Georgianne Nienaber Author Photographer

Peripheral Vision

 

A while back I wrote about the woman I met along the road in Rwanda who stopped to offer a blessing to me. Both of us strangers to each other. I was puzzled until I learned that elder women traditionally offer a blessing to travelers. That encounter seemed to open a floodgate of blessings, because from that day on, whenever I took a walk alone, whether to the market, to the fishing harbor, or just a casual stroll down the street, the same thing would happen. An older woman would notice me and come over to offer a blessing in Kinyarwanda. In these instances, I would understand the intent and by a smile or nod of the head could communicate my thanks. It was a one-way communication, since I had little to offer in return, or so I thought.

On my second to last night staying in a small, out of the way hotel wonderfully named “Paradis,” I decided to take what would be a final walk down to the harbor to watch the fishermen paddle their boats into the setting sun to catch Tilapia and a tiny minnow that is sold in every market and offered fried like smelt in some restaurants. If I remember right, it is called the Lake Rukwa minnow.

 

I know this seems like a tangential diversion, but as I think about it, the importance of Lake Kivu in my little story becomes apparent. Lake Kivu is one of the African Great Lakes. Its orientation on the border between the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Rwanda suddenly has meaning as I recount the story of the traveler blessing. I was walking along the Congo/Nile Divide, on the Albertine Rift in the Great Rift Valley; the western branch of the East African Rift. Lake Kivu flows south into the Ruzizi River, and eventually into Lake Tanganyika. Nearby is the source of the Nile River, which flows north to Egypt.

It seems that most countries bordering great rivers, lakes and mountains here are in conflict with each other because of differences that stem mainly from tradition and language. This is not their doing. For thousands of years, these peoples lived mostly in harmony with their neighbors, conducted commerce and respected natural land and water boundaries. In the 1800s, Europeans discovered the riches to be found here, drew artificial lines on maps, renamed countries and divided the spoils amongst themselves. Suddenly tribes found themselves separated from family and tradition and language and bound by maps to alien cultures. This led to genocide and persecution that continues today. 

 

The Rift Valley is aptly named. The chain chain of volcanoes that dominate and divide this region are far less threatening than the governments that rule the ironically named "United Nations."

As I took my evening walk down a street parallel to the Congo/Nile Divide, I had what would turn out to be my last encounter with a blessing. An elder passed me, and as she walked, I could see her evaluating me with her eyes. At first she passed, and then in an instant, before she was out of peripheral vision, she turned. I did the same.

Immediately the familiar flood of words in Kinyarwanda reached my ears. She held my hands in hers for a long time and kept speaking. I nodded and smiled, but this was not enough. Her hands moved to my shoulders and she became more insistent and a few people stopped to watch, this, what must have seemed an odd encounter between two cultures.

The woman was asking me for something. This much was clear. It was not money. I had nothing to offer her in her language and my mind raced to find some way to thank her. My African friends teased me about this later, but I reached for the only universal language I knew and blessed her by making the sign of the cross over her. Her face lit up like a million stars and she knew that I was offering God’s blessing to her for her kindness. The woman grabbed my hands once more, picked up her walking stick, and went on her way.

It happened that I did have something to offer, but it was much bigger than myself.

I am not a very religious person. I don’t go to church at all anymore, but my religious upbringing has morphed into a spiritual awareness. I make mistakes all of the time, some of them monumental, and am not by any means walking the perfect path on this planet.

But, as I spent time deeply involved in the people who populate my life in central Africa and understand more and more what has caused the fighting, betrayals and killings as brother turned against brother, only one solution comes to mind.

There needs to be leaders who can simply do the right thing and return people to their homelands and bless the people under their governance. I despair that this can happen because human greed is ruling this part of the world, and of course, others as well.

Lines on maps drawn by Europeans who still hold Africa in their greedy grips should be abolished. Countries that offer to build roads and then stop the road when they find gold and diamonds and use the road they just built to haul the treasure away from the people who own the rights should be banished behind the lines on maps.

I became very close to a group of these displaced people. Their name is the Banyamulenge and you can read about their recent history here. 

They have asked me to help them, but the only thing I can think of is to raise awareness with my friends and people who might read this. They need our blessing.

Right now, it is all I have. But I will not turn and walk away. They are in my peripheral vision forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Matter of the Mind

An Anishinaabe preacher mentioned to me that I was fortunate to be walking on sacred ground. This was shortly before I began a trek to visit the Ntambara Group of Mountain Gorillas here in Rwanda. We would eventually climb to over 3200 meters (over 10,000 feet) in a very steep climb on Mount Visoke. Part of the trail would traverse the same path that Dian Fossey wore in the African soil after she became fascinated with gorillas during a trip to Africa in 1963. Scraping by with research grants from Louis Leakey and National Geographic Magazine, Fossey studied the endangered gorillas of the Virunga forests for over twenty years before her still unsolved murder in 1985. The trail we walked branches off to her research station, Karisoke, where she was murdered.

Sacred ground.

My preacher friend reminded me that to truly embrace the sacred, one must suffer, sacrifice, leave the comfort zone, endure, or experience all. 

Irony ruled in the realization that what I was worried about, an inability to push my body at altitude, did not occur. I had plenty of air, but found myself struggling mightily against sucking mud that threatened to swallow my feet in the mire. I cannot adequately describe the strength of will it took to push on through the mud that resulted from Fossey’s old trail, which was now further worn into the mountainside by the tens of thousands of animals which have since claimed it as their own.

I could not have made it without the sure hands of my porter who would grab me before a slippery fall. At one of the worst parts of the climb, I was able for a few moments to take my eyes off of my feet long enough to see the group of people ahead of me. We were two Brits, two Australians, two Americans, and my friend Alex. Joining each of us, hand in hand, was an African Porter, guarding against treacherous falls. It reminded me of what Fossey said about her African anti-poaching patrols. She called them “The backbone of Karisoke.” 

These Rwandans strengthened my spine and made my journey possible. 

 

After hours of slogging and climbing higher and higher, I found it was not at all a question of “mind over matter.” What mattered most was where the mind wanted to take me. I could focus on failure or literally take one step at a time, while trying to clear my mind of all conscious thought. It became a meditation. A very necessary meditation, or I could not have made it. I could not think of the goal of the gorillas, for fear of failure to reach them. I could not think of Fossey without remembering that in her later days (in her fifties), she required an oxygen tank due to her emphysema. I could not focus on my own age (older than Fossey) without serious doubt in my abilities. 

One foot in front of the other. 

One foot in front of the other.

After reaching the gorillas, time and fatigue melted away for an hour of privilege. It was an open-air cathedral of shared time with complete innocence in the form of beings that shared human countenance but not human malevolence.

I experienced it all and am grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crashing Into Culture Shock

It is 5 AM at the Paradis Hotel in Gisenyi. I can hear singing coming across Lake Kivu and fruit bats are whizzing past the light on my door. The water is not twenty feet away from my little hut and the light from my computer screen is brighter than the one bulb hanging from the ceiling and just outside my mosquito netting. Culture shock hit me in a big way yesterday as we bounced along a dirt path for three hours on the way from Kibuye to Gisenyi. Goma, Congo is just a walk away from where I am now, but politics makes it impossible to go there. 

 

I felt like a fish out of water for most of Monday. At least I think yesterday was Monday. Events and scenery have blurred into a giant tapestry in my mind. I have to pull mental images into focus before I can revisit memory and feelings. It was odd to feel so disconnected from my environment. The poverty was overwhelming in the rural areas, and I felt ashamed about my privilege. It was too much for me emotionally to ask permission to take a photo here and there, and I always ask permission. This is not a place where you can practice “street photography.” It is an invasion of privacy to “steal” images of these people. At least that is the way I feel about it. I noticed that the one or two women I photographed did not look into the camera and their eyes were far away. I think they  agree to be photographed because they know that you will pay them a small amount for the opportunity to interact with them via the camera. At least I will offer. It must feel terrible to acquiesce to something you don’t really want to do. So, I stopped taking photos for most of the day until some kids ran along side the Land Rover and clearly wanted to be photographed. All they want is a cookie or the chance to see their image on the LCD screen. Many times, all they want is a smile and a wave, but shouldn’t I give more of myself? 

Who, after all, is more impoverished? 

I was anxious to get off the road and meet two of Roz Carr’s children from the Imbabazi Orphanage. Roz passed several years ago in her early 90’s. Her life is worth learning about, and I would suggest that anyone reading this, and interested in Rwanda, pick up her book, “Land of a Thousand Hills: My Life in Rwanda.” She was in her eighties when she started an orphanage for children who were left homeless by the 1994 genocide against the Tutsis. Roz was also a good friend of Dian Fossey, and that is how we met over ten years ago. 

Baruta and her brother, Chris, had planned to meet us at the Paradis during our short stay in Gisenyi. What I did not realize was that Baruta hitched a ride on a motorbike for one and a half hours from Rhuengeri (Musanze) and left one baby that is breastfeeding and another three year old with her mother-in-law in order to join us. To say our encounter was emotional is beyond description. But it was an internal experience and not overtly demonstrative. These kids have been through hell and back. Chris saw his parents murdered before his eyes in the "second" genocide of 1996. He was shaking when we embraced. We have been communicating on Facebook for the past year and he had mentioned several times that he always thought of the distance between us bridged by the fact that we were under the same sky at night. There we were, finally under the same African sky and listening to the waves lapping the shore of Lake Kivu; sharing tea and cookies. He gave me a beautifully carved Mountain Gorilla, and Baruta somehow managed to carry an elaborately wrapped Rwandan peace basket on the back of that motorbike. 

I will see them later today in Rhuengeri and at Roz’s plantation, Mugongo. Did I forget to mention that Baruta took another motorbike back, after dark, to get home in time to breastfeed her baby boy? I don’t know how these kids manage the life they have here. We have so much and they have so little, yet they offer so much more in a spiritual manner that is simply part of life here. People are happy to be alive and have food and a roof over their heads.

Chris desperately wants to study to become an electrician. How can we accomplish that? For him school is the Holy Grail. I think about American kids who squander the best education in the world. 

As I am trying to sort through yesterday, the birds have begun singing. One, sounding quite similar to a meadowlark, is in the branches outside of my door. The sun will rise at six-thirty here, one degree away from the equator. I hope to grab a cup of coffee and walk down to the beach where the fishing boats gather, and women set up their vegetable stands. I met a great kid there last night. He had several goats that were his pride and joy. 

Tomorrow at this time I will be on my way to trek to the mountain gorillas. I think tomorrow is Wednesday.

I hope I can sleep tonight. The anticipation is great. 

Until then….

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Morning redux… 

Here I am with my cup of strong Rwandan coffee, not another soul around except for the cook. He is serving me toast and jam with a flourish and very happy that I love the coffee. Birds are everywhere in this open-air lobby that is VERY African in décor and ambiance. But this is real. It is not a fake “safari” experience. 

It is all I can do to fight the urge to run back to my hut and grab the cameras. I will force myself to sit here, listen, and watch. Maybe I will learn something.

 

 

 

 

The Light of the Spirit

It is Sunday and so much has happened since I touched down in Rwanda on Wednesday evening. It is no wonder that my mind is swimming against the current of images that flood every waking moment and allow no room for dreamless sleep. Sleep itself has been an elusive companion. Every day has offered a new spiritual revelation, and I am quite surprised to learn this. I do not consider myself especially “spiritual” or “religious,” but people, events, and vistas have touched me deeply.

I had been quite eager to revisit the genocide memorials at Nyamata and Ntarama. I was at each in 2009 and found them quite moving, deeply touching, and unforgettable in the sense that seeing the relics and reliving what happened there in 1994 helped me to intellectually grasp the scope of the genocide against the Tutsis. I was seeking to regain that feeling of spiritual or psychic connection with both victims and survivors, but came away quite troubled.

For those who do not know about these memorials, here is a brief explanation.

Nyamata is a Catholic church where 10,000 people gathered on April 10, 1994 thinking they would be safe from the Interahamwe. They were all murdered. Their clothing and personal belongings remain, as well as skulls, bones and some of the machetes and weapons that killed them. A rosary that was presented to the congregation by Pope John Paul II is on the bloodstained altar cloth. An underground crypt that holds the bones of 41,000 victims of Nyamata and the surrounding area is accessible to visitors who can handle the claustrophobic environment. Yes, you can smell the bones. Over 20 years later, bones and bodies are still being found and are piled in the church for possible identification and eventual burial in the crypt. 

5,000 people died at Ntarama for the same reason as Nyamata. They sought sanctuary in a church. The clothing of the victims hangs from the rafters, but seems to have disintegrated since the last time I was there. Personal effects, including school notebooks and ID cards and diaries are decaying as time and climate take their toll. A large metal rack of shelves along the back wall of the church holds thousands of bones, sorted by kind: skulls on one, femurs on another, pelvises on yet another. A separate building with a grenade-damaged wall is the repository for newly discovered bones that are covered by a blue plastic tarp. 

As I write this, I am impressed by how words fail to describe what one witnesses at these two memorials. It is distressing that the government of Rwanda no longer allows personal photography. It leaves me wondering how we can continue to bear witness. I am not happy to look at bones and prefer to focus my camera lens on the mounds of clothing that are being quickly devoured by time because of the bodily fluids that have saturated the fabrics. But we cannot even takes photos of the clothing anymore. 

I am not sure what the answer is, but my fear is that in this age of genocide denial that “proof” will no longer be available to people who cannot make the arduous journey to Rwanda. 

There might be an answer in the Church of St. Jean in Karongi (Kibuye). 

11,400 people died here during the Tutsi genocide of 1994. A drunken mob threw grenades through the windows and took only three hours to kill everyone inside and on the grounds. But this is a place of hope, perched high on a hill above Lake Kivu.

It is open and unguarded to the public, unlike Nyamata and Ntarama.  It does not openly display the horrifying remnants of bones and clothing, but there is a row of skulls in a window behind an outdoor memorial garden. In a strange twist in this era of genocide denial by some, I was thinking it important that there be no restrictions on witnessing. I am beginning to rethink my attitude. Perhaps words can be more graphic than gruesome relics. We writers just have to work harder at it, and at 10 pm at night with three days of no sleep is no time to try. The hope that is palpable at the Church of St. Jean can offer an alternative to rumination on death. 

Then, there is the story of the apparition of the Virgin Mary at Kibeho to three young girls beginning in 1981. It is suggested that the Virgin predicted the genocide; but that fact did not alter the reality that Kibeho did not escape the horror. We did not have time to visit the apparition site, but after everything else I have experienced, including being given blessings for travel during chance meetings with elder women, I wish I had planned in advance. 

There was a definite sense of pull at the road junction for the holy site, which has been recognized by the Papal Nuncio. 

I have been feeling these “pulls” on several occasions, the most recent was this morning when I heard singing coming from the valley below my lodge. As I entered the churchyard to satisfy my sudden and uncharacteristic urge to attend church, a young child, maybe three at most, clung to my legs. I reached down to touch his head and whispered a “hello” to him in incomprehensible English. He persisted in extending our contact, followed me into the church, and climbed into my lap. Holding two of my fingers in his tiny fist, he leaned back into my chest and fell asleep. The sense of peace and contentment that flowed through me is indescribable. Along with that sense of pure love, the memories of the genocide memorials flowed through conscious thought, but drifted away. For one brief moment I sensed the horrors experienced my hundreds of thousands of children just like him in the terrible days of 1994. What soothed me was the unconditional love flowing from the sleeping toddler in my lap. 

Closing my eyes I remembered the old woman who greeted me on the road the day before with a blessing from God for the traveller. It seems that on each and every day of this visit to Rwanda, I have had a spiritual awakening. I have no idea where this is coming from, or what it means, but I hope I can incorporate this empathy into my work.

I don’t know where it will lead, but I cannot deny the “pull.”

Laughter, Avoidance, Mistaken Identity and Cow Poetry

Thursday. March 19. Kigali to Butare via Nyamata and Ntarama.

In so many ways, today was uplifting, so for now I am choosing to avoid the subjects of Nyamata and Ntarama for another time. The best way I can explain my avoidance of these two genocide sites is to say that for once words fail me. I have been staring at this blank page for almost an hour and really have to get to sleep, but I wanted to revisit events from today. Nyamata and Ntarama will be seared into history forever.

I am in Butare. It is 9:29 p.m. local time and my windows are open to a lovely, flowered courtyard surrounding this hotel that is more of a church than a lodge. The corridors flow like a dormitory from the 1960’s and there is a chapel two doors down from my room. It is run by a Rwandan denomination of Catholic nuns. I can hear hymns drifting on the soft breeze from somewhere in the valley and the sound has quieted my racing mind so that I can organize a few thoughts.

I am smiling, remembering my initial encounter with the nun who runs this place.

Thinking she was telling me “I am fortunate (for meeting me),” I kept denying that what she was saying was true.

“No, that is not true, it is I who am fortunate,” I said.

“No, no,” Sister insisted.

This went on for a few minutes until, in exasperation, the nun said, “I am Sister Fortuna!”

We both got a good laugh out of the routine. It was my second smile of the day courtesy of women of God.

 

The first came along the roadside, when a very old woman noticed I was taking photos and literally hobbled over to me, leaned on her walking stick, and began chattering in Kinyarwanda. My friend Alex translated that she was telling me to “walk with God.” 

In Rwandan culture the elderly have the duty to bless the young ones. When you travel or go on a trip they will say "ugende amahoro mwana wanjye "may peace be with you my son/daughter," or "Imana ikujye imbere," may God be/go with you.

I needed to hear that after the experiences at Nyamata and Ntarama. To put it simply, I was bothered and unsettled. I still don’t want to write about it or talk about it, so will move on to other parts of a basically lovely day that began when my “kids” joined me for breakfast at the Gorilla Hotel.

Soon, Muhizi showed up with a phone call from a long lost friend in Congo.

After lots of lively conversation over Rwandan coffee, and sentences filled with laughter and emotion, we all piled into Alex’s Land Rover for the journey to the memorials. Beyond my personal reaction, it was comforting to be with my kids, who lived through it all. We will all hook up again in Gisenyi, but for now it was time for goodbyes and an afternoon drive to Nyanza and the King’s Palace.

The Rwandan King, or Mwami, was an absolute monarch and all of the people of the kingdom “belonged” to him. There is so much rich history behind what you can see at Nyanza, but all of it is beautiful, inspiring and has a definite mystical vibe.

The monarchy was abolished in 1961, and the details are wrapped up in colonialism and empire. The African premiere of Kind Solomon’s Mines was shown in Nyanza, outdoors on a dirt road. The traditional and ancient palace of the Mwami has been reconstructed and it is going to be a regular stop for me from now on. 

And I will never forget my introduction to royal cow poetry, or the tradition of singing to the cows to thank them for their milk. Each cow's name is commemorated in a song sung by the caretaker. Actually, the song is more of a poem that celebrates the unique contribution of each cow. I was invited to join in, so I harmonized in English as best I could to the Kinyawandan song. Was told we were pretty good. My "bridge" was "nice cow, you are a very nice cow, be kind."

I think this duo has promise. We just need a band name.

Tomorrow: Burundi and Nyungwe.

Mental Turbulence

Wednesday March 18. The Flight Aware map says this KLM Airbus passed over the Aswan Dam an hour ago. I was asleep and missed my favorite part of the trip—the moment when a keen eye can spot the outline of the African continent through the curtain of clouds.  It is late afternoon at this longitude. We are hurtling at almost 600 miles per hour toward the equator and the coordinates of the Kigali airport. In anticipation of this journey, I worried it would be difficult both physically and mentally. Upgraded business seating on the previous Delta flight got me though an hour of severe turbulence on the leg from JFK to Amsterdam. Even some of the flight attendants fell ill, and the situation was so bad in coach that the crew had to break out the biohazard bags to deal with the sickness. No one was ever in any real danger, but it was a violent flight through a stationary front that was stretched across the North Atlantic. I was lucky that my seat folded flat and somehow that position offered both physical and mental comfort. I thought about taking video of the rocking and rolling, but my camera was not accessible. I am stronger mentally and physically than I gave myself credit for.

So, there is no harrowing story to tell about the journey. In some ways I wanted it to be more of a pilgrimage—a test of my moral fiber, but all it represents is my fortunate ability to pay for better seating!

Most of the window shades are closed so that passengers can sleep and reset biological clocks, so I am typing by the lighted keyboard on my Mac. As I tell this story, we have just now hit more turbulence, but this is of the milder variety. The attendant has offered me another hot towel. Hot towels appear out of nowhere at several hour intervals. I used it to wipe the keyboard clean.

We are flying  west of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Hard to tell for sure, but we are somewhere over Sudan with Uganda on the southern horizon.

There are no hot towels in Ethiopia and Sudan. There is famine, civil war and the attending evils of dysentery, starvation, typhoid, malaria, high infant mortality, and the greatest evil of all—hopelessness.

We are passing over what we cannot see or experience and I wonder if this new physical turbulence affecting our massive flying machine is a manifestation of the spiritual turbulence that lies below. We are all connected, and perhaps my guardians from the Bird Nation are directing my sense of empathy to the world beneath.

The Airbus is aptly named. Its sole job is to move people physically through time and space. The individual faces the journey alone, and does with it what he or she will.

We will be landing in Kigali soon. I hope the setting equatorial sun will offer enough daylight to illuminate the Mountains of the Moon and the purple-peaked Virungas as we pass over the Great African Rift Valley.

Friends are waiting at the airport and my two sons Egide and Joyeaux texted me that they will be waiting at the Gorilla Hotel. They are men now. No longer the helpless orphans of the genocide I met over ten years ago when their older sister, my daughter, Clotilde, approached me and said she and her brothers needed a mother, since their extended family was killed in the Tutsi genocide of 1994.

Have I been a good mother? Perhaps I have been enough of a mother, living ten thousand miles away from my children. It has been enough for them to know that someone older has their backs and will offer an “I love you” from time to time. I harbor no illusions that I have been more than “enough.” Perhaps less. These children had the true loves of their lives stolen from them, as they watched, while hidden in trees, as their entire extended family was murdered in 1994.

Tomorrow, it is cast in stone that I will visit the genocide churches and pay my respects in the villages. The United States could have stopped what happened. We journalists and writers have taken thousands of photos of the skulls and bones piled in the churches. I am looking for something else. Will it be possible to capture hope and resilience on digital film? I am tired of the skulls and bones. But then I am told that people need the reminder.

Maybe I do, also.

Time now to tidy up and organize possessions that seem to have multiplied in this seating area.

I am anxious to step off the pane into the night air and smell the charcoal and see what has changed in the four years since my last visit to Rwanda. I passed through a few years ago on my way to Congo, but Rwanda will have my undivided attention now.

My mind, heart, and soul are in tune.

The flight attendant just approached me. She and some of her friends are spending five days in Rwanda. All of them for the first time. Could we help them navigate? Of course. The unexpected. All part of the journey.

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11:30 PM Kigali time.

It has been 4 hours since the metal stairway  was rolled out to the Airbus. Yes, I smelled the charcoal in the air and it was all at once exotic and comfortable. Trees and flowers I cannot name added a floral scent that lingered as I entered the terminal. 

As I shifted  a backpack to my right shoulder, I felt a hand stop me, and was thrilled to see my old friend Liz Williamson standing there. A warm embrace and lots of questions. We got the who what where when and why quickly out of the way. Liz is here for a conference. She was hoping our paths would cross, left it up to fate, and fate arranged for us both to be on the same plane. Liz can tell you everything you want to know about gorillas and more. She managed Karisoke in some of the years after Dian Fossey's death. We share much about Dian. We share a huge love for Rwanda. 

I am settled now, in my room at the Gorilla Hotel. The young men on the street below my open window have taken their boisterous talk elsewhere. Motorbikes hum in the distance, trucks bump over rough tarmac, and cars honk and rumble on the boulevards around the neighborhood. I don't think Kigali ever sleeps. But I must.

Tomorrow it is on to the countryside and villages to bear witness to the genocide. People here are able to talk openly about it. People in the US are faced with a lecture circuit rife with genocide denial. 

I discussed this with my friends. I don't want to go to the places where the worst of it happened and focus my camera on nothing but skulls and bones. Bones are necessary remnants of humanity, but I will be looking for stories of hope, maybe just one.

We will see if tomorrow can offer more than wading in sunder.

 

 

 

 

Safe Travels Beautiful Mother

Scorpio draped his long tail across the southern horizon in the three AM Tuesday darkness, and other unfamiliar constellations sparkled in the deep shadows above the Gulf of Mexico. A Chuck Wills Widow chirped from somewhere in the tangle of sea grapes, palmettos and oats covering the dunes. I was feeling uneasy in this, the most familiar environment I know. Soon my taxi to the airport would arrive and the journey to Rwanda, planned for a year, would begin and end with touchdown in Kigali at 7:30 PM Wednesday local African time. 

African time. 

It has been several years since I had visited the continent and more years than I care to count since I have wandered through the cities, villages and mountains of Rwanda. Africa is changing. It is no longer the “dark continent,” inaccessible and mysterious. Africa has modern cities, international transportation and tourism is booming. Of course, you can still find "traditional” Africa if you look for her, and that is what I want to do on this trip.

I don’t want to work or think about the news, although I am sure that stories will come to me.

So why am I feeling uneasy? Fear of flying is part of it, and the anxiety increases the older I get. In fact, the fear is strong enough that I could easily decide to stay home. But the pull is stronger than fear. There are people I have not seen in years that I miss because they miss me. They are literally pulling me across the ocean and down to the equator.

That sounds strange, I know. But this is not a self-serving journey. Getting to Africa is a journey of the mind, and the heart follows. In this western culture that I call “home,” it is rare that people express a depth of caring.  My friends and adopted family in Congo and Rwanda are literally willing my safe journey.

One of my “sons,” and my “daughter,” sent me the same message this morning.

“Safe travels beautiful mother.”

Another message. 

“It will be a sign of relief for me to see you again after many years. Our God protects you.”

I feel their collective will that I return safely.

Anxiety subsides.

If only this American culture were so willing to express great depths of feeling. It would help me to navigate a modern state of mind that has lost the innate human ability to express, love, care, and concern openly. A modern state of mind that forgets that, sometimes, turning to God is the greatest love one can offer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chance Encounters and Choice

 

Daybreak.

I awoke refreshed in the hour before dawn and did not bother to change out of pajamas before investigating what the morning had to offer. The not-quite full Moon was sinking into the still Gulf Waters, Scruffy the dove was cooing at me from my neighbor’s roof; avian eyes fixed on the front door as he waited for his breakfast morsels. Another visitor sat browsing in old pine nuts scattered under the sabal palm. “Bunny” as he/she is known, lives under one of the cottages, but is rather elusive. I was surprised that Bunny continued browsing after I passed three times in my morning explorations. A choice presented itself. Two cameras: one with a 400mm telephoto, the other with a more modest 200mm lens were sitting within reach. Did I go for the long shot of the setting moon, or capture the images of Bunny and Scruffy? Since the moon is eternal and would be in the same place tomorrow and forever, the choice became easy. 

Scruffy posed by fluffing his feathers and Bunny began to walk away. The camera was something unfamiliar and somewhat threatening. Understandably so. 

I tried to grab the 400mm and catch the Moon, but she was gone, so I changed into shorts and running shoes for the daily jog. 

It was then that unbidden thoughts crowded the mind and reflections about life’s chance encounters presented a new meditation. What lenses have I chosen on my life’s journey? What encounters have I deemed worthy and unique, what opportunities have I missed, and what wrong choices have I made? 

In my time on the planet, there have been thousands of encounters. I have spent time with psychopaths, narcissists, warlords, freedom fighters, rebel leaders, mercenaries, jailers, genocidairres, victims, survivors, warriors, healers, mystics, spiritualists, saints, sinners, liars, truth-seekers, artists, singers, songwriters, and sad poets. 

Grifters and drifters have been the most interesting and I have been a drifter myself.

I have chosen the opportunity to interact with all, except in the case of the jailer. 

The most dangerous of all of these encounters had been the Liar. For the liar offers an easy and straightaway path to hell. 

The most rewarding has been the Mystic. The Mystic offered the challenge to search for God. It is the more difficult journey. 

Still, the Liar is always more appealing. 

When meditation opens the mind to reflection combined with compassion, the choices parade through conscious thought unhinged from emotion.

My eyes are the camera my soul uses to seek the encounter. My ears transform the images into a story, but the ears also open the door to deception. 

The sounds of Scruffy cooing are always to be trusted. He is offering a mutual relationship. He knows the morsels will appear and he is simply telling me he is nearby. He will not swoop down and peck out my eyes, even though could.

Bunny gives no thought to me whatsoever. I am a familiar object in his habitat, until the big black object in my hands alters his perception of me. Bunny does not panic; he simply chooses a safer distance. 

 

 

The Moon is incapable of thought, but is held captive in an eternal dance that began at the instant of creation. Moon cannot sing or move from its gravitational path. It is constant. What Scruffy, Bunny and the Moon share is the fact that they cannot lie.

They have no place on the human bell curve that differentiates aberration from sainthood.

This path to God is difficult and full of encounters with tricksters. Nature is my only constant guide, and the Mystic reminds me that safety is found in these chance encounters.

 

A Visit From the Screech Owl

 

An emissary from the Bird Nation was trilling from the sea grapes last night. His/her insistent song drew me out into the cool Florida night. The sea fog that had been shrouding the sands and shells around my little cottage had receded, and for the first time in three days I was able to see clearly in the light of the waxing moon. The Screech Owl has been around here for years, singing sweetly through the night, but seldom seen.

Tonight seemed to be a deliberate visit, since the night visitor sat boldly in the open. I ran to tell my dear neighbors about this special event, thinking the diminutive owl would certainly be gone when I returned. Not so. He was trilling as if to guide us to his perch in the jumble of branches. We stood not ten feet away as he continued his song and then, of course, I wanted to “capture” him with the camera. Would this be wise? Would it be ethical to startle him with a flash? 

The camera was hardly 30 feet away in the house. Of course, the desire to connect deeply with the winged ones has always won out in the life of this two-legged. Again, I thought, “well, he might be gone,” but he was still trilling when I returned with the Nikon in hand. It was as if he were singing to my friend, who was waiting. 

Again we discussed the pros and cons of “capturing” him with the camera and decided it would be OK. Just one quick shot. He turned his head at the moment, almost as if to offer a profile and did not flinch as the flash exploded in the darkness. Right or wrong, and guided by his direct stare into the lens, I dared to take another. Still, he did not move, but continued trilling. We stood there in wonder. Transfixed. 

My friend’s companion joined us several minutes later. I do not know how long we stared at the owl, but the moment arrived when we thought it was time to leave him to his nocturnal journey. 

I returned the camera to its resting place on my kitchen counter and remembered that another neighbor had always wanted to see the Screech Owl. He was sitting on the same branch when I ran to her cottage, but was gone when we returned. A disappointment for her, but an opportunity for reflection for me. 

I had been sad all day.

My dear friends were leaving our beach sanctuary for their annual return to the north country of New England. As an emissary to the Bird Nation, I have always taken the comings and goings of the birds very seriously. There is indeed a world beyond that of the earthbound that extends to the Elders of the Spirit World. For all of human existence, the appearances and manifestations of those who swim, fly, crawl and walk on four legs has held meaning for the two-leggeds who care to reflect on why they appear to us in the “real” or dream worlds.  

As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered the special role of the Owl as messenger. He/she brings awareness of change, intuitive knowledge, and especially, the ability to see beyond the mask of what may seem apparent.  

With that in mind, I shifted my thoughts from the apparent inevitability of loss to a grateful knowledge that for the past two months I had been able to reunite with dear friends and share many moments of sheer joy and excitement. This is enough. 

It is time for them to leave. I have captured every moment in memories that will sing to me whether or not I can “see” my friends in proximity. They are about to take a journey.  

This was the gift of the Screech Owl.

 

 

 

Visitor From the Bird Nation

 "Scruffy" came to visit this morning. He/she is not domesticated, but is a former rehab Common Ground Dove (Columbina Passerina) who has returned unbidden to my doorstep for two years. I can be gone for months, but "Scruffy" will always show up a day or two after my return. Scruffy was the weakest of five that I rehabbed; not spectacular, and Doves rarely make it into the nature books about Sanibel Island, but I have learned more about birds from Scruffy than all of the island visitors from the Bird Nation combined. It is 49 degrees F here this morning, and as soon as he heard movement, the sweet cooing started. What a gift.

 

I woke up with the thought that God is in the details, and this is certainly true about Scruffy.  I don't mean the scientific details about the fact that he is about 7 inches long and weighs about 1 ounce. Scruffy offers a universe of thought and feeling in his 1 ounce. He can soar into the clouds with a great whirring of tiny wings and land silently on my doorstep when he chooses. His cooing is ethereal in its ability to calm me. Scruffy will never offer betrayal or violence. He cannot comprehend these things as he spends his days foraging-- I know not where. He comes and goes, predictable in manner and countenance. Where does he venture? I would guess he visits the sea grapes along the dunes, the shells along the bike paths, and he might even fly over to the national preserve.

If humans were in the imaginary guide books perused by the Bird Nation, how ponderous and unpleasant would be our descriptions? Heavy, earthbound creatures that we are.

Scruffy sees some quality in humanity that is shared with the Bird Nation. I am not certain what it is, but I would guess that we share a genetic memory of a universal home. Perhaps we knew each other in the moments after creation. All I know for certain is that Scruffy offers me a sense of belonging, of peace, and yes, love. That is everything.

So, I offer the humble Scruffy this morning.