Dukoral … I just took my first dose. This is supposed to help prevent all kinds of intestinal parasitic problems, I hope so. I leave for DRCongo in about 10 days. This time I head to Uvira, up in the remote areas. I have been at the back end of nowhere the last few times, but Uvira is supposed to be really, really out there – I am curious to see what people in Bukavu think of as really remote.
I woke to frost this December morning. The view from my office window, is across the inlet towards the Lions and Grouse Mountain, The peaks are dusted in snow and although I can’t quite make out if there are people on the ski hill, it is only a matter of time…
Nov 09 marked the end of a highly successful food aid response to 21 000 of the most vulnerable people in the war-affected areas of eastern DR Congo.
If you have read any of my previous posts on the subject, you have already heard of my first of three visits to the region, during a visit into Nindja, we spent 8 hours on the road. That got us to and from a one-and-a-half hour meeting. The total distance we travelled was probably about 269 kilometers - 130 km each way, and about 9 in climbing in and out of potholes.
During our drive to the community, at first we passed other four-by-fours, large transport trucks with crowds seated on top of the mass of products, and small Toyotas with the suspension about to burst. Eventually the vehicles dwindled down to the occasional motorcycle, until finally we met no other car on the road, no one passed by, except on foot. Later we discovered that we were the fourth vehicle into the region that year.
We passed some of the most beautiful country in the world, gentle mountains, lush and green, gave way to groves of banana, tea, pine and countless small farms. The hillsides were alive with countless women, men and children, each hard at work with worn shovels and smoothed hoes. The observable evidence of a return to normal cultivation is on the rise.
Still, the problems of DR Congo are significant; Continue reading »
I just returned from a trip to the DR Congo and Kenya a few days ago. While in the airport I picked up the book ‘Blood River’ by Tim Butcher. This is an account of his trip across Congo following in the footsteps of Stanley (of ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume’ fame) This is a great book to describe the terrible and incredible history of one of Africa’s richest and poorest nations. I recognized many of the places in the narrative, and even wondered if some of the people he was referring to, are people that I also know … In any case, definitely recommended reading for anyone interested in Congo
Short-Term Missions teams often get the benefit of preparation, Long-Term people have to go through a process, but our Mid-Term Missionaries (individuals who participate in international work for 2 months to 2 years) often fall through the gaps in the process.
I recently developed a new process to bring them to the field in the best possible way, as well as developed the new teaching material for the process.
The PAOC (Canada’s largest evangelical denomination) has recently picked it up as the way that they are sending all of their future mid-termers. My colleague Matt Janes and I are presently working with a number of people who have begun the process (close to 30 people at one stage or another – from initial interest to complete training).
If you are interested in Mid-Term Missions (Individuals, not teams, that plan to engage in international work for 2-24 months) … Check out the MTM link at the top of the page!
Mark Crocker
On Monday I was on the road for about 8 hours. that got us to and from a one-and-a-half hour meeting, the total distance we travelled was probably about 209 kilometres - 200 in actual distance, and about 9 in climbing in and out of potholes.
>Along the way, we passed some of the most beautiful country in the world, gentle mountains, lush and green, gave way to groves of banana, tea, pine and countless small farms. Most clung to the hillside, at times on a double black diamond slope, women, men and children advancing slowly with worn shovels and smoothed hoes.
The road was appropriately abominable, barely wide enough for us in parts, and deeply rutted with constantly eroding gullies. Our way forward was bound by other four-by-fours, large transport trucks with the appropriate African cliche of crowds seated on top to cover the mass of products, small Toyotas with the suspension about to burst, motorcycles of all kinds, and of course people. Thousands and tens of thousands of people.
Today was market day, so everyone was out in full force. The merchants and craftsmen carried their finished products along the long roads. A carpenter walked along with the carefully balanced wooden framework for the couch on his head.
African heads, protected by a twist of cloth, are used to carry almost anything you can imagine. They balance the large plastic water cans to and from home, children are often the ones sent running down to the well, to slowly and carefully picking their way home along the roadside, yellow jerry cans balanced high. For everyone else, the black plastic bag full of the days shopping, countless bundles of firewood, long long lengths of lumber and bamboo, an unopened umbrella ready for the rain, ruddy woven baskets, trays of tiny fish, each sway perfectly balanced, atop men and women as they walk the red dust. Even briefcases, suitcases and backpacks are commonly found on top rather than on the back of a pedestrian. In town, the budding entrepreneur places the metal pailful of coke and orange fanta bottles on his head, using the rhythmically ringing of the glass with a bit of stone or metal to advertise, although not quite the same as an ice-cream truck, it is as musical.
The number of objects that can be carried on your head is exponentially higher in Africa than home. In fact, after a lifetime, I can’t think of anything that we carry on our heads in Canada. I suppose earmuffs and toques do not really count as they are not something you are carrying but are rather wearing. Other than that, I think that leaves only headphones – the old-school kind, not the more prevalent ipod buds – that we might carry on our head. But, even here i hesitate, I think we would say we wear headphones rather than carry them, what do you think?
Mark Crocker
Rwanda is green and clean, a marked difference from the yesterday’s serving of Kenyan diesel and red dust. You are either walking up or down, as the nation is made up of a collection of hills, not quite mountainous, and yet more than the foothills of the Rockies.
Most peoples first thoughts of Rwanda must be of the genocide, particularly for Canadians who have listened to General Dallaire’s memories of his time here during the 100 days. I suppose this is why my first stop today was at the genocide museum. Situated on the side of a hill (like all buildings in Rwanda), the museum walked us through the history of the divide created between Hutu’s and Tutsi’s. People formally known for their integration, were actively reruited by foreign government policy and interference to discover that which divided them. Measurements of noses, and the amount of cattle were the defining differences. With that, the minority Tutsi were elevated and the remaining 82% Hutu and 1%Twa were relegated to secondary citizenship.
Eventually the majority revolted, a new system of discrimination was instituted to replace the old. The radio called for the cockroaches to be exterminated – dehumanizing the Tutsi. Militias were trained, they practiced on smaller groups, killing a few dozen here, a hundred or so there. Eventually you get good at what you practice, you don’t even need to think about it anymore. The new 10 commandments of the Hutu were developed and promoted in 1990. 1. No Hutu should marry a Tutsi. Then nine more of the same. This document seems strange to me, it resonates much more strongly than similar lists. If I had first seen this list of rules in Auschwitz, I wouldn’t of blinked – the Nazi atrocities are so well known that it is easy to simply consign them to evil in the abstract. I can’t do this as easily with this document, it feels to immediate, too modern – I can’t ignore it as ancient since it was written so recently,
The video showed men, women and so many children brutalized and burnt. the trace of a bullet across a child’s face, the grainy swarming and hacking death of men by neighbors who carried the machetes. Yesterday, they had fed one anothers children, today they cut off their fingers.
After walking past the images, we heard the voices of survivors, wondering why they are still here? Guilty somehow, as only a victim can comprehend.
The footage of the Gacaca, the traditional community court, is so unpretentious. A man in a pink shirt stands and faces the community. He recounts his story, of who and where he cut his neighbors daughters with his knife, he tells the names and is asked to slow so the official record-keeper can write everything down. He speaks so matter-of-factly, listing the others who were with him, the people he collected, what they did. The community listens, it seems to me impassively, perhaps the horror has been so common, too common. Perhaps the silence is simply the best response to the unasked questions why? Maybe they have learned that you cannot ask why, there is no rational reason. Is evil rational?
The wall of photographs only carries the images of 2000 people, of the more than 1 000 000 who died. It seems a pitiful percentage, and yet their faces fill four walls. They are similar in their commonality, these are not the mugshots of bureaucracy, not the efficient record of a system recording the inputs of the machinery of death such as Cambodian memorial walls. Instead these are photo plucked from the albums of everyday life. Young men standing outside a shop, a crate of bottles in the foreground. A woman, obviously cropped from her wedding photo, the dislocated arm of her husband encircling her waist. People smiling, posed and unposed, unaware that they were all soon to be images on a memorial of murder.
I pass through the children’ memorial garden and read their bewildered questions, we head towards the car, and as I am about to walk away, a final small wooden sculpture is revealed, the simple caption, “I did not make myself an orphan”
Mark Crocker
I am heading out to the DRC this weekend, with a stop in Rwanda on the way in, as well as a trip to teach in Edmonton on the way back home. While there, I am looking forward to helping build capacity for an ERDO project with CFGB and CIDA funding for a variety of program participants including OVC’s and IDP’s. In case you were wondering, the FBO or NGO we are working with is CEPAC.
Today I was on the CDC site to check out what vaccines I might need to catch up on. If you are a traveler, you should know the CDC site is a great resource, in fact i am adding it to my site now. check it out.
So … how many of the above acronyms were you able to translate? Send me a reply with your answers, i would love to hear from you. Get them right, and I will send you a dozen more to translate … Get them wrong, and you get the same prize!
Mark Crocker
Out of site and out of mind … that is what happens when you get out of the habit of updating on a semi-regular basis. Then you look at the date of your last post, and the time seems to stretch further and further away! Anyways, this last while has been a fun rollercoaster.
When last I wrote I was on my way to Calgary for Christmas, and a wonderful Christmassy time was had by all. It was good to reconnect with family and friends, Supriya and I were grateful that the Delport’s invited us to stay at there place while they hung out at their BC cabin (IE country property). Most of the O’Keefe clan was in Calgary, and we travelled back and forth between the ‘Ranch’ (or Pop’s place) and Supriya’s sisters home.
Soon after we were on our way for a vacation, we first flew to Amsterdam, then after a day or two in Den Haag (where we did not check out any war crimes tribunals) we found a good deal with a travel agent and flew over to North Africa. We stayed on a beach, relaxing and also wandering around the communities, meeting people, bargaining in the souk, and eating great food. On one day we rented a car and headed into the hills for a gorgeous drive, we stopped in a village and mimed that we were hungry and soon a kind older gentleman had us seated in a small dirty tea shop, where we were served one of the best meals of the trip. All-in-all, it was a very low-key, completely relaxing time. Continue reading »
everything went offline for most of the day … but now I am back!
Simply an upgrade issue
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