pinch, some hands begin to poke at me, and then curiously stroked the blonde hair on my arm. Then before I knew what was happening about 50 hands were reaching out to pet my hair that has been taken out the ponytail. It is hilarious and humbling that these children would be so curious. I guess it is like me wanting to see the Apes in the mountain jungle. I wonder if the apes are worried about me giving them lice and worms too?

Once in Mulo we met the priests and brothers there. They were very happy to see Amy as they consider her their sister since she stayed with them for four months when she first arrived. We had not eaten we were invited to stay for lunch, but before lunch “recreation” which loosely translated means drinking. So we drank with the brothers and priests and I practiced my French by osmosis. Pretty soon they started saying you need to stay and have dinner and attend chapel tonight. Since we had gotten a late start and now had “recreation” for 2 hrs they did have a point. Unless we wanted to turn around in about an hour and drive back before dark we should stay. We briefly discussed and decided to spend the night so we could just relax and check out the town. The brothers ecstatic to have company showed us our rooms where we could put our bags. Our bags consisted of our motorcycle helmets, our jackets, and my camera gear. Other than that we just had the dirty stinky clothes we were wearing.

We let the brothers know we would be back for the evening prayer and set off on foot over the hill to Lubero where one of the UN headquarters is located. A much different feeling than the area we were staying, Lubero is in a valley. The landscape is less alpine dotted with maize fields and banana trees. As we walked along the path a train of children began to follow. After a few minutes of staring a game of Aerobie ensued as we rambled along the dirt road. After a while we ran into a beautiful women who was thrilled to see Amy. Amy later explained that the woman’s mother had been severely raped and later died. COPERMA had helped transfer her mother to a local hospital, but she was so traumatized she had to go to the miserable facility we had visited the week before and she died. Warned by locals that the family would try to ask for all sorts of resources from COPERMA. Amy pointed out that the family eternally grateful for the support and help they did receive has never asked for anything else.

After an hour of walking we reached the small market in the center of town where Amy wanted to buy some local sandals, which pleased everyone in the market greatly. They are plastic flip flops reminiscent of a cross between “crocks” and the soccer sandals everyone used to wear when I was in 8th grade. They are the shoes of the poor peasants and hers were bright coral. The really funny thing I have noticed about the markets here are that a lot of them sell fake fur coats. Now it does get a little chilly maybe the high 40’s some nights, but never cold enough for a fur coat. We are talking full on leopard print cloaks and panther fur jackets. You name it people wear it in the middle of the day because it is a sign of wealth possibly left over or perpetuated by the Mobutu era. It is still surprising to me to see poor peasants, but when they dress up they put on their best fake fur regardless of how warm it is outside.

It was getting late and we needed to get back before dark. We decided to jump onto some moto taxis stop by the UN and have them take us back to the Crosiers place.

Unfortunately, I got a dare devil moto driver who wanted to show me how fast he could drive dodging the pot holes with one hand as he talked on his cell phone. As he tore down the street we hit a man walking down the road. The moto driver adjusted his mirror with out stopping and then narrowly missed hitting a baby’s head with his review mirror. I used the few words of Swahili that I knew. “Polie, Polie!” , I shouted and then out of pure terror and exacerbation just started cussing him out. The he sped up. We arrived at the heavily armed UN compound a top a hill outside of town and just glimpsed across the razor wire. So these are the guys that are protecting the village? Looks like they are in a fortress and how would they hear is something is going on …the base is pretty far away from the town.

I relayed to Amy the problems I had been having with my driver and she relayed a message, “If you keep driving that way you are not going to get paid”. Thinking the message was clear we headed down the hill back toward the other side of town and over the hill to the Crosiers. After the first down hill my moto driver was up to his old antics…I think showing off because he had a Mzungu on his bike. After some more Swahili and cursing I gave up. I had no choice we had to make it back before dark and this guy was not going to listen to me…talking to him seemed to make him go faster. Afraid for my life I closed my eyes to meditate. Now I have always tried meditate in quite peaceful places, but I suddenly realized the power of being able to just check out of a situation you don’t want to be in. As we whipped around potholes, caught five feet of air a pothole, and landed with a reverberating thud I did my best to called on my angles for protection.

Just before dark we arrived relatively unscathed to the gate of the Crosiers.

A heated conversation ensued. Amy told my driver that he was a bad driver because he did not respect his passengers, he did not deserve to get paid, and that he should take some lessons from his friend. Totally lost on a girl telling him how to drive he kind of rolled his eyes and we left.

That night exhausted, dirty, and quite smelly from the day I curled up in bed. How do the people here do it? I am tired and I rode a motorbike here. Most locals would have to walk the 40km and while they walk the women carry 100 lbs of firewood on their head with a baby on top. And I had two meals today and they were lucky if they probably had one. I was beginning to understand why so often people from Africa are such successful elite runners. Life here is demanding and if you don’t walk to five hours to your farm to tend you crops and carry the 100lbs of firewood home on your head, you don’t eat. Running a marathon must be a piece of cake!

As I pulled the sheets over my head to escape the buzzing mosquitoes, I thought of the peasant women of the Congo lying down to sleep in their mud huts wondering if soldiers would come in the night….

Merry Christmas from the DR Congo!

2010-12-29T11:26:00.000-08:00

Night was falling as we hoped onto the motorbike. While we were not really supposed to go out at night this was a special occasion and we were just going 15 min away to the church. As we would up a small dirt road lined with pine trees we could hear a chorus of children’s voices singing. As we parked the bike and walked towards the brick church the chorus was almost a roar. As we walked through the wooden doors we were surrounded by about a thousand jubilant voices. In the midst of singing and dancing children were immediately taken aback and delighted as we made our way to an open pew. As we joined in with the singing and clapping we were surrounded by hundreds of children gazing at the Muzugus dancing and some pulling at our clothes. We were immediately the main attraction and as the majority of the congregation turned away from the priest ending the Christmas Eve mass we felt badly that we were the distraction. As the service ended there was no end in sight for us we were still on full display. At least next time we know to walk into the front of the church so that people look at the priest too!

When we were finally able to make our way outside we went to greet the priest a friend of Amy’s. We were invited back to their quarters to have a beer with the priests and the nuns. As we entered the sitting room we sat on chairs covered in green and white doilies like my grandmother used to make. The fireplace was adorned by a huge pine wreath and four banana plants. As, we sat back and shared a “Primus” (the local beer) with the priest I figured he must not be to upset with our distraction at the end of mass.

We spent a while speaking with the nuns and the brothers. They were joking about their students at the school. They told us there was a children’s services and that we should come back in the morning. Really? Don’t you care that we are distracting them? “No it is great it makes them excited for you to come sing and dance”. We agreed and bid them a goodnight.

Christmas morning we were greeted with wonderful omelets and I treated myself to some of my Starbucks reserves (yes I am drinking coffee again). This time we sat off on foot for the church 20 min away. Along the path everyone was dressed in his or her Sunday best. Boys in oversized silver suits and girls in beautiful dresses. Children gawked and laughed with glee when we yelled local greetings. At the church our plan was for Amy to go into the front and for me to slip quietly into the back to film. The two hour mass was still going strong and we could hear the voices singing at the top of their lungs as we entered. The plan did not go quite as expected and before I could even set up my gear I had become the main attraction at the back of the church. As nuns shooed the children and pulled them back to their benches one of the sisters we had met the night before pleaded with me to go to the front of the church to film. That way the children would look at the priest! I obliged her and set up my gear at the front of the church. It was another hour of a very kind and humorous priest serving communion to hordes of children as alter boys and girls danced. It was the most fun and dynamic church function I had ever been to. Children of all ages with almost no adults. Five year olds with infants strapped to their back. Crying three year olds being comforted by only slightly older children and a few teenagers for good measure.

Filming in the middle of the isle I turned around unexpectedly found myself in the middle of the alter kids dancing on either side of me as they headed up the isle back to the alter. Unsure what was really going on one of the nuns headed over to the manger flanked with banana trees and lifted something into her arms. Instantaneously, a few hundred children ran to the front of the church to catch a glimpse of the baby Jesus she was cradling in her arms and the other 700 continued to just stare at us. After about 20 min I made it out of the church to find Amy surrounded by ½ of the congregation. She was leading them in a round of “We wish you a Merry Christmas”. They thing I love about the kids in Congo is that they are so thirsty to interact with people from another place so curious about your skin, your voice, your hair, and what you may pull out of your bag. It is probably how wild apes feel when tourists take their binoculars and cameras to just go stare at them. Temped to pull out the Aerobie I feared a stampede. We settled on trying to form a circle to do a round of the Hokey Poky. Organizing the children turned out to be impossible with out the help of the nuns. We abandoned the Hokey Pokey plan and someone pulled out a drum. Two older girls stepped forward and began to drum as the children sang. They were performing for us! We stayed for 20 more min to listen to the drumming and singing before we decided it was time to head home.

As we passed “the monument” we were greeted by our friend John de Noel – Johnny Christmas- dressed head to toe in his boy scout uniform and ranger hat! He had just opened up a restaurant and wanted to invite us for a Coca Cola. His restaurant consisted of one wall of about 20 – 14’ high poles, draped with a white tarp the read “UNHCR Refugee” for the roof. As we sat at the plastic table and chairs (undoubtedly from china) children gathered to stare from all directions. I felt terrible drinking a Coke in front of them, but I am sure if we offered to buy them one we would end up paying for about 1,000 Cokes! We stayed and chatted with Johnny, stared at the kids, played some Aerobie, and were ushered home by a little parade of children. We bid them a safe journey home when we reached the path to our cabin and headed home to feed the baby monkey.

As night is falling again in the Congo, echoes of children’s laughter and the singing from another church service are drifting into my room. The Congo is such a different place than I expected. While I miss my family I am so happy to have experienced Christmas here. In the midst of a civil war, starvation, a corrupt and crumbling government, multiple rebel armies, and a no mans land where men can do whatever they like with no repercussions there is an almost overwhelming amount of joy and lust for life. The people of the DR Congo have greeted me with open arms, laughed with us, boldly show me the good and bad of their country, and it has been a pleasure and honor to share Christmas with them in this small mountain village.

Testify

2010-12-29T11:23:00.002-08:00

The next morning after some Wheatabix and coffee we head off on foot to go meet with a group of rape survivors. Unsure what to expect, I was very worried that we were clear I was only there to photograph if they wanted. As we walked to the traffic circle in the middle of the village to “the monument” we were greeted by a jubilantly plump African woman draped in a colorful pagne, her name is Mama Marceline. After Amy established that I am an American who does not speak French we walked further down the road to a mud brick hut. She showed inside the thatched roof hut.

I ducked as I entered the wooden doorway. Inside there was a small sitting area with a mud floor, directly to the right half the space was taking for a fire and cooking. And to the left and elevated shelf covered in thin sticks for firewood with a sleeping area below. The air inside was heavy with the sent of damp earth and smell of the black soot from cooking fires that covered the walls. We crouched on four wooden stools as our eyes adjusted from the daylight to the dark of the hut. I could just make out the outline Amy and Mama Marceline faces from the bright daylight that poured through the small doorway. After some time, Amy explained that we were going to be meeting with 18 survivors and their children who were born as a result of the rape. Without asking I pondered how 18 people were going to fit inside the space already filled by six of us. But after seeing how many people they could fit into a Dalla-Dalla (refer to older post) I knew anything was possible.

As the women arrived Amy and Mama Marceline went outside the hut to greet them and give then an overview of what was going to happen. Essentially, they said we are here today to meet with you to hear your story and we cannot guarantee help, but we will try. Then for a reason lost on Mama Marie, we let them know that it was their choice to be photographed and that it was in no way related to them receiving assistance. Mama Marie told them that I was a journalist (well kind of) from the United States and that I was here to learn about what was going on in the Congo. She asked the women if they agreed to be photographed and a chorus of voices firmly agreed. They wanted to be photographed and taped. Then Mama Marie turned to me and Amy translated, “Please you must promise to return home and do something with these photos so that people know the problems we have in Congo”.

A bit surprised by the unanimous consent, but I was happy to offer a tool the women of DRC to make sure thier voice is heard by those around the world. Overwhelmed with the responsibility that had just been placed on me the interviews began. For four hours one woman after another entered the small hut in groups of three with their children. As Amy interviewed each survivor and Mama Marie translated I snapped photos, recorded audio, and collected video. After a few hours instead of the line of women and children crowding the doorway appeared to be growing not shrinking. In and our of the hut taping and shooting stills. I could not keep up with the train of women. They all wanted to be photographed and waited insistently until I had taken their photo after the interview. If I stayed inside to tape the women all would clarify with Mama Marie please I want her to come outside and take my photo too. When I would finally emerge from taping testimony inside, there was one woman who pointed out all of the women waiting to be photographed. I think it was their chance to finally tell someone they felt may be able to make a difference. Two Muzugus from America. As I met the women some of them posed defiantly, some of them offered a shy smile, and some of them still had a vacant look in their eyes as if it was less painful to just check out from reality for a time. But all of them smiled and laughed when they saw their image on the review screen of my camera. I was proud that I could offer them some kind of voice and only hope that I can help do them justice when I return to the states.

Since the interview was conducted in French and translated into Kinande (the local language) Amy debriefed me afterwards. The oldest survivor was 75, one young woman had been raped by 10 soldiers, another had TB, and the ones who had been married no longer had husbands because they had abandoned them after the rape. While many of them did not know their rapist they could easily guess which military they were from because they remembered the language the rapist had been speaking. The stories of tragedy went on and on, but what I cannot forget was the joy, friendship, and laughter I witnessed amongst the women. After all they had been through it is readily apparent they still have a joy for the future.

Unfortunately, the future does not look so bright. There is no end in sight for their problems or their daughters. Every time they go to the fields they risk being raped, but they must feed their children. Any man (civilian or soldier) can escape the consequences of being a rapist if he just pays the mayor a few dollars. Until the women of the DR Congo are heard and supported by the rest of the world this will go on.

It is so important for the world to take note of what is happening to the women of Congo, to collect evidence for these crimes against humanity, but as of now NO ONE is listening.

The Democratic Republic of Congo

2010-12-29T11:23:00.001-08:00

Up early the next morning I thought I would have ample time to make it to my meeting across town. However, I had not counted on the extra time it would take to go in a car. It really sucks to show up to a business meeting with what are for all practical purposes temporarily all my worldly possessions (on my back), but I did not have much choice since I was really going to be pushing it to get to the airport on time. Frantically looking for a car a “private hire taxi” said sure I can take you now for $20,000 shilling. You have to be joking me, but yet again I was in a pinch and the classic Mzungu squeeze took a few more dollars from my shrinking coffer. By the time I arrived to the building for my meeting I was officially 20 min late…good think I am in Africa where things seem to run on a much looser timetable. What I did not expect was to get a full bomb check of both of my bags, I guess as a result of the bomb that had gone off the day before on a bus.

Luckily, when I greeted the secretary she let me know the guy I was meeting was still in another meeting. As I put down my enormous bags I tried to somewhat compose myself as I prepared to enter a business meeting in traveling clothes, flip flops, and no makeup. At least I had brushed my hair for the occasion! The meeting went amazingly well, but by the time we were done I was an hour past schedule for being at the airport.

I still had not purchased my ticket because the counter is only open at 10am the day the plane actually fly’s and I still had a minimum 45 min drive in front of me to get there. When we got to the airport I had to get out and be inspected at two check points (the bomb scare again) and then the taxi could only take me to the furthest general parking area because no cars were allowed to drive next to the entrance. After dashing across the parking lot with my pounds of gear and up two flights of stairs I finally spotted the TKM office. As I approached the desk I was scolded for showing up so late as the man (again upset I did not speak French) wrote out my ticket. When the money was due it turned out the ticket price had doubled from what I had been told and it was only ONE WAY! Yikes. No other choice I dolled out some more money and he took and extra $10 for helping me out. But really none of this dampened the high I was on. I have wanted to go to the Democratic Republic of Congo for such a long time and after years of thinking about it I was finally going.

Now I know there are a lot of people who just cannot fathom why I would want to go to such a place. I have thought long and hard about this myself. I guess it comes down to this. I personally cannot fathom what is happening to the women and people for the DRC. Since 1998 an estimated 5.4 million people have died here as a result of war (and the chaos it causes) and over 1,000 women a month are raped (and those are only the ones who actually come forward). On a human level I struggle to understand why this is all happening. Is it just a struggle for power or greed or minerals or total decay of humanity? That said, it is also a bit of a personal challenge. I have journeyed almost to the end of the earth, but never anyplace like the DRC, an active war zone for all practical purposes. The only thing I can compare it to is someone wanting to climb Everest or someone wanting to become a big wave surfer. I would say the only difference is not solely for personal edification; I also want to see firsthand and try to tell the story of what is here. The trick with riding any big wave is to have a plan, be confident, wax your board well, relax, and know that ultimately I am not in control.

To me the challenge of traveling to the DRC and trying to work here is my first attempt at riding a 50-foot wave.

But as I boarded the flight and I watched as we crossed the lake that separates Uganda and the DR Congo I felt like a kid in a candy store. As we flew over the vast green rolling hills and then jungle I saw jagged green mountains and plunging waterfalls. I felt like I have stumbled onto a lost Eden. Pretty soon I could see rural villages connected by a road, but houses separated by miles of fields. I was beginning to get a glimpse at why it is so hard to secure the DRC. Vast swaths of untamed jungle, rural villages dotting the hillside, and everyone in a while a larger “town” with red dirt roads that snaked across the landscape lined by shacks with corrugated tin roofs for miles. This was the Africa I had dreamed of not the tourist lined streets of Zanzibar. I could not believe my fortune that my friend Jamie’s husband’s cousin (still with me?) happened to be working in a remote village in N. Kivu and after several discussions she had agreed to help me get a letter of invitation. This is where I am meant to be I can feel it. And even before the plane landed on the first red dirt runway so we could change to a smaller plane I pondered how I could extend my visa.

At the first stop I had to go through immigration. A small room that had definitely not been updated since the 40’s two workers feverishly hand wrote on printer paper names and passport numbers. Both papers looked illegible. The woman was writing on her paper vertically and the man horizontally. The information was completely disorganized and I would assume useless. I could not help but imagine what the room full with stacks of this paper, that some bureaucratic must have decided was a good idea, must look like. I doled out another passport photo and $20 more dollars hoping I was about done paying for my visa!

I boarded a smaller “bush plane” with a pretty salty Canadian pilot and a young American co-pilot. After they made a few jokes about how I will not need my motorcycle helmet for the flight the older pilot handed his business card. He was sure to let me know he was going to be visiting Butterbur within the next few weeks and that I should call him. Quite sure I was not going to take him up on his offer to have a drink, I did stash his business card in a safe place. I figure it cannot hurt to have the direct email to a bush pilot in the DR Congo.

As the plane hit the ground in Butterbur animals and I am sure people had to clear the path. Surprisingly the runway was lined with a series of lean-to houses and people were laying on the grass outside of their homes 10 feet from the runway. As I disembarked the cool air filled my lungs and a man ran to greet me. He had a sign that said, “Sarah Fretwell Bon Vien COPERMA”. Apparently a foreigner at this airport is quite a rare site and the entire airport was waiting for me asking if I was the American coming to work. I was escorted to immigration (again) and after the gruff man scolded me for coming to his country and not speaking French he stamped my passport and bid me a good stay.

The young very excited and friendly man who greeted me was named, “Hagni”. Immediately inundating me with questions French, he seemed downtrodden when I told him I did not understand. He changed to English and told me this was a big problem I needed to learn French pronto and that he would teach me. As we walked to the COPERMA car he began spouting multiple line sentences in very fast French and then would stop and stare waiting for me to repeat them. This went on for 5 minutes before he got the drift that he may need to use shorter sentences. Wanting to take in the scene around me it was all I could do to grasp what he was saying and attempt to repeat it since he was so eager to teach. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw the red dirt roads, burned tires, cement buildings and corrugated tin shacks, garbage filled gutters, and people everywhere.

By the time we made it to the COPERMA office he was determined to help me learn the entire French language that day. And then about an hour before I was able to convince him to write down a few words and only speak in phrases. And so my French lessons continued for a few hours. Just about fried from the language lesson I pulled out a photo from SB of Michael and myself and my Godchildren. Now I am sure that people here have Godchildren, but attempting to explain in English that no I am not married and I did not actually give birth to these kids and the guy in the photo is my boyfriend not my husband seemed to baffle Hangi.

The young woman I was meeting in the DR Congo, Amy Ernst, was still at a village taking supplies to a group of women who had recently been raped. As I checked the time and noticed the sun going down her words from a recent email rang in my ears,
“promise we will never be in Butterbur or anywhere close after 6pm”. The thing about the DR Congo is that during the day it seems like a typical third world town. People hawking their goods, tending to their fields, and cars running pedestrians off the pothole laden road. But from dusk till the early morning hours when it is dark outside, that is when the DRC becomes dangerous. Totally off the grid with only some generators soldiers and armed militias are able to move easily under the cover of night. When they have not been paid or when they are drunken robbing houses, raping women, and killing whoever gets in their way. Not really sure how far away we were staying from Butterbur or how late it was safe to stay I felt calm, but hoped that Amy was back in cell reception soon so we could figure out a plan.

With 15 min to spare the entire COPERMA team that had been in the village entered the room and jubilantly greeted me. Amy had given me the heads up that they were so excited to have a visitor they had been taking about my arrival for weeks and practicing their English greetings in the car. Finally at 6:15pm we headed out of town and bumped down the red dirt road into the forest. Amy lives with the Crosiers (Priests and Brothers from the Catholic Church) in a smaller village ½ hour up the road. Quite a lucky and somewhat exclusive location they have their own property with three night watchmen and the protection of being with the Catholic Church. As we drove down the pine tree lined driveway and over a small rock bridge I felt more like I was going to a summer camp in the hills of Holland than the Congo. Complete with three meals a day, hot running water, a cabin like wood lined room with a desk, and an excellent wireless internet connection (thanks to the electricity from a private hydroelectric plant) this was the most koosh place I have stayed yet! All in the Jungle of the DRC for only $7 a day. Maybe this will help make up for all those bribes I had to pay.

Tired from the few days of travel, but happy to be here Amy gave me the lay of the land and introduced me to all of the Brothers. They live a quiet life teaching classes in the community, preaching, and a lot of time praying. While they have welcomed us to their house nothing is expected of us we do not have to wake up to pray at 6am and joining the family style dinners is optional. I could go on about the combination of brothers for a few pages. Old ones, young ones, tall, short, pudgy, black, and white. Let’s just say they are a mishmash of cultures and personalities all living in one small community. The two find the most humorous is Father Jon. He is 82 and from Holland. He has quite a sense of humor and always pretends to trip whenever he serves me at dinner like he is going to spill it on me. He also forgets mid sentence that I do not speak French and will switch from telling me a story in English and end it in French. I think I catch the drift most of the time. The other is a very sweet Congolese brother from Kinshasa. He is just good natured and easy to talk to. The first dinner with them was quite entertaining and by the time I had a beer I was ready to retire for the evening. Now you may think that I would be nervous my first night in the DR Congo, but knowing that there were two guard dogs, three night watchmen, and the power of the pope on our side I slept like a baby. Until the sheep started bleeding for its babies outside of my window at 4am!

The first morning in the crisp mountain air was a refreshing change from sweating my everything off in Tanzania. At 10am we set off for our first of may motorbike rides on the bumpy red dirt roads and headed to Butterbur ½ hour away. It was a market day and the road was lined with hundreds upon hundreds of people carrying their goods and pushing heavily burdened bicycles loaded with every from a stack of plantains 12 feet tall to goats strapped to the tops of bundles of firewood. Amy was the lead motorcycle on her dirt bike and I followed behind with my trusty moto driver and helmet! The hands down best part of the ride was watching people reactions when they saw Amy a white woman with blonde hair zoom past on her dirt bike. Needless to say women do not drive bikes here and as you have guessed by now we are the only Americans for miles. Talk about rubbernecking. Adults and children caught off guard at the site of a Mzungu speeding past and driving her own bike was enough to turn some peoples heads 180 degrees. The look of shock and the stares were priceless. Pretty soon we began to pass school children in uniforms and in unison little voices would give a cheer. I wanted to keep the red dirt out of my mouth, but the whole scene was so funny I could not help but laugh out loud for most of the trip.

Watching Amy bounce down the road on her motorbike made me realize what a stunningly humble one woman power house she is. After seeing Eve Ensler’s Virginia Monologues and seeing a piece on the Congo she decided she wanted to work in the DR Congo. Her godmother connected her to the Crosiers, she found a place to stay, quite her job, and came to the Congo. She learned French, some of the local dialects, she listens to stories of Rape for hour on end and in all of her interactions greetings people with sincere friendship, humor, a listening ear, and compassion. For her it is all just a typical day.

At COPERMA they had a business day of catching up and taking notes. Amy took me on a tour of the town. She showed me the medical facility where they take survivors for exams, blood testing, the morning after pill, and whatever else they need. As we entered it was obvious that some of the girls in the waiting area were survivors. There is this look on their face and in their eyes that is quite haunting. Their eyes have such depth, but the look is quite hollow like things are too painful so they have checked out. We gave a local greeting to them which made them laugh and we headed up to meet the psychologist who works at the hospital.

Back outside the streets were bustling with vendors selling everything form plastic toys made in china, to your dads ski jacket that he donated to goodwill in the 80’s. People were surprised to see up walking around what when we yelled “Wahey” the local what’s up they would erupt with laughter and see us as a little more legit. After getting lost for a bit Amy took me to another medical facility that was the opposite end of the spectrum. A treatment facility for the mentally ill which is sometime the only option for women who are so traumatized from the rape that they cannot return home and function in everyday life.

The cement building looked as if it had been painted once years ago and never cleaned. There were people everywhere crowded into miserable rooms with people on beds close enough that if you rolled over you would hit the other person. People so Thorzined out that they could barely speak or were just rocking in place. It was a tragic place that you can only take for a few minutes because every ounce of you being just wants to leave. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to live there. We went back to COPERMA to discuss what projects I could see and help work on while I am here. We agree that I should see all of the project sites: Child soldier rehabilitation, the girl mothers (girls who have been raped and have a child), survivors of sexual violence, and the communities that are serving as their foster communities. They think it is important for me to see everything and photograph it all. “We want you to take pictures and show people in your country so they will know the problems and great need we have here”.

This small organization is made up of such amazing local people spearheaded by Mama Marie. Most of the people there have already told me they love their job. They are the bright and driven younger generation who want to effect the future of their country. Every time I walk in the room they like to practice the bit of English they know and then erupt in laughter at each other. Everyone keeps saying I am so happy to meet you I am so happy you are here.

Kampala, Uganda

2010-12-29T11:16:00.000-08:00

Red dust covered my cheeks as the “private hire” taxi zoomed down the road. On the radio was the Christmas classic “Hark the Herald Angles Sing” recomposed into any easy listening version with synthesizers. Compared to the repressed feeling I had in Tanzania this was a relief. Women wearing tank tops and girls wearing the latest fashions revealing their knees. Cement shops and outdoor clothing stalls lined the street. The outside of the store looked as if it had been purchased by a specific company for advertising. One shop was entirely banana yellow and had the Bic Razor label. Another a powder blue with bubbles was for a washing detergent called “Omo”. Yes, advertising and consumerism seemed alive and well. The atmosphere was one of thriving progress. So many locals and expats everywhere walking to the markets and shops. The main roads are paved, but the sidewalk is dirt. There is meat to sell, but the butcher shop is in a wooden shack. Cars clogged the paved streets and motorcycles whizzed by on any free inch of flat land. Billboards for home loans, holidays to the Seychelles’s, and birth control lined the streets. Any free space in the median or on telephone poles was taken by the cell phone companies lifestyle campaigns proclaiming they have the best coverage and service for your life. Through my western filter I could already see the humor mixed with advertising slogans written in very literal English. One restaurant was called, “Good Restaurant & Bar” and another “Normal Food”. I could not help, but smile…it is kind of fun to be in another country where people speak English and have a rough idea of what is going on for a change.

Eventually I got to my hostel, the Red Chilli. It was your standard semi-clean backpacker hostel with travelers from around the world. On the first night after the Sunday BBQ the hip-hop and reggae thumped you could have mistaken it for a house party in Sacramento. So many Americans and Europeans it was like I had stumbled onto the mzunugu trail with one exception; most of them were doing really cool work. A group of dental students from New Jersey pulling teeth in rural villages, a young woman from Vancouver working as a teacher, two engineers from Vancouver Island building wells, and the list goes on. I was surprised to be in a hostel where at least ½ the people were doing some kind of long-term job or volunteer work. I met people while sharing community dinners. I had a fun time listening to their projects and where they had been. I put off saying much about what I was doing. At some point a person from their group would always ask. I would casually say, “I am going to the DR Congo” then would follow a long pause and awkward silence, “well good luck with that”. Others would immediately indicate a level of respect like wow you are going there you must be an old pro at this aid work stuff. All the time I was not really sure what to think. Do I really have any idea what I am getting myself into? No. Hope I make it.

I had come to Kampala with the lofty goal of attaining my visa for the DR Congo in less than 24 hrs, securing a plane ticket for the small bi-weekly commuter flight into Butemebo (Congo), try to find a hard drive to replace the one that had crashed, and squeeze in a business meeting with a non-profit I hope to do a job for. Lofty goals I tell you when you are trying to figure out where everything is and understand an entirely new place, luckily I was in a predominately English speaking country.

At 9am the next morning against my better judgment I climbed on back of a motor taxi (it was ½ the price of a car and 2x’s as fast) and headed to the Democratic Republic of Congo consulate. Worried the visa process may be hard I tried to have all of my ducks in a row. Passport, check. Letter of invitation, check. Money, check. Two passport photos, check. As I walked into the cement building with glassless windows I felt as if I had walked into a building in Africa in the 1940’s. A quick trip to the toilet revealed no electricity, no running water, a crumbling toilet, and of course no T.P. Wow if this was any indication of what the DR Congo was like I was in for a Haiti repeat. As I stepped to the up to the counter I was greeted in French. When I replied in English that I did not speak French and that I needed a visa they were quite skeptical. I tried the old I am from “Obama Land” joke and that seemed to entertain them.

After a few minutes of no one really telling me what the heck was going on they gave me a slip and told me to go to the bank and pay, meaning I had to go to the bank and directly deposit the cash into their account before I could begin the process. I said ok, but you have not told me anything about the visa. How much does it cost and how long is it for? I guess the idiotic and helpless American they told me like I should already have telepathically known that information and escorted me to another mototaxi who knew where the bank was. After 45 minutes at the bank I returned. I showed them the slip and asked to complete the paperwork. They told me to wait. Then when they asked for the photos I realized I had forgotten them at the hostel. It was already eleven and the woman told me you need this the same day? You have to be back before noon with the photos and you need to pay us $50 for helping you get your visa by the end of today. I asked if I could fill out the papers and they could start working on it while I got the photos. No. That is not possible. “Can you show me where it says I need to pay $50”, I asked? She said, “No it is just for us in the office for helping you out”. I said, “Well my boss will not let me pay for anything unless I can see it on paper and get a receipt”. She said, “That is not possible. We are helping you get your visa today for your flight tomorrow”. Ok, “I need a receipt or I cannot pay, my boss will think you are bribing me”. Try as I might there was no way around it. If I wanted on the bi-weekly flight that left the next morning, I had to pay. They knew they had me. The classic Mzungu squeeze. Slightly pissed off I left again to retrace my steps go get my photos and find some more money for the bribe. As I left the security guard who was also named Sarah scolded me for not bringing her sweets after my last return and to be sure I brought something for her this time.

And so the day progressed. By the end of the day I had spent $30 USD on motor taxis (a pretty penny in Kampala), shockingly I had found a Western Digital 1 terabyte HD (to replace the one that had crashed), kind of secured my plane ticket for the next day, purchased a motorcycle helmet for the DR Congo, and rescheduled my meeting with the non-profit for early the next morning.

After eating dinner and frantically separating out my gear (what I would leave in Kampala and what I would take) I could not wait to crawl under my mosquito net in my tent with a full on twin bed on a wooden frame inside. Without enough energy to even worry about what may lay ahead I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face knowing I was setting out for a real adventure.

“You Like Have Baby [On] Pemba?”

2010-12-19T11:03:00.000-08:00

Excited to have found such an unblemished (by tourism) little island we were very happy with our time on Pemba. Now versed in the craziness of the ferry we arrived to the port early and took two command posts. One of us was in charge of getting good seats and the other of putting the bags onto the luggage area. As a waited next to a huge bunch of bananas, sacks of cloves, and some industrial wheel barrels I was surrounded by young men. Now everyone is friendly and you are obliged to go through the whole Jambo mambo jumbo, but a lot of times the younger guys just use it as an excuse to hit on you. Not wanting to be rude I replied with the usual singsong conversation…

Me - “Hello. How are you? …yes your island is lovely…you are very fortunate to live here it is such a nice place”.

Guy - “Where you come from?”

Me - “I am from Obama Land (what we have began to call the USA).”

Guy – “Oh haha Obama Land very good we are friends. [Pause] So you like have baby Pemba?”

Me – [Excuse me] “What?”

Guy - “You like have Baby Pemba?”

All I could think was God NO I do not want to have a baby on Pemba and especially not with you! But instead I ended the conversation with a stink eyed “Umm…No Thanks”.

Pleased to have gotten off the beaten track things had suddenly just got a little too local. I bid my suitor a good day. Threw my bags on board and pushed my way through the hoards of people to find Jamie sweating in line.

As we left the dock I was happy that I was leaving Pemba with nothing more than some great photos and a few mosquito bites.

Off the Beaten Track

2010-12-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

Finally!

After 19 days we have wondered into a place where babies stare at you and little kids cry in fright or delight at the sight of you. Mzungu, Mzungu (white, white) it is easy to tell when people are talking about you, but not exactly what they are saying. As we walk down the road around dusk a chorus of little kids voices yell “Jambo” until we are out of sight. A three hour ferry ride from Zanzibar, Pemba is a world away. The island itself if a tropical combination of the lush greens of Bali, the vistas of Italy or Greece, and it’s own special kind of Sunni Muslim Africa. The landscape is dotted with ancient baobab trees, enormous mango, jackfruit, papaya, palm, clove bushes and almost any other tropical vegetation you can think of. While people here may be economically poor, you can tell the red earth and their lives are rich. Surrounded by the bounty of the sea and the land people work hard, but live well. As proud young fathers hold their babies in the evenings and parade them down the streets you can see the pride of family.

Some people here speak English, but most speak Swahili. When we ask directions if people are afraid we do not understand all kinds of friendly helpers emerge to guide us to our next destination. When they have guided us there they ask for nothing in return, make sure we know where we are headed to next, and bid us a good day. It has been a pleasure and a relief to connect with locals at last on such a genuine level. It seems every one knows each other and who owns which fruit tree (and you never pick it without permission, but fruit on the ground is fair game)!

Today we decided to visit a local island so we caught a “dala dala” (a covered pick-up truck bed with benches in back). Now the thing to know about “dala dala” is that they seat anywhere from 10 to 50 people along with their buckets of sugar and plastic bags of fish. It all depends on how full they fare collector thinks he can fill it before the traffic cop will object. Most of the time you are comfortably packed in and it seems there is no space left and by the time you actually leave the number of people inside has at least doubled. People, chickens, mangos, and babies all stuffed like sardines into the back, not to mention all of the goods on top of the truck. The aroma of body odor and gasoline exhaust is truly unforgettable. Today we were luck and scored the seats in the cab next to the driver. He dropped us off at literally the end of the road and after we clarified with some locals where we were trying to go a few children emerged to lead the way. The path to the mangrove where the fishermen store their boats wound past the front doors of mud brick and stick huts. Women cooking, gardening, washing, breast-feeding babies, all somewhat surprised to see us walking past their house. The typical reactions frightened children, cheers of glee, and women double-checking to make sure their headscarfs were properly in place.

Pretty soon we found the mangrove full of Dhow’s (small wooden canoes with amas on both sides). After some group negotiation with the fishermen in mostly Swahili and some English we agreed on a price. As my feet squished through the mud I tried to forget about all of the tropical worms and parasites that thrive in stagnant water. “Where ever we end up….this is going to be an adventure!”, we told one another. In the boat that looked big enough for two we had the captain, two crew, and us the two Mzungus. As they rowed out of the mangrove swimming children dived underwater or ran into the bushes at the sight of us. We raised our tattered white sail attached to a bamboo mast and began out regatta with a fleet of about 5 other Dhows. It felt so good to be on the water surrounded by a kaleidoscope of turquoise blue. In an attempt to lighten our loads neither of us had brought our drybags and we soon realized that may have been a mistake. The captain wanted to sail and at times the two helpers were both on the amas wrangling the boat as the sail full of wind pulled us up on one ama. But at the last minute he would avoid a sure water entry by using the ”brake” and letting the sail loft.

In shorter time than expected we reached what looked like a pretty scraggly little island. As we disembarked an older women emerged from the banana grove with a bunch of bananas on top of her head. I suddenly realized where the idea of the Chiquita banana lady came from years ago. She looked stunning draped in her sari and head wrap with the about 20 bananas and stock on top of her head carrying bags with her hands.

Uncertain we were really headed to our desired destination we followed the kind captain as he signaled for us to go ashore. But wait we wanted to go to the beach does this lead to the beach? They assured us yes this is where you want to go. We set off down a dry rocky path in the middle of a young banana grove with different shades of lush yellows and greens filtering through the trees. Along the way our captain pointed out plans we should not touch and said danger. Pretty soon we could hear the familiar roar of the ocean and could see glimpses of azure turquoise water and powder white sand. We had come to a sort of eco lodge on the ocean with hammocks! Eager to jump in to the water after a few days of having an amazing view, but not being able to swim we were disheartened at the gaggle of men waiting to catch a glimpse of us in our bathing costumes. On second thought, wading sounds just as refreshing and much less revealing! We pulled out our lunch and snacked on our egg sandwich - which was literally two very small slices of baguette with an entire boiled egg in between.

After relaxing for a few hours we headed back to the boat for our sail home. As we boarded the tiny canoe the wind had picked up a lot and we knew we were going to be in for an adventurous ride home. For the next ½ hour we alternately raised our cameras in the air of reach of the waves splashing over the side as we leaned as far as we could across the ama to keep the boat with it’s sail full of wind from tipping too far to one side. After a close call that put the boat at about a 60 degree angle with one side of the boat fully emerged in the water the two crew men climbed onto the amas opposite of the sail and held on with ropes. They looked like water cowboys atop a bronking bull gracefully holding the rope to the sail with one hand as they leaned as far back as they could to keep the boat upright.

Pondering how long I could potentially hold my camera above my head and tread water we resolved ourselves to the fact we may be going swimming on this boat ride.

Suddenly the wind subsided and we were back in the protection of the mangrove. As they pulled out the oars to begin the rest of the paddle home, I tried to convince them that I know how to paddle an outrigger, but they wouldn’t have it. They just laughed and took the paddle from me. I am sure the thought of a women especially a mzungu doing a mans work was unfathomable! As we reached shore the tide had gone out and all of the wooden boats were resting in the sludgy brown mud as children jumped into the murky puddles. We trudged through the mud as a tribe of children greeted us to lead the way back through the village to the main road.

Unable to say much more than hello what is your name I pulled out my secret weapon. The Aerobe! It is essentially a really flat Frisbee with a hole in the middle. It usually goes something like this. The kids have not idea what it is or what it does. The first time you throw it they all stare in shock and confusion and it falls flat on the ground. Next, one young brave athletic boy picks it up and tries to throw it. It usually goes vertically into the air or nearly misses someone’s head and everyone erupts in laughter. Then as it is about to hit the ground again children emerge from every tree, house, and mangrove to catch a glimpse of that is going on and join in. For me the Aerobe has become the universal communicator…you can always play a game and laugh together. So we played a mean game of aerobe on the side of the road until the last dalla dalla of the day arrived. As drove past palm trees and the mud brick houses bathed in the afternoon glow of the sun we waived and yelled “Jambo” to all of the families sitting outside of their homes. Exhilarated at the fact we had finally gotten off the beaten track and really connected with this little piece of paradise. We bounced down the road wondering what our next adventure would hold…

Physics of a Dalla Dalla

2010-12-19T10:42:00.000-08:00

Safely off the peer we found a Dalla Dalla headed to the very northern point of the island. This is where we learned about the unique physics of these covered pick-up truck beds. In the bed of the truck there are wooden benches sometime with a thin padding on top. The “roof” always elaborately wallpapered with a pattern it looks like your grandma picked out in the early 80’s. If you are lucky (or under 5'7") the roof is just high enough to sit up straight all the way. Then between the “roof” and the edge of the pick-up bed there are steel bars with “windows”. Most of the time you can catch glimpses of the passing world and scenery through them.

The pickup beds look like they can fit about 20 people max, but they actually have the ability (depending on the fare collector) to fit about double that in addition to some children, babies, and chickens. Legs. Arms. Heads. Everything everywhere. Stranger sitting on your lap. Holding someone elses baby. A fully shrouded muslim women resting her head on some strangers upper thigh. Anything goes as long as you can make it past the traffic cop. All the while packed so tightly you literally cannot move.

We sat like this for two hours taking in the lush vegetation and the pace of live on this tiny island. Drenched in sweat and covered in dust we reached the end of the road where we would need to find another form of transport to our final destination. We ended up on a dusty street corner in a one road town and the phone number we had for transport did not work. Everyone in the town had bikes, not cars. Soon local men and boys laughing at our huge bags (at some point Jamie’s very tall pack was named the giraffe bag) helped us devise a plan. Mostly Swahili speaking the older men called over some teenage boys to translate. In need of a toilet one boy led me down a dirt path past small houses built with mud bricks, sticks, and thatched roofs. The one I went with a toilet inside was a cinderblock and cement house with corrugated tin roof. As I entered through the gate there were about 12 children gathered around a television set and about a dozen other people sewing and cleaning very surprised to see a sweaty Mzungu standing in their courtyard.

Back at the street corner a man “helped” find a taxi for us. It was ridiculously priced considering it was 10 x’s what it had just cost to drive across the entire island, but given the choice between being the evening entertainment in this dusty one road town or heading to the beach we decided to dole out the shillings.

As we drove through and around mud puddles in the dense tropical jungle we could not wait to see this epic beach. Visions of rinsing off the heat of the day in the tropical water danced in our heads. As we saw the sign, “Virani Beach” we were thrilled. It had been a long day. As we pulled onto the property is looked more like we had come to someone’s muddy cow pasture on the edge of the ocean. As we stepped out of the taxi the flies buzzed around our head and we inspected the “Eco” huts. Well make that used to be Eco huts and now more like crumbling bug filled huts. The only hut left was a “double bed”. Like other furniture here the bed with a traditional frame had a sort of hammock frame made from twine. With two people it was sort of like sleeping in a giant pita that you could not avoid falling into the middle of no matter how hard you tried. But that prospect looked better than camping in the cow pasture so we took it. Ok let’s just go to the beach and rinse off. “So sir, can you tell us where is the best place to swim right now? Oh actually you cannot swim right now. The tide is out and the ocean floor is covered in sea urchins. The best time to swim is tomorrow morning”. Our heats sank. We should have known when you think you are going to paradise life plays tricks on you!

How to kick a coffee habit in 30 seconds

2010-12-19T10:40:00.000-08:00

How to kick a coffee habit in 30 seconds

After being stranded at the private beach house for two more days due to a missed taxi (rough life I know) we made it back to Stonetown for one night to catch our ferry to Pemba Island the next day. Craving a real cup of coffee instead of the muddy instant “Africafe” we headed to our favorite Zanzibar Coffee House. We sat at our large wooden table and watched the world go by on the narrow winding street. Women in headscarfs and beautiful wraps, children on bikes, and the local fisherman holding his basket of the catch of the day all walking by as we sipped our iced coffee.

Happily caffeinated we set off to run the errands that we could only do in “town” before we headed to the backwaters of Pemba. Fast forward 5hrs. After hours of waiting on hold with the airlines I felt exhausted and hot. The next thing I knew I was stumbling down the stairs to the bathroom. I closed the door in the nick of time before the coffee projected across the room. I couldn’t help but think it is going to be a long time before coffee sounds good again. Delirious and crippled from the sudden onset of food poisoning I somehow managed to find my way back to the Flamingo Hotel and crawled under my mosquito net. As I drifted in and out of consciousness I could only hope I felt better by 9am for the three-hour ferry ride.

I made it to the ferry the next morning without further incident, but still feeling queasy and weak. Definitely not as nice as our luxury ferry from Dar Es Salaam the week before, we scored some good seats in the shade on the back deck of the ferry. As the ferry left the dock we were engulfed in a plume of diesel fumes. Hoping the wind would carry it the other direction once we got underway, it was soon apparent the fumes were due to the location of our seat. With no other choice here we were stuck here for three hours. Surrounded by a family with 4 or 5 kids an attendant came over and passed out black plastic bags with large white stenciled letters that stated “Sick Bag”. As the kids accepted the bags the little boy across from us put the handles around his ears and promptly began puking. He set off a chain reaction and all of the kids surrounding us began to fully utilize their bags as well.

Choking on the fumes and surrounded by puking children we settled in for what was going to be a quite long ride. In and out of consciousness from my lack of sleep the night before my early 90’s era gold Nokia cell phone suddenly rang. It was my boyfriend Michael! I couldn’t help but think how amazing to be in the middle of the Indian ocean on a ferry and be able to talk to my boyfriend standing in his kitchen in Santa Barbara. A welcome distraction from the discomforts of the ferry ride, I heard all of the news from home and caught him up on where we had been and where we were going. After the call, I dosed in and out of consciousness for another few hours until my friend Jamie (in misery next to me) exclaimed, “I see land". Thank God! Five more minutes of the overpowering fumes and I would have grabbed my black plastic bag and joined the kids.

As we approached the enormous cement pier we were shocked by the lush vegetation and the crystal clear water of the port! I have been to a lot of ports on islands and beaches around the world…none of them have ever had water that I even think about wanting to touch let a lone swim in! However, the water here was stunningly clear and clean. None of the floating plastic or sheen of boat fuel that is usually in the water. If the port looked this good we could only imagine what the rest of the island had in store. Now we did not know at the time, but the people of Pemba are even more relaxed and friendly than the people of Zanzibar. The only exception is when it comes to getting on and off of the ferries.

The scene as we approached the pier - with a sheer 15-foot drop into the water- was utter chaos. People pushing and shouting all crowded to the precarious edge of the pier. As families excitedly waved to their loved ones on board and in hopes of making a few shilling porters clamored for a better position to jump aboard to help unload the luggage. As the crowd pulsed and prodded one poor man was suddenly sent flying off of the pier fully clothed in to the water below. As he struggled to stay a float and recollect his belongings floating around him the crowd on the pier jeered and laughed.

We were still on the top deck of the ferry and our jaws dropped as the scene unfurled before us. Shit. If they do that to the locals I can only imagine how harassed we are going to be. We quickly devised a strategy. Stay away from the edge of the pier, elbows allowed and no holds barred for making it through the ridiculous mob of people, and have a quick ejection plan from our very heavy backpacks should we suddenly find our selves plunging over the edge into the sea.

The Queens of Seaweed

2010-12-12T07:07:00.000-08:00

It turns our there is another secret below the turquoise blue water in front of our beach house. It is full of seaweed gardens that are only revealed at low tide. Years ago people from the Philippines came here to teach the women how to plant seaweed and prepare it for export. Now each family has underwater seaweed “farm”. Each day as the tide begins to recede little sticks begin to appear and pretty soon women fully clothed in their brightly colored sari like wraps and head dress walk into the water to tend their crops. For hours they sit in the water harvesting and retying their seaweed in neat little rows. The sand is so white and midday sun is so bright it feels like the glare of intense sun on snow.

The children that are not in school frolic and swim in little tide pools next to their mothers farm or race their exquisitely crafted toy Dau ‘s (a miniature version of their fathers real fishing boat). Their laughter and calls to each other echo across the shallow water. By the time the tide has ebbed little gardens are fully revealed and hundreds of women (as far as you can see) are chatting and singing as they then their crops.

When the seaweed is ready to harvest they the little clump from the string it is attached to and collect it in an old rice bag. Once the bag is full the women wade ashore with the bursting bag on top of their head and take it to dry on the ground outside of their home.

I am not sure what the queens of seaweed think of their work as I could not find anyone who spoke English, but I think it is one of the most facinating farms I have ever seen.

Walking Cash Machine

2010-12-12T07:05:00.001-08:00

Did you know that I am actually an ATM? I am full of money and it never runs out. I actually have never realized it before, but clearly because I am of European dissent I am rich and everyone is going to try to get a part of it. You say hello to kids at the beach they say, “You give me a dollar”, you go to the market to buy anything and your price is 3- 10x’s the normal cost. This is a frustrating thing to me about travel that I have tried to reconcile over the years. I am fortunate to live in the US and to have been born in a country with opportunity, infrastructure, and a somewhat functioning government. I do want to help other people. I think everyone should be able to feel their family, but clearly (to me) I cannot provide the funds for everyone. Now how do I convince the locals of that?

After years of travel around the world I know a pen or a dollar here and there is not the kind of change that is needed to make a difference. It may make the donor feel good temporarily, but I have seen these dollars go to soda pops and the pens disgaurded in the gutter.

On a more philosophical level, I also think it creates a strange power dynamic that plays into the old colonial paradigm of the white man having more and being superior to an African. If you beg and receive on some level of your psyche you cannot ever see you self as the equal to the person who is giving to you. I seems to break the cycle of poverty and the dominant psyche of fatalism the last thing I should do is reinforce it by dolling out dollars to the children. So I have started this game called, “You give me dollar”. Every time the kids say, “you give me dollar” or “school pen”, I say, “No, you give me dollar”. They all look a bit perplexed as they try to explain no you are supposed to give the dollar to me. They still don’t see the humor in the whole thing, but at least I am beginning to laugh at the fact that I am now an ATM.

Almost Paradise?

2010-12-12T07:03:00.000-08:00

It seems life has played a trick on me. For most of my life I have been searching for the most perfect pristine stretch of beach I could find. I have been looking for one with white power soft sand, clear blue water with every shade of turquoise, palm fringed beaches, and a great place to view it from. Well one of the last things I remember telling my friend Liz before I left was, “I am only going to take one swim suit and no cute clothes. This is not going to be a fun trip this is going to be hardcore Africa”. Well guess what. Yesterday based on a trip from another traveler, we arrived at a private house on the most beautiful beach I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on. Funny how when you stop looking for something it seems to appear! The only other thing we could ask for? Some surfable waves in this 87+ degree water!

Rerouted to Zanzibar...

2010-12-12T06:59:00.000-08:00

Stonetown, Zanzibar

Relieved to get away from the oppressive heat and pollution of Dar es Salaam we went to the ferry terminal an hour early to wait in the air conditioning. There we were greeted with free lunch, wireless Internet, and a beautiful new ferry with beanbag chairs on the upper deck. After the dirt, busses, and all around slumming it of the past few days we felt quite privileged to have these luxuries.

We set off across the Indian Ocean warm salt-water breeze and the air began to smell like air instead of car exhaust and diesel fumes. We arrived to Stone town as it was bathed in the afternoon glow of the sun. As we docked you could hear the laughter of children as they splashed in the ocean and rinsed off the heat of the day. Right when we stepped off the ferry you could just feel the all around good vibes of Zanzibar. Something about islands that just mellow people out.

We found a taxi that took us through the narrow winding streets past crumbling buildings that are an exotic mix of Arabic, Indian, European, and African style. With all the character of each country fluidly colliding with each other. It is the most beautiful combination of color, shape, textures, people, religions, and lifestyles living in what appears to be seamless harmony. The Rastafarians hanging out with their Muslim brothers and sisters and the Muslim girls impeccably draped in colored scarves next to the modern girls who wear short shorts and tank tops. Christians celebrating Ramadan and Muslims celebrating Christmas. They live and celebrate side-by-side appreciating each others cultures and embracing it. I have really never been somewhere like this… It is a beautiful mix of so many cultures and traditions. Too bad more of the world cannot be this way loving and embracing of others traditions and beliefs.

When we arrived at our hotel I took again for the 9^th day in a row the best shower of my life! We headed out to check out the town. It was Saturday night and down at the main garden along the ocean was bustling with people and about 40 vendors selling local delights. Zanzibar pizza home made soup, fresh fruit, and sugarcane juice squeezed in front of your eyes. But most impressive were the enormous tables of BBQ kabobs (of every meat and fish imaginable), Naan, yams, and banana. We ate our way around the park and stuffed ourselves for $5 USD. As we sat along the waterfront we met several people.

The thing about Tanzania is the people are so friendly you cannot walk more than a few steps without someone calling out “Jambo” (How are you) and no matter who you must slow down and reply and acknowledge there greeting. It means you talk to a lot of people in one day even if you are in a hurry or you don’t really feel like talking. But the people are so friendly and welcoming. Well ok some of the men probably just like talking to two western girls. But mostly everyone is extremely helpful and welcoming.

We have also come to realize that the “Rastas” are always a safe bet as far as people to become friends with. They believe love conquers all, they are mellow, they seem to have our back and look out for us (not that we need it here), and they make the most interesting conversations. So what do you know we met some Rastas that told us there was a “Bongo Flavor” (a style of hip hop concert) going on in the old fort. So Jamie and I headed over to the Old Fort…literally the inside of an old fort now converted to a large outdoor venue and bar. It was super fun and immediately we had an inside perspective as to nightlife in Zanzibar. Girls covered head to toe in stylish wraps and headscarves watching as scantily clad girls (even by California standards sang on stage…yet another beautiful contradiction. We listened and watched as the men danced, but as soon as I was solicited for a “love affair” we decided it was time to take off.

The next morning we wandered the winding streets with only pedestrians, petal bikes, and motorbikes. You can never get too lost because eventually a road will lead to the sea and you can find your way home. Whenever you ask for directions people raise their hand in the air (and point it in front of them even if you are headed in the opposite direction) and say oh is it 5 minutes walking and make a series of left, right, and straight forward pointing motions supposedly leading the way to your destination. We say “Ashanti San” and head the first three ways they initially pointed and then ask again. It is a community effort to get us where we are going, but always an adventure. We ended up in many old hotels with amazing woodwork. They are all mazes with beautiful shapes and staircases. It seems nothing is symmetrical and a bit haphazard, but it ends up creating a beautiful building that eventually leads to an extraordinary rooftop overlooking Stonetown. In the afternoon we heard music and joyful shouts by our hotel and wondered into the doorway community center. Outside were a group of young Muslim men dressed in their white robes caps. They excitedly told us their brother was getting married today. They said you are most welcome. Come inside and feel like it is your home. We were escorted inside to a room full of boisterous discussion, singing, and dancing. Beautiful Muslim women draped in their most colorful and finest headscarfs and rich flowing material. At least 100 were sitting on mats on the floor talking and eating while a group of young men and women were in the front singing and dancing what was apparently a traditional routine. At first we got a few stares, but then people began introducing themselves saying, “You are most welcome. What is your name? Please eat and feel like this is your home. We are happy you are here.” As we sat in the back of the room and talked to people and made faces as curious children we were handed bottles of water, gum, flavored popsicles, and kabobs. We stayed for an hour and still never saw the bride. The men left to go pray and the women stayed at the party. All I could think was wow if only this is the image of Islam more people could see. While I reject the predominate stereotype of Islam portrayed in the American media, I suddenly realized I do have an impression of Muslim believers that is dead wrong. In the back of my mind I have bought into a belief structure that Muslims are serious, oppressed, have no fun, and do not like me because I am American. And really, nothing could have been further from the truth. I only wished at that moment I could record the wedding to broadcast on Fox News or CNN and say wait America watch this. These people are joyful, embracing, accepting, and living their lives in peace. If only everyone reading this could have been there to experience it with us.

On Safari

2010-12-12T06:37:00.000-08:00

In Moshi we hooked up with a guide and found a tour that two Belgium guys had already booked. There was extra room so we joined the “Budget Safari Tour”. The highlight of the trip was Ngorongo Crater National Park. Once in the park we popped the top off of our Safari jeep and stood to watch out the roof as our car bumped along the dirt paths. As you enter the park you start at the rim of the volcano crater and drive down into the flat bottom. At the top were Massai children dressed in their traditional clothing peddling all kinds of good jewelry, swords, and photos (if you wanted to pay). It was a bit shocking, as I did not realize how commercialized/exploited the Massai have become. Since they have lost so much of their land and the dollar is king many children and adults (in addition to tending their cattle) pedal Massai goods as well as selling their face for a photo. I can’t say I blame them, I understand the reasoning it is just unfortunate this is what it has come to.

So as we descended to the crater floor and we were greeted by every kind of African animal imaginable. And more animals than I have every seen in one place at one time anywhere. It was strikingly beautiful as we were surrounded by herds of wildebeest, gazelle, zebras, and giraffes grazing in sunlit green fields, with the crater wall covered in vegetation, and the sky darkened by an approaching storm behind. We were fortunate enough to find some lions asleep on the grass right beside the dirt road. We watched them sleep and wake up from about a foot away. At one point standing looking out the roof realizing we had not closed the side window to the back seat. One of the Dutch guys dove into the car to close the window as the female lion got up to stretch and look around!

Moshi & my “new” gold cell phone

2010-12-12T06:35:00.001-08:00

The next morning we woke up at 4am with the call to prayer. Jamie and I were both trying to sleep, but when the singer went terribly off key and his voice cracked over the megaphone it was all we could do to contain our laughter. We wondered aloud do they even require that you can sing or offer any kind of lessons before you can sing into this megaphone that is broadcast across the entire town? As his belted it out louder hoping it would help him hit the ascending notes we got our answer. No you do not have to know how to sing in order to lead the call to prayer! We spent the day walking around the town enjoying the cooler mountain air and arranging out Safari for the next few days. Originally scheduled to spend the following days after the Safari shooting for an NGO we got an email the plan had changed. So we decided to make the best of our location and head to some National Parks. Before we left town I had to purchase a used Gold Nokia cell phone (old school) to replace my sciphone whose screen is shattered beyond repair during the bus ride. So now I am local. I have a Tanzanian phone number and I am rocking a gold phone if anyone wants to call my new number is 0764656744 (you will need to add the country code of Tanzania).

Dar Es Salaam

2010-12-12T06:32:00.000-08:00

Well the beginning of my trip has been quite fast paced. I met my good friend Jamie in Dar es Salaam. My plane was delayed and after essentially flying for 26 hours I got to my hotel at 5am right in time for the sunrise and call to prayer from the local mosque just down the road. The next morning we tried to sleep to give ourselves a few hours of sleep not sitting in a chair, but the heat and noises of the city would not let us. The first day was getting our bearings and making a game plan. We explored a little of Dar and decided there was not much to see. We made out plan to take the bus to a place in the North of Tanzania called Moshi, which is one of the bases for climbing Kilimanjaro. The next morning we arrived promptly for our 6am bus and at about 6:45am our “Luxury” air conditioned (the windows opened) bus arrived. We set out for what I can firmly say was one of the longest and most miserable bus rides of my life. The long and short of it. Totally jetlagged we boarded the bus to get out of the city. By 9am we were covered in sweat and soot…inside the bus. Moments after barreling down a hill and breakneck speed we pulled off to the side of the road to drop someone off. As we pulled back onto the road there was a horrible crunching noise and thud. We thought we had run over one of the fruit vendors who had been running along side the bus. After a few moments of confusion we peered under the bus and saw the entire drive shaft leading to the back tires on the ground. So grateful it had happened on the side of the road and not barreling down the road moments before where we surely would have flipped the next question was how do we get out of here. Before we knew what was really going on a local welder came to access the situation. He drove away with the drive shaft. After two miserable hours languishing in the heat of the day he returned and attached it to the bus. The rest of the ride alongside dramatic mountains that shoot out of the ground covered in vegetation was a blur. Unable to keep my eyes open I dozed in and out of lucidity. Finally at 7pm 12 hours after we started we ended up in Moshi our destination that supposedly took 7 hrs to get to. I arrived at my hotel and took one of the best showers of my life!

So what are you doing in Africa? The AirBus...

2010-12-12T06:23:00.000-08:00

The AirBus

10:24. The white truck screeched to a halt in front of the passenger bus. The bus driver flew his hands in the air and glared at me through the window. I am pretty sure he would have flipped me off if he wasn’t at work. As my belongings spilled out of the truck door on to the pavement, I hurriedly explained that I already had reservations. Umm yes, I know they were for five minutes ago, but I am here now I can I get on? The passengers glared.

I thought shit I hope this is not going to be how I come off in Africa…a disheveled white girl creating a scene everywhere. Embarrassed I thought man I can’t even get it together to catch the bus in SB how am I going to make it in Africa?

Then at the back of the bus someone called my name. “Sarah”? Surprised. No relieved. No Grateful. It was my friend Thomas who was headed to Africa as well for work. A friendly and caring soul with 20 + years working and living in Africa, in recent weeks he and his wife (Linda) have talked to me about everything from business meetings to malaria medicine to personal safety. I have dubbed them my “Africa parents”. I actually had been so busy packing and moving I had not really had time to “”freak out” about my trip. But like so many other things that have already serendipitously aligned for this trip I knew it was a great sign that we were beginning this journey together.

I would say in my younger years I attributed a lot of things to luck and chance, but as I have become older I see how everything is connected and nothing happens by chance.

Difficult to explain fully to even myself, the purpose of this journey has apparently been lost on most others. There has been a lot of conversation around my trip. People curious, others worried for me, people who told me I shouldn’t go, complete strangers calling me out of the blue to offer ominous warnings, and my ever loving and supportive (but freaked out parents) cautiously inquiring about a rough gamelan the night before my departure.

The truth is this calling to go to Africa has been plaguing me for over 10 years. This last year the calling was so strong that I felt if I ignored it any longer I would be wasting my life…not doing this thing I was supposed to go do. I am not sure what I am supposed to discover or do there, but all I can say with unwavering resolve is that I am supposed to go and it is a part of my life purpose.

By force the wheels were set in motion 3 months ago. My good friend from College had agreed to meet in Tanzania, but we had to pull the trigger of she was out. Buy the ticket and commit to a date or it is not happening. Ever since I did that little Internet transaction my life has been turned upside down. Glistening daydreams and sweating dark nightmare I have been enveloped with Africa. Trying to participate in everyday life, my boyfriend complained it is like you are in your own world. The fact is I have been. I have been perplexed with this divine purpose. At times wondering why do I want to do this again? Putting all my savings and might toward doing something I cannot really fully explain to anyone. Is it practical? No. Is it going to be profitable? Probably not in a dollars kind of way. Is it going to be life changing? Yes, but I just cannot say how.

What I do know is that the “signs” have all been there. From meeting my “Africa parents” (and all of the wonderful connections they have offered me), to an energy worker telling me my spirit guides are showing her volumes of my (yet to be published) photo stories from this trip, to by chance coming across a party for the Congo in a New York penthouse (when I was really there to go to a portfolio review on the 11^th floor). Everything has aligned.

Since that time connections have been made all around Africa with NGO’s (3 of them based in Santa Barbara), some businesses, magazines, and even a friends cousin working in the Democratic Republic of Congo. So I have come to work on some photography and multi media projects in an effort to provide non-profits with the material they need to promote their programs and fundraise. And I myself will try to begin a few documentary projects. If all goes well (and I find $7,000 in funding) my friend in the DR Congo (who is writing for Nikolas Kristoff's NYTimes blog) and I want to have a show about the women of the DR Congo at the United Nations in New York. Really I am not sure what I am going to walk away from Africa with or what I will leave there. But I trust it will be more than me leaving with some exotic parasites and Africa keeping my dollars.

As I sit on the bus in the basking in the warm glow of the California winter sun all I can think is of course Thomas (my Africa dad) is on the bus with me.

And I will take it as yet another “sign” that I am journeying down the right path.

Africa Journal Disclaimer!

2010-12-12T06:12:00.000-08:00

Greetings All!

This blog is a personal account of my journey through East Africa. I cannot guarantee that every thing I say here will be politically correct and I guarantee there are going to be grammatical errors! I want to share my experiences, but unfortunately I do not have the time to create literary masterpieces for each post. That said, if you do not mind a sometimes strong opinion and some run on sentences that would make an English professor squirm….please read on and feel free to share with your friends!

SOIL and the sanitation crisis in Port Au Prince

2010-03-10T08:53:00.000-08:00

Another detailed email about what is really happening in Haiti from my friends on the ground!

Dear friends,

I am sorry that I have been out of touch for the past several weeks. Every day is like a lifetime and at the end we just collapse into bed after a cold shower, and in the morning we sit up and look out at the camp spread before us and the whirlwind begins again. But most of us have managed to hold on to our sanity, tethering our minds to our work. As the weeks go by the city begins to look more familiar, the shattered buildings have become a part of my mindscape and there are moments when I barely notice them. People wind through the traffic jams and the streets are lined with vendors, people who have left the camps during the day to return to their old sites along the street, sitting in front of their crumbled homes selling fried food and soaps. Children run around the camps in packs and their laughter filters through my pillows.

As the weeks drag into months I remain in awe of the ways in which people maintain their dignity, I am amazed by the discipline and kindness of hungry people. I think of how hunger can affect my own mood and wonder if I would be as compassionate and full of humor if I had not eaten for days. Despite the deepest resilience there is an anger brewing, a frustration with the fact that aid is not moving fast enough and as we move into the rainy season tens of thousands of people will be stranded without tents. Haiti has struggled with poverty for centuries but it was not a nation of homeless people. Haiti was a country held together by family and community and very few adults slept on the street. Before January 12 no one would have considered camping in Port au Prince, now over a million people sleep in the streets every night, forced to lay aside their fears as they drift off to sleep in a sea of neighbors and strangers.

For nearly 2 months Nick and I slept behind Matthew 25 house in the middle of a small tent city of some of our dearest friends, volunteers and doctors, adjacent to a camp with about 1400 people sleeping in it. Every night I left my purse next to my bed, and being myself I often left it out there in the morning when I went for coffee. In 2 months I never had a single thing stolen nor felt unsafe in any way. I even became accustomed to the evangelical woman with a megaphone who begins circulating around 4:30 am. I am used to the pace of life here, the easy smiles and the tough stares, the animated arguments and voiceless interchanges, but I will never cease to be impressed with the grace of the Haitian people, even in the face of inexplicable suffering.

Time passes and we have continued with our relief efforts though our strategy is shifting. We will continue to give food and water for the coming month, but we are also beginning to focus on sanitation solutions that could help prevent the spread of disease as the situation in Port au Prince shifts from emergency to recovery. Nick and I began attending the sanitation cluster meetings during our first week in Port au Prince, to get a better sense of the various actors. Just as people never slept in the street before the earthquake, there was no active interest in sanitation in Haiti prior to Jan 12. For centuries Port au Prince’s human wastes have been dumped into the ocean, rivers and fields without treatment. Before there was no question of where our wastes were going, and now the halls of DINEPA (the government direction of portable water and sanitation) are flooded with representatives of all of the world’s big organizations, everyone clamoring to get a handle on the sanitation crisis that has been unveiled by the earthquake.

Prior to the earthquake Haiti had by far the lowest sanitation coverage in the hemisphere and heavy child mortality due to water borne disease. In a city of more than 2 million people, hundreds of thousands never had access to a toilet and were forced to go to the bathroom in plastic bags or in nearby ravines. The sanitation crisis did not come from the earthquake, the earthquake only exacerbated it, as people spilled into the streets so too did their secrets, and when you don’t have a toilet, sanitation is a secret. Now the spotlight of international attention is directed on Haiti and it is impossible to ignore the increasingly dire sanitation crisis. Given that more than half a million people are displaced, there is a need for a minimum of 10,000 toilets to safely serve a population of that size. Two months after the crisis there are less than 3000 toilets in place in the camps and many of those that have been installed may be damaged in the coming rains.

In Petionville the two main squares are now home to over 13,000 people and only 15 portable toilets. Imagine if there are 866 people per toilet and 720 minutes in the day, that would mean that for everyone to use the toilet once a day there would be less than 1 minute per person. Also at the rate the toilets are being used, they need to be emptied every day and there are currently not enough desludging trucks in Port au Prince to service all of the toilets being installed. When the toilets are emptied they are taken to a new site set up by the government which is in the middle of the city dump. To get to the site you pass through piles of burning garbage the size of football fields. Hundreds of people come to the dump every day to scavenge for pieces of metal, and firewood. At the end of the steaming garbage there are 4 pits, dug shortly after the earthquake. The sludge from the toilets is dumped into or near the puts where it is mixed with all kinds of garbage and medical wastes. Now only 1 month after the holes were dug they are full and every day the amount of human wastes coming out of the camps is increasing.

SOIL is a small organization and we do not have the capacity to make an impact in terms of number of toilets, but we are innovative and we are planning on being in Haiti for the long haul. So we have chosen to focus our efforts on piloting ecological technologies and helping as best we can to coordinate between other large agencies to increase the efficiency and cultural appropriateness of service delivery. This week we began a project in collaboration with OXFAM – GB to construct 50 urine diversion toilets, 100 arborloos and construct a pilot composting site for Port au Prince. We will be working on this project for the next 6 months while continuing to move forward with our sanitation work in the north. We hope that our pilot work and our dedicated networking will help to create sustainable sanitation systems in Haiti. We are committed to breaking the cycle of disease that happens when people come in contact with untreated human wastes by rebuilding the nutrient cycle. By recycling human wastes through composting, the pathogens die off and the nutrients can be reused to enhance agriculture and feed people, breaking the disease cycle and closing nutrient cycle.

With the rainy season just weeks away, organizations focusing on health in the camps have warned of large-scale risk for outbreak of diarrhea due to the high density of the camps, the lack of proper waste management services, and poor sanitation services. The pace of aid is slow and the level of dissatisfaction is understandably growing. Sometimes frustration washes through me and I remember what Rea always says to me “se’m pa janm dekouraje” which translates to “my sister never give up”. If Rea can stand strong and keep fighting, fiercely moving through the dust of the crumbled buildings, then surely we can all find the strength to keep moving forward.

The rain began to fall a few days ago and I could feel the city shudder. As the rubble runs down the main streets and the latrines fill we feel even more committed to our work. I drift off to sleep at night, willing my heart to slow after the madness of the day, before I sleep it returns to the rhythm that reminds me that there is nowhere in the world I would rather be. Many organizations filled with good hearted people will come and go, restricted by security rules and short term contracts, but SOIL will stay and we will do our best to be the glue that holds together all of the incredible souls, Haitian and international, who are working for reconstruction and a sustainable future.

To maintain our immediate relief and sustainable sanitation work we need your support. Everyone has been so generous and I know how difficult times are for all of us. We ask you to continue to supporting our work on any level that you are able. Your love and donations can make a difference.

With love from Port au Prince,
Sasha

You can donate online at www.oursoil.org or send a check made out to SOIL to SOIL, 124 Church Rd., Sherburne, NY 13460.

Wish list:
1. Laptop computers (we now have a new office and new employees so we are in desperate need of working laptops that can hold charge and connect to the internet.
2. Digital cameras (as our team spreads out it becomes more and more important that everyone in the group can document their work through photos so that we can share it with you).
3. Tents (tents are impossible to get right now in Haiti but if you have a link for a way to get cheap waterproof tents you can send them to Miami and we will find a way to get them to Haiti)
4. USB keys (we need to get them for all of our employees and some of our grassroots partners so that we are able to share documents easily).
5. Rechargeable AA batteries and charger
6. Cordless drill (need several, one for Cap one for PAP)
7. Backpacks (need some good travellin’ backpacks as our team is going back and forth between Cap Haitien and Port au Prince)
8. Video camera (need a flip camera for Cap Haitien to document work in the north)
9. Little moleskin notebooks (oddly invaluable)
10. A Daihatsu truck for moving compost in Port au Prince. We need to raise $25,000 to get the poop-mobile… can you help?

We also welcome other material donations such as medicines, shoes and clothing, but given the tremendous logistical challenges of getting supplies shipped into the country, we ask that you organize a way to get the supplies to Haiti and we will be more than happy to help distribute them. We prefer, whenever possible to buy all of our aid supplies in Haiti through donations, thereby supporting the local economy, but there are some things, such as those on the list above, that cannot be found here. If you can send any of the items on this wish list please let me know so I can have a sense of what I need to keep looking for. Any material donations from the list should be mailed in the next week (if possible) to the following address:

Sasha Kramer
c/o Kefryn Reese
1429 SW 15th Street
Miami, FL 33405

On the good news front, our dear friend, founding member of SOL and dedicated colleague Rea Dol was featured on the New York Times website this weekend. Please have a look and learn more about one of the most amazing women I have had the honor to meet in Haiti.
http://video.nytimes.com/video/2010/03/06/world/americas/1247467192053/the-mother-figure-of-morne-lazarre.html

Live from PAP: Fear slows relief efforts

2010-01-25T09:43:00.000-08:00

Another amazing letter from my friend in PAP, Haiti

January 22, 2010

To our dear friends and supporters who have been so present through this difficult time. I feel like I have a wall of love and protection around me knowing that you are all holding Haiti in your thoughts and prayers. I apologize for not having written for the past few days, it is partly that life here is so hectic and fast paced and partly because I find that writing about the situation brings all my emotions to the surface and brings me to a vulnerable space that can be rather overwhelming. That said, I so want to be able to share with all of you what we are experiencing and the important difference we have been able to make as a result of your generosity.

When I first arrived in Port au Prince I spent a day at the UN compound by the airport where NGO’s, doctors and soldiers swarm around talking on satellite phones and running from meeting to meeting. I learned about the massive amounts of food aid that arrived in the first week and was stockpiled at the airport. I learned of the aid trucks filled to the brim with supplies blocked at the border and sitting idle at the ports. Since that day I have not returned to the aid compound and chosen instead to go into the streets, into the camps where people hide from the sun, huddled together under tattered tarps waiting for the food that has yet to come, into the alleyways littered with the rubble of fallen dreams and the spirits of those we have lost.

I know that some of these stories of aid not reaching the victims are beginning to filter into the international media but I wanted to see if I can shed some light about why this is without casting blame. Everyone who has come here is devastated by this disaster, everyone wants to help but the slowness in distribution is not a question of intentions, it is a question of long standing fears and the security structures put in place in response to these fears.

A few days ago I got an email from Nicolas Kristof of the New York Times asking me to comment on the supposition made by many (not Nicolas himself) that Haitians have received large amounts of aid money over the years and have somehow squandered it. I responded to him by talking about fear, this same fear that is slowing the distribution of aid during this crisis. For centuries Haiti has been portrayed as a dangerous country filled with volatile and threatening people, unsafe for foreigners. This supposition, this fear and misunderstanding, has very deep implications for foreign aid and cross cultural understanding.

I have been amazed to visit friends working with large NGO’s in Port au Prince only to learn that they are forced to operate under security restrictions that prevent any kind of real connections to Haitian communities. One friend showed me the map, used by all of the larger NGOs where Port au Prince is divided into security zones, yellow, orange, red. Red zones are restricted, in the orange zones all of the car windows must be rolled up and they cannot be visited past certain times of day, even in the yellow zones aid workers are often not permitted to walk through the streets and spend much of their time in Haiti riding through the city from one office to another in organizational vehicles.
The creation of these security zones has been like the building of a wall, a wall reinforced by language barriers and fear rather than iron rods, a wall that, unlike many of the buildings in Port au Prince, did not crumble during the earthquake. Fear, much like violence, is self perpetuating. When aid workers enter communities radiating fear it is offensive, the perceived disinterest in communicating with the poor majority is offensive, driving through impoverished communities with windows rolled up and armed security guards is offensive and, ironically, all of these extra security measures actually increase the level of risk for aid workers.

As I said, this wall of fear is not a new phenomenon and it has had very serious implications for the distribution of the millions of dollars of aid that have been flowing into the country for the past 10 days. Despite the good intentions of the many aid workers swarming around the UN base, much of the aid coming through the larger organizations is still blocked in storage, waiting for the required UN and US military escorts that are seen as essential for distribution, meanwhile people in the camps are suffering and their tolerance is waning.

Over the past 5 days I have been grateful to work with a small organization unhindered by bureaucracy and security restrictions. I am so thankful to work with a courageous team of Haitian community leaders and a respectful and fearless group of Americans. Thanks to the generous donations of our supporters SOIL has raised approximately $30,000 for immediate relief efforts and we are committed to providing that relief as quickly as we can get the money into the country. The most striking thing I have noticed while visiting the many camps throughout the city is the level of organization and ingenuity among the displaced communities. Community members stand ready to distribute food and water to their neighbors, they are prepared to provide first aid and assist with clean up efforts, all that they are lacking is the financial means to do so. When the quake struck people’s savings were buried under the rubble of their former homes, banks are closed and no one has been able to access their accounts. Food and water are available for sale in the streets but no one is able to purchase them.

Our hope is that SOIL, AIDG and other small organizations will be able to help provide communities with the means to meet their needs in the immediate aftermath of the disaster, bridging the gap during the time it takes for the larger organizations to mobilize. I am honored to know a network of brave community leaders throughout Port au Prince whom I met during my human rights work from 2004-2006 and our team has spent the past several days visiting the camps with them and helping to distribute the resources that we have at our disposal. Each day we have been purchasing water trucks to deliver to camps that have yet to receive water, giving money to community organizers who are then able to purchase food from local businesses and distribute it to the areas most in need, bringing doctors and medical supplies into zones of the city that have none, providing our generator to community cyber cafes so that people are able to contact their families, driving patients from the camps to medical clinics that can receive them.

The magnitude of this tragedy is unimaginable and we are aware of our limitations and our inability to help touch more than a small percentage of those affected. While it breaks my heart to think about those we cannot help, it also fills me with hope to see the impact that we have been able to make. Each day I am awed and humbled by the dedication and compassion of my colleagues, both Haitian and international and touched by the outpouring of love and support that we have received from around the world. Please keep your love and donations flowing and we will do everything in our power to funnel that love and aid to the communities that need it the most.

With love from Port au Prince,
Sasha

Acknowledgements:

I want to take a moment to identify some of my committed colleagues who have been invaluable partners during this crisis. Thank you first to the dedicated staff and coordinators of Matthew 25, especially Sister Mary, Patrick and Vivian, who have graciously received us in their home and taken incredible care of us. Thank you to Cat Laine and Peter Haas of AIDG who have been our closest partners in this effort, Ellie Happel and Roberto Francois who came to Port au Prince several days after the quake to lend a hand, Amber Munger and Melinda Miles who have been tirelessly coordinating among the smaller NGO’s to develop a coalition, Nick Preneta and Jessica Lozier who left their jobs in the US to return to Haiti to help SOIL and AIDG with our relief efforts, Leah Nevada Page and Michael who flew in from Spain 30 hours after the quake to lend a hand. Thank you always to the SOL team (Josapha Augustin, Baudeler Magloire, Eveline Augustin, Marc Orel, Rosie Joseph, Erinol Frederick, Francius Estimable Dauphin, Nica Lagredel, Paul Christian Namphy, Wisnel Jolissaint, and Nadine Mondestin) for their guidance and hard work, I thank the SOIL team back home (Sarah Brownell, Kevin Foos, Moira Duvernay, Ashley Dahlberg and Jennifer Benordan) for their love and advice. Thank you to Rosemond Jolissaint who will be leaving for the US for a fundraising tour in the coming days, and thanks to our colleagues who are organizing his tour: Jimmy Felter (DC), Erica Simon (NYC), Jennifer Benordan (SF) and Barry Kramer (LA). Thank you to the wonderful students who have visited us in Haiti over the years and are now providing support in every way possible from organizing fundraisers to sending out emails to our list (Ann Marie, thank you!). Thank you to Peggy and Phillip of Caribbean Express who have been helping us to get money into the country through their airline. Thank you to my mother who has been helping to respond to my important emails and working to get money and support through to us, and of course the rest of my family who always hold me in their hearts. And most of all thank you to our grassroots partners in Port au Prince without whom we could never do this work: Rea and Dodo Dol, Paul Loulou Chery, Guinette Apolon, Lisius Orel, Fritz Pierre, Daniel Tillias, Jean Ristil Jean Baptiste, Lavarice Gaudin, and the members of AVJ.

And my deepest gratitude to you, our international supporters, we love you so much.

For more information on see Democracy Now’s recent coverage at www.democracy now.org. To follow our updates please join the SOIL group on Facebook and encourage others to join as well. You can donate online at www.oursoil.org and follow our blog on the webpage as well.

Kouraj cherie: Update from Port au Prince

2010-01-19T10:12:00.001-08:00

Kouraj cherie: Update from Port au Prince

January 19, 2010

This afternoon, feeling helpless, we decided to take a van down to Champs Mars (the area around the palace) to look for people needing medical care to bring to Matthew 25, the guesthouse where we are staying which has been transformed into a field hospital. Since we arrived in Port au Prince everyone has told us that you cannot go into the area around the palace because of violence and insecurity. I was in awe as we walked into downtown, among the flattened buildings , in the shadow of the fallen palace, amongst the swarms of displaced people there was calm and solidarity. We wound our way through the camp asking for injured people who needed to get to the hospital. Despite everyone telling us that as soon as we did this we would be mobbed by people, I was amazed as we approached each tent people gently pointed us towards their neighbors, guiding us to those who were suffering the most. We picked up 5 badly injured people and drove towards an area where Ellie and Berto had passed a woman earlier. When they saw her she was lying on the side of the road with a broken leg screaming for help, as they were on foot they could not help her at the time so we went back to try to find her. Incredibly we found her relatively quickly at the top of a hill of shattered houses. The sun was setting and the community helped to carry her down the hill on a refrigerator door, tough looking guys smiled in our direction calling out “bonswa Cherie” and “kouraj”.

When we got back to Matthew 25 it was dark and we carried the patients back into the soccer field/tent village/hospital where the team of doctors had been working tirelessly all day. Although they had officially closed down for the evening, they agreed to see the patients we had brought. Once our patients were settled in we came back into the house to find the doctors amputating a foot on the dining room table. The patient lay calmly, awake but far away under the fog of ketamine. Half way through the surgery we heard a clamor outside and ran out to see what it was. A large yellow truck was parked in front of the gate and rapidly unloading hundreds of bags of food over our fence, the hungry crowd had already begun to gather and in the dark it was hard to decide how to best distribute the food. Knowing that we could not sleep in the house with all of this food and so many starving people in the neighborhood, our friend Amber (who is experienced in food distribution) snapped into action and began to get everyone in the crowd into a line that stretched down the road. We braced ourselves for the fighting that we had heard would come but in a miraculous display of restraint and compassion people lined up to get the food and one by one the bags were handed out without a single serious incident.

During the food distribution the doctors called to see if anyone could help to bury the amputated leg in the backyard. As I have no experience with food distribution I offered to help with the leg. I went into the back with Ellie and Berto and we dug a hole and placed the leg in it, covering it with soil and cement rubble. By the time we got back into the house the food had all been distributed and the patient Anderson was waking up. The doctors asked for a translator so I went and sat by his stretcher explaining to him that the surgery had gone well and he was going to live. His family had gone home so he was alone so Ellie and I took turns sitting with him as he came out from under the drugs. I sat and talked to Anderson for hours as he drifted in and out of consciousness. At one point one of the Haitian men working at the hospital came in and leaned over Anderson and said to him in kreyol “listen man even if your family could not be here tonight we want you to know that everyone here loves you, we are all your brothers and sisters”. Cat and I have barely shed a tear through all of this, the sky could fall and we would not bat an eye, but when I told her this story this morning the tears just began rolling down her face, as they are mine as I am writing this. Sometimes it is the kindness and not the horror that can break the numbness that we are all lost in right now.

So, don’t believe Anderson Cooper when he says that Haiti is a hotbed for violence and riots, it is just not the case. In the darkest of times, Haiti has proven to be a country of brave, resilient and kind people and it is that behavior that is far more prevalent than the isolated incidents of violence. Please pass this on to as many people as you can so that they can see the light of Haiti, cutting through the darkness, the light that will heal this nation.

We are safe. We love you all and I will write again when I can. Thank you for your generosity and compassion.

With love from Port au Prince,
Sasha

Haiti Slideshow

2010-01-17T11:17:00.000-08:00

Hi All!

Check out the Haiti slideshow on my site - www.sarahfretwell.com > (menu item) haiti.

Please repost it to your facebook page now to help others learn more about Haiti.

Also, for live updates from Haiti check my facebook page (www.facebook.com/sarahfretwellphotography).

Haiti

2010-01-16T22:31:00.000-08:00

Well it has been three days and the devastation of what has
happened Haiti is beginning to sink in.

I have been in touch with a few people we met while working with some non-profits there last December, but I have been unable to contact many people we met during our trip there.

While many people are getting their news from CNN, I wanted
to share what I feel is an invaluable perspective about what is actually going on in Haiti. Please listen to listen to this Democracy Now broadcast it will shed a lot of light as to how Haiti has gotten to this point.

Link - http://www.democracynow.org
(Friday January, 15th, 2010 broadcast)

Unfortunately, on a good day Haiti is a country where most
people do not have access to food and clean water, there is little to no
sanitation, the electricity (where they have it) works intermittently, and most of the buildings were already falling down! Worst of all US foreign policy has greatly contributed to the current political and economic state of Haiti.

I am sure that post earthquake the situation there is
comparable to the worst refugee/war zone in the world right now.

If you want to help by donating please donate to one of the
following organizations, as there are only a few NGO’s who can guarantee the aid will actually reach the people who need it instead of lining the pockets of the Haitian elite.

http://www.oursoil.org

http://www.standwithhaiti.org/haiti (Partners in Health /Paul Farmer)

http://www.yele.org
http://www.beyondborders.net/index.php

Yoga Anyone?

2009-11-12T13:12:00.000-08:00

Yoga anyone?

Check out some of my favorites from a shoot with a Santa Barbara based yoga instructor Kelsea Dior Wilder. She is an amazing yoga instructor and very photogenic as well! We had a lot of fun and completely exhausted ourselves.

Day of Action - 350 - Huffington Post

2009-10-26T11:20:00.000-07:00

On Saturday people around the world came together in a global day of action to call on global leaders to finding working solution to combat climate change. The main organizing group for this global action is 350.org (visit their site to learn more). Here in Santa Barbara I teamed up the the Environmental Affairs Board at UCSB to photograph their paddle out. The initial plan was for a group of approximately 50 people kayak out to platform Holly (one of the oil rigs off of our coastline) and hold up their signs. Once the kayakers were in position, I was going to take ariel photos from an airplane (of course we they were also planning to offset the carbon emissions resulting from the plane ride). However, a huge fog bank with about five feet of visibility changed our plan dramatically and left me stranded on the shore. Below are some of the images we captured when they finally made it back to the beach. Check out the image in the Huffington Post! http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/10/26/350s-international-day-of_n_333592.html?slidenumber=uj%2F3vYtE4qY%3D#slide_image

How will you combat climate change?

2009-10-20T18:51:00.000-07:00

Here are some excerpts from the Ad Campaign for the Community Environmental Council. We photographed it at their annual Gala this past week. CEC's goal is to make Santa Barbara "Fossil Free by '33".

New Born On Earth Website & Brochure

2009-10-01T14:43:00.000-07:00

Check out the new website and promotional material (photographed by yours truly) at www.bornonearthkids.com!

Skyline Trail - Mt.Rainier

2009-10-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

Sunset after an epic summer day at Pacific City.

2009-10-01T14:11:00.000-07:00

Had am amazing time visiting friends and family in Oregon. Here are some outtakes from our trip up north!

sarah fretwell photographs

The DRC's Mineral Curse - You can help end it!

The “Alpha Job Hotel”

Shifting my Paradigm

When I grow up I want to be _______________.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part II

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part I

The Bush

COPERMA

Obama and a sewing machine - Part II

Obama and a sewing machine - Part I

The Village Elections

Detained (A.K.A Mom and Dad do not read this until I get home J)

Girl Mother

Motorcycle Meditation

Merry Christmas from the DR Congo!

Testify

The Democratic Republic of Congo

Kampala, Uganda

“You Like Have Baby [On] Pemba?”

Off the Beaten Track

Physics of a Dalla Dalla

How to kick a coffee habit in 30 seconds

The Queens of Seaweed

Walking Cash Machine

Almost Paradise?

Rerouted to Zanzibar...

On Safari

Moshi & my “new” gold cell phone

Dar Es Salaam

So what are you doing in Africa? The AirBus...

Africa Journal Disclaimer!

SOIL and the sanitation crisis in Port Au Prince

Live from PAP: Fear slows relief efforts

Kouraj cherie: Update from Port au Prince

Haiti Slideshow

Haiti

Well it has been three days and the devastation of what hashappened Haiti is beginning to sink in.

Yoga Anyone?

Yoga anyone?

Check out some of my favorites from a shoot with a Santa Barbara based yoga instructor Kelsea Dior Wilder. She is an amazing yoga instructor and very photogenic as well! We had a lot of fun and completely exhausted ourselves.

Day of Action - 350 - Huffington Post

How will you combat climate change?

New Born On Earth Website & Brochure

Skyline Trail - Mt.Rainier

Sunset after an epic summer day at Pacific City.

Well it has been three days and the devastation of what has
happened Haiti is beginning to sink in.