One year on: what I really learn working with genocide survivors

I’ve been in Rwanda for a year now. While I can always update people on our projects, it seemed better to use this opportunity to write an honest account of what I’ve learned working with survivors. This is necessary because when people ask me how I deal, most of the time I throw them a thumbs up and say something like “it’s actually not that sad and very uplifting!” – which is usually received with eye rolling and confusion (because they know it’s part bullshit).

If you’d like a more thorough update on the projects I work on, I suggest you go here: http://survivors-fund.org.uk/news/. I write a lot of the updates for the entrepreneurship and Widows projects. So, in addition to general learning about managing projects, making budgets, writing grants and working with local partners (and having to pray at the end of meetings), designing micro finance programs and monitoring loan repayments, I’ve learned quite a bit. More specifically…

I learned that time doesn’t heal all wounds, that sometimes memories that manifest can come back and feel like yesterday. But I also learned that even the most soul crushing, mind melding and catastrophic wounds can be mended in order to move forward. That no matter what happens to you, it can always be possible to grow, and be happy again.

However, I’ve learned that very few can heal on their own, in isolation and despair. Every one of the individuals we work with that have been able to thrive and move forward, have been able to do so not because they had entrepreneurship training, or access to a loan, or proper health care. It was because that person was able to lean on someone else’s shoulders. It was because they got to talk to someone, someone with mutual experiences. It becomes obvious that a sense of community isn’t just vital to economic development, it’s vital to who we are. And in scenarios where trauma is an issue – step one needs to be getting people into a group. It can be a group intended for counseling, for general life discussions, to plan a business or to kick dirt around – it doesn’t matter. Step one, get them in a group.

I have learned that no matter how many times you hear someone tell you about being raped, it will always sting. At the same time, I’ve realized that I’m no longer surprised by these stories. When confronted with genocide, unimaginable horrors become imaginable. Slowly, you find that you learn to accept the cruel realities of the world. In this way, you will always hope for the good in people, but probably expect the worst.

Setting aside this shock makes things easier. Questioning things take time –questioning the rationale and reasoning behind terrible acts – when you realize that you can never know the answer. Move on from these questions, because none of it will ever make sense. Move on from these questions and take action instead.

Even so, you find that you will be far more disappointed by the silence and indifference of those you know, in comparison to the actual crimes of those you don’t. You expect strangers to be different. On the contrary, your friends and family are loving and caring and intelligent people, they should want to know about these things. They should want to stand up for change when it’s so clearly possible. Don’t they know how easy it would be?

But many won’t even read a news article, or make a 10 dollar donation. When I talk about genocide or poverty, it makes them uncomfortable. They won’t believe that they can help things, but in maintaining this belief they are perpetuating the problem. These issues are lightyears away from their reality, whereas for me it is in the center. Because of this, we have a hard time meeting in the middle.

I know I can’t expect every one of them to dedicate their lives to helping survivors or orphans or prompting development in general, but I wish they cared a little more. I wish they cared a lot. 

In the last year, I continue to be surprised by the dedication and tirelessness of my coworkers. It doesn’t matter how many people come into our office, how many students need scholarships or how many people need counseling, and how little money we have. It doesn’t matter that the need overwhelms the capacity. They will always try.

I’ve learned how incredibly important the concept of justice is in post-conflict countries. And how unbearably complicated it becomes when victims end up being next door neighbors with the people that killed their family members, burned their house, and raped their daughters. I’ve seen how empty promises for justice and unenforced laws can prompt even more disappointment than no laws at all. That without reparation and compensation for victims, there will always be loose ends. And nearly twenty years later, many in Rwanda are still waiting.

While much of the world wants to move on and stop being reminded of what happened in ‘94, we’re still here. Then again, I realize the world will always want to stop being reminded of a genocide. This would be fine if the consequences had evaporated with time, but they haven’t. For example, the children that were born as a result of rape are now starting their adolescence, and remain an entirely separate, often ignored, vulnerable group. They grow up being punished for something they didn’t have a part in. People call them “children of bad memories.”

One of my saddest moments was after I realized one of my close friends was one of these victims. She had been kidnapped by the militia and raped at 13. She had a son as a result; a son she outwardly admits she has difficulty loving. Every day for half of a year, I talked and joked and laughed with her, not knowing. I didn’t know until I opened one of our books of testimonies and saw her picture on the first page.

In the last year, and especially when I was visiting home, I have worried that I carry around a darkness. That the realities I’ve come to know (but seek to change), hang over my head in a cloud – one which most people would prefer to avoid. I wonder who and how many will be willing to sit under the cloud with me.

A few months back, I watched a documentary where a man said, “Anyone who comes in contact with a genocide, either during or after, is forever lessened as a human being” – I wonder and worry if he is right.

And yet, I have never been so fulfilled, so genuinely interested, fascinated, and in love with my life before. I am far more optimistic, determined and calculated in the projects we do, because I know they work.

When people hear I work with genocide survivors, they assume it’s all full of grayness, of dim and despair. They don’t know the other end of it. In actuality, most of the work we do is positive. Most of my job actually centers around sustainable income generation and economic development, an area in which Rwanda is thriving. The histories of the people we help may be sad, but the present isn’t. This is an important distinction.

With all of its heaviness and lightness, I am able to find a way to be balanced.  So you’re right, it’s not all rainbows and heartwarming stories, but it’s not all doom either. And after a year of doing this work, I can safely say that I’m a lost cause. No cubicle in New York or office space in DC will ever suffice. Can you blame me?  

Coming Home

I left Ghana in a daze. The thursday before I’d been running errands in town, trying to buy food for our new livestock project when I suddenly felt really sick. I ran to Happy Kids and lay down, and within two hours had a 104 degree fever. This must mean I finally get to join the “I’ve had malaria” club.

I spent two days in the Hohoe hospital, a not so nice cluster of cream colored buildings that lacked running water, soap, and actual doctors. My nurse’s name was Nelson. He wore jeans and earphones in his ears. They put an IV in my hand but they punctured the vein, so for the next day fluid flowed freely into my arm. It swelled up twice its normal size, but all I could do was laugh.

On Saturday I’d been rebooked on a flight direct to New York, and then to California. The doctor was supposed to come and discharge me, but when I asked if she was coming all they said was “Eh, it’s the weekend. Maybe she’ll come, maybe she won’t.” I ended up discharging myself. They asked me to write an official letter to release them of liability. I was surprised by the formality of it until they handed me a dirty piece of yellow pad legal paper.

Dear Hospital,

I, Kelsey Finnegan, am leaving. I take responsibility for my life. Thank you for the care. Here is 25 dollars.
Sincerely, 
Kelsey Finnegan

The Happy Kids were glad to see me, and I’d missed them over the last few days. I packed my bags, showered with a bucket and hugged them with as much energy as I could muster.  

Goodbyes are not permanent, and they know that. 

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I landed in JFK airport on a Sunday. I followed everyone through the crowds, through to customs, and made my way to the United lounge. I watched the sunrise and the planes taking off, feeling supremely out of place.

The first week was spent seeing specialists and deciphering that I was, in fact, getting better. I was fine, and on top of that, I got to see the people I hadn’t seen in a very long time. 

I’ll admit that those of us who live abroad worry. There are plenty of things we give up that we don’t care about. We can live without all the stuff. But we do worry what relationships we’ll have to give up. After so much time, it feels inevitable that you will lose some.

And I am the person that is away. I am the constant, perpetual goodbye. I’m the person that misses your birthday, the person that couldn’t come to your wedding. I’m sorry I missed you falling in love, or having your heart broken. I’m sorry I’m not the person you can call when you’ve had a terrible day at work and need someone to drink a glass of wine with. I chose Africa. As much as we try, I’m not someone to rely on.

So I come back half expecting you to have moved on. And then I find that I was wrong and that you’re all still there. You’re still sitting in my corner, and everything is exactly as it was when I left.

And it is important to come home. Not only to catch your breath and take a step out of the all-encompassing world that is development – but also to be reminded. Coming home says, even though you left a long time ago, you are not forgotten. Even though you are far away, you are loved.

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Back in Santa Barbara, I walk into a bookstore and marvel at the availability of knowledge. Find the Africa and Genocide sections and sit between the aisles. I sit on the floor for over an hour thumbing through the books, feeling the pages bend. I end up choosing 12 books, but can’t afford them all so I buy 6.  

Lay on the beach for far too long and get sunburned. Take a breath. Hug the kids I’ve always loved, in fact - hug everyone I love. Walk down the street and blend into a crowd. No “muzungu muzungu” to be heard. Marathon catch up sessions mixed with nights sitting on the couch just being. Eat ice cream and have an untimed conversation.

Jump into the ocean and watch the sailboats passing by. There are washing machines. Paved sidewalks. Streetlights and iced coffee. People can pronounce my name, and everyone speaks English. Every type of food you can imagine. Every type of anything you can imagine. There is lettuce and salads, no more forced all carb diets. Wine tasting and margarita tasting. But does everyone really need so much?

I experience the strange and wonderful feeling that is to be had from talking to people that share my history, and know my history. Remember the world I left behind, but take comfort in the fact that I no longer fit into it.

I’m sitting in a café drinking an iced latte when my friend in Rwanda texts me that there’s been more bombs and grenade attacks, and things are getting tense. I worry, but I can’t worry too much because I know in two weeks I’ll be back in it, and none of this will feel real. It will all just seem like a distant dream, a fuzzy idea of a far away place in the back of my mind. 

At the end of my trip, I leave California for New York to spend my last week with two of my best friends, and then I fly back to Kigali. I say goodbye to my friends, say goodbye to my family. But I will not be saddened by these goodbyes. I'm only thankful. You were far away, and I almost didn’t get here.

I'm reminded and comforted by the fact that our relationships are permanent, regardless of locality - but home is in and of itself a transient place. Once it was my parent's house in Dublin, California, and then it was an apartment in Santa Barbara. At some point it became an orphanage in Ghana, and now a city in Rwanda. I don't think that one has to be mutually exclusive, and realize it's possible that I can miss them all. I left this 4 week trip in America with renewed energy and a fresh pair of eyes. I don't know when I'll be back again, but until then these memories will last me.

The bodies at Murambi

There are memorials for the genocide all over Rwanda. A mass grave here, a mass grave there. Churches, schools, backyards, you name it. There is a very famous and professional memorial in Kigali that has rows of flat, cement mass graves with 250,000 bodies in them. But the further you go outside of the capital, the more graphic and brutal the memorials become.

There is one church in Ntarama in the East, where 5,000 people were massacred. Tattered clothes hang from the church pews, stripped of their wearers. There is a room off to the side that was used for Sunday school. There’s still dried blood on the wall from children being slammed and thrown into it.

But nothing can compare to the bodies at Murambi.

Murambi is located in the Southern province, about 2 hours from the capital of Kigali. When the killing began in 1994, thousands of tutsis fled to the bishop for help. When they got there, however, the bishop and the mayor told them to go to the technical school, which was at that time still under construction. You’ll be safe there, they said.

The large school is located on the top of a hill, with views of valleys and the villages below on every side. It encompasses one large white, multi-story building in front, and a series of narrow brick classrooms in the back. Around 65,000 tutsi people started gathering inside, hopeful for protection in the building on the hill.

Instead, they were trapped. Their water and electric supply was cut off, and they sat inside starving, unable to leave because of the raggedy thugs yielding machetes that surrounded the property. Within five days, the technical school was attacked in waves. The people holed up inside tried to fight back. They gathered stones and sticks and staged a war against their attackers, but they were overpowered. Killing people with machetes and clubs is tiring business, so the perpetrators would come and kill thousands, wound and rape others, but would leave to rest after they’d had enough of sticks and stones being thrown at them. For five days the living lived among the dead, until eventually they couldn’t fight anymore. At the end, 50,000 people’s bodies were heaved into bulldozers and dumped in a shallow mass grave that the French helped them dig on the property. 

When I arrive, the place looks abandoned. Only a man with a truck sits in front of the white building, leaning up against the rusty door. He nods at me, and motions towards the entrance. 

The area is stunning. The school is perched just on top of a tall hill, surrounded by green valleys and endless skies. 

What an ironically beautiful place to die, I think.

I’m greeted by a guide who says he’ll walk me around the property. He is young and enthusiastic, which feels contradicting given the reason why we’re here. When we walk through the exhibition with the stories, photos and history of genocide on the walls, I am not surprised. There’s a quote from a survivor that says, “All I want is to be able to live.” But I’m not surprised. I’ve heard these stories before.

I immediately tell the guide that I work for Survivors Fund. I want him to know that I’m not just a tourist. I want him to know that I’m working against this too.  

After the exhibition and out of the large white building are the rows of red brick classrooms. The classrooms are now filled with 1,000 dead bodies. After they were killed, the mass graves they were thrown into were so densely packed that no oxygen or dirt could get in and assist in decomposition, so many of them remain in the same state they were in when they died. In 1995, the bodies were removed from the graves and properly preserved, and now they sit in the classrooms on dusty wooden tables. They sit on display as an example, and of proof.

When I walk into the first classroom, I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell. It smells like death.  Like dry, stale death. It’s a smell I’ve never experienced before – one that infiltrates my skin and my clothes and my heart.

You can still see the expressions on their faces. One of them is reaching out, with one finger in the air, as if she was in the middle of telling them something. Others have their arms over their heads, their faces permanently distorted in pain; open mouths and crooked eyes. Some are holding babies, the little bundles still cradled on their chests.

One man is still wearing an old 49ers sweatshirt. It’s faded, but you can see the gold outline around the block letters.

We are more similar than we are different. We could’ve owned the same sweatshirt.

For many, their bodies are still completely intact. You know how they died only from the smooth, straight gashes in their bones from machetes. One of them is holding rosary beads in her hand, but from her expression you can tell that she had given up.  

The fourth classroom is dedicated solely to children. There is one who couldn’t have been more than two. His head is facing me, and his fist is balled up reaching over his head. His little clenched hand sits next to a giant gaping hole in his skull – he had obviously been killed with a nailed club. Blunt force trauma.

Sometimes it’s as if I feel everything, and other times I’m not sure I can feel anything at all. I walked away unsure if I was becoming numb to all of it. Which is better?

I’ve always disliked the slogan “Never Again", even though I know why we say it. We want to believe that this was a colossal mistake that won’t be repeated. We want to believe that someone would step in again and stop it. We want to have hope.

But to me, it feels like a lie. It feels like an empty promise. Because as much as we like to pretend there won’t ever again be another Rwanda, there already has been. What about what’s happening in Sudan, Syria, and Congo? 

It’s pretty common to see ribbons that say “Never Again” around Rwanda. These ribbons are identical to that of the one hanging from a dried basket of flowers in the children’s room at Murambi. It sits between two tiny bundles of bodies, mocking us. “Never again?” the killers laugh. Hate will persevere, they say. Ignorance will continue to permeate into the actions we choose not to make.

This ignorance being the belief that the world is the way it is, as it is. That it is not our place or time to intervene. That the consequences of these atrocities do not reach us, affect us, or alter us. Unbeknownst to us on the other side of the world, these acts of genocide and mass violence are swiftly and assuredly breaking down our humanity. And all the while, tangible solutions present themselves. They offer us the opportunity to intervene not because of altruism or obligation, but rather because it is simply the right thing to do.

When will we ever learn?

I work now with the living. I want to believe that their calls for justice, absolution and genocide prevention are actually heard. I want to believe that Never Again can be more of a reality and less of an empty promise. 

It may be too late for the people who fell at Murambi, but it’s not too late for others.

Unwanted Visitors, UN convoys and Goodbyes

I had stayed up late, finishing some work and packing for our trip to Burundi. The house was quiet when I moved into the living room to sift through the laundry basket for clothes. My dog Mowgli followed, never more than a few feet away. Out of nowhere I hear Lydia’s muffled yelling outside on the porch.

“What are you doing here? You don’t live here!” For a moment I think maybe she has a guest, or one of the kids that follows us on the road found their way into our house. When I approach the porch and unlock the door, Lydia motions for me to come outside. There’s a man here.

He’s short and unalarmed, and definitely on something. He’s wearing Hawaiian swim shorts and a Bob Marley T-shirt, leaning up against the shoe rack like he lives here. He’s taken off his shoes and is holding them in his left hand. Why the hell did he take off his shoes?

We both start yelling. Mowgli sees him and goes nuts, barking and growling and planting herself between him and us.

What the fuck are you doing in our house?  

I come visit you, he says.

No. No. You are not visiting us. How did you get in?

I jump.

We have a pretty steep wall and tall metal gate that surrounds our 6-bedroom house. Around the back, the porch serves as our living room, and is also where Lydia’s bedroom door leads onto. Apparently the man jumped the cement wall, walked around to the back and literally knocked on Lydia’s door. At least he's polite. 

At this point Carolien and Johanne have woken up, and we’re all standing there staring at him, yelling “oya” which means “no” while Mowgli barks incessantly. Rather than let him go or lead him outside, we decide to find some of the other guards on the road to help us – so Carolien and Lydia go to find help and Johanne and I stay there to watch him.

We stand there, apparently having become guards of this man. Several times he tries to have a staring contest with one of us. Oh, it’s on. But eventually he gives up and averts his eyes downwards. Every so often he shuffles his feet and moves an inch or so, and we both yell “HEY!” in tandem, mowgli barks again, and he quickly moves back.

Fucking idiot.

Mowgli’s guard dog trigger word is “hello?” I realized it one day when I was alone in the house and walked around looking to see if anyone was there. I’d shout “hello?” and she’d follow with “woof?”, “hello?” “-woof?”, until she looks up at me quizzically like “I don’t know if anyone’s here Kels.” Ever since then, every time I say it, she jumps to her feet and looks around.

So every time the guy starts to look comfortable I say “Mowgli, hello? Hello? Hello?” and she jumps to her feet and resumes the scary guard dog position. Rwandans are terrified of dogs, and this man is no exception. He’s so scared he’s shaking, and I know I’m taunting him but I don’t care. I’m sure he’s regretting his decision.

If he runs I decide I’m running after him. I imagine myself, mowgli and johanne chasing him around the side of the house and pulling him down by his stupid Hawaiian shorts.

Lydia and Carolien end up finding several guards on the street who come inside. The guard, who is employed by a serious security company and is carrying a stick, walks in casually. Not ever to be impolite like any Rwandan, the guard looks at the man and greets him. “Good evening” he says, “how is the night? How are you?” They exchange pleasantries, which I’m sure includes “so are you a thief?” and after some time the guard turns to us and says, “yes, he is a thief.”

Six more guards come into our house, and each of them dances and prances around Mowgli, terrified. They sit around chatting for some time about what to do with him. He says we invited him in. He says he came to visit.

After much too long they take him away, and give us instructions to go to the police station the next day. Finally we get to go back inside and replay the whole thing amongst ourselves, giggling and shaking our heads at the strangeness of it all.

He was harmless. I also don’t think he anticipated 4 angry, completely unafraid muzungus and a dog. He jumped over the wrong gate, we laugh.

We decide not to press charges, so they say they’re going to send him to a “re-education” program. That’s Rwandan for “beat the shit out of him.”

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At 6:30am we head to the bus station for Johanne’s last weekend trip to Bujumbura, Burundi. She’s moving back to Denmark and we’re all dreading it. She’s been living in Rwanda for a year and bouncing back and forth from Tanzania for 2 ½, and says maybe it’s time to go home. Maybe it would be good to actually settle and not constantly have one foot out the door. It would be nice to not always be counting pennies for plane tickets back to Africa.

We understand.

Originally one country, Rwanda and Burundi were built on the same ethnic structure, and the same divisions and hierarchies set in line with colonialist agendas. Ethnic tensions exacerbated by the instability in Rwanda led to uprisings in the 70’s. The then tutsi government responded to violence by staging a genocide against over 200,000 hutus. When they tried to make a multi-party government in the 90’s, a civil war began, this time with mass killings of tutsis. Decades of instability, war and ethnic violence followed, quietly unobserved in the shadow of Rwanda’s genocide and the world’s indifference. The Hutu government maintained its stronghold, and the war continued until 2007.

What was left behind is a tiny, landlocked country that nobody has ever heard of. The 4^th poorest country in the world, the only foreign investment in Burundi has come as a result of the UN mission and the increasing presence of UN staff. Now, several beautiful and outrageously expensive hotels dot the country’s beautiful Lake Tanganyika.

Our hotel is on the lake, which looks remarkably like the ocean. We have our own bungalow that’s two stories high. We’re the only guests, so we eat and head out for drinks at a fancier, livelier spot. The fancy spot ends up being too fancy, and we all quickly run out of money. We don’t stay out late and instead retreat back to our bungalow for sleep. Just as I’m settling into bed with my new book about 3 UN workers living in conflict zones, I spot something crawling out of my pillow. It’s a scorpion.

Michelle and I jump to our feet and manage to catch it between a flip flop and a sunglass case. Michelle hits it dead five or six times, until its scorpion tail is detached from its scorpion body. It takes me a while to fall asleep after that. Through the night, I dream of bugs and animals crawling over me.

On Saturday, we wander into town in search of bottled water and bus tickets. We pass the UN compound, which is huge and covered in layers of barbed wire. Watch towers on every corner have armed men peeking out from inside.  At one of the entrance gates, I notice a hand painted sign with a grenade, machete and AK47 with a red X over it. 

The city of Bujumbura is pretty bare, and we stand out more than usual. We accidentally cause a scene when our taxi driver tries to charge us 10,000 instead of 2,000 francs, or “dix” instead of “deux.” A crowd of literally 40 people surrounds us, yelling in languages we don’t understand. There’s no way in hell we’re paying that muzungu price. The people who’ve become involved tell us 6,000 is a fair price, so we try to give it to the driver but he throws it back in our faces. Too many people are involved now but there’s nothing we can do. Throughout the chaos an old man keeps trying to sell me pink flowers. No flowers, please. No seriously, I don’t want any flowers.

Half way on our walk to the police station another bus driver convinces the guy that we’ve given him a fair price, and he gives up. When we’re walking away one of the men who became involved looks at me and says, “I am protector.” “Oui,” I say, giving him a thumbs up. Merci.

It’s always cute to see how so many people immediately jump to our aid.

After that, we head to Bora Bora - a beach restaurant that looks entirely out of place in Burundi. The turqouise pool sits on a white washed deck, adorned with white washed beach chairs and blue cushions. On the golden sand, pink mattresses sit beneath cotton sheets that make the perfect amount of shade. It’s all very nautical and contradicting. We spend the day eating and drinking and swimming in the lake. There are so many natural minerals in the sand that my feet literally sparkle.

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Back in Rwanda, the following week is standard. There’s partner meetings about the widows project, and I sit for 6 hours repeatedly asking “What? What did they say?” until my colleague remembers to translate. I doodle on my notes…

75 groups are currently undergoing entrepreneurship training.

They’ve documented 93 legal cases related to land and property.

They’ve helped 39 families to get back their property

10 groups received loans from the bank

Supported Foundation Rwanda students by distributing school materials

At the end of the week, it’s time for Johanne to leave. We drink gin and tonics, eat banana bread and watch the sun go down on our porch until it's time to take her to the airport. “Go and have a normal life” I say, hugging her goodbye. We smile, knowing it’s too late for me.

Normal is a long way away. 

The stars were bright in Kenya

It was a rational time to leave Kigali. The 19^th commemoration of the genocide was coming up, and the entire country was going into mourning. There was an eerie, dark feeling in the air, as the posters for this year’s commemoration theme “self reliance” sprung up around the city.

Grenade attacks in crowded markets started happening; something that supposedly happens every year - a reminder from genocide perpetrators that survivors are never safe. In the evenings leading up to April 7^th, we would watch military helicopters scanning the hills beyond our house, shining beams of light down and around the city. We didn’t know what they were looking for.

The fear and pain that I come across working with survivors every day was something tangible that now everyone could see and feel.

Work at SURF had been incredibly hectic, and everyone was rushing to get ready for the commemoration week, where our work supporting survivors would become more necessary but also impossible to do, with everyone hiding away to mourn. On the Friday before leaving, I finished two grant proposals for the UK’s Department for International Development and the UN, and felt I had been busy enough to warrant myself a break with three of my friends. We flew out of Rwanda’s tiny international airport the next morning. 

Kenya’s heat was muggy and sticky. The land was flat and arid, lush and green and propped against a turquoise ocean.

If not for the tattered, faded posters on the walls, you wouldn’t know that the election had only just passed. Everyone thought it was going to be a violent disaster. There was some violence, but it was contained to Mombasa around the area we were traveling, and was mostly deemed a success. There was a bombing at a casino a few weeks back, but now everything seemed calm. The tourists and aid workers had slowly started trickling back in. The new president’s inauguration was coming up, and a new government would take its turn.

We knew we weren’t going any further than the beach anyways.

The backpackers hostel in Mombasa was a two-story white house with a pool and garden in the back yard. It was filled with paintings and posters, all things that were random and strange. One was a painting of a man on the beach, lifting the ocean as if it was a blanket with one hand, and holding a rake to move garbage underneath the ocean with the other. Another had a picture of a face with sunglasses used as windows. Kenyan flags and ragged posters hung in doorways - decorations that had obviously been put there decades ago, which nobody ever thought reason to take down.

The bunk beds were creaky and treacherous to climb on. The 3-inch mattress sunk in the middle so that I could feel the wood planks underneath. None of it bothered me. It felt familiar; it reminded me of exploring.

We wandered down cobble stone streets and found hand made leather sandals. At night we drank and laughed, and exchanged stories of countries traveled and places lived among fellow wanderers.

After a few nights we hopped on a tuk tuk and putted our way an hour outside of the city to Diani Beach, where we’d post up for the rest of our trip.

We found a beach bar with couches and from that point on were never more than a few feet from the ocean, a comfy chair and a cold drink. I read my book and let my mind go blank. One afternoon I rode an angry camel that tried to bite me as I leaned in for a picture.

On Lydia’s birthday we went on a mission to find some fish near some ocean. We decided to walk in the direction that we hadn’t been. After a minute we turned a corner and couldn’t see what was behind us or what was before us. It was the type of quiet darkness that you only find in Africa, where all you can see are the stars and the moon and the silhouettes of the trees on either side of the road, guiding your feet. Someone mentioned how bright the stars were and somehow we all started singing,

Stars shining up above you

Night breezes seem to whisper I love you

Birds singing in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

Much later, we went back to our hut and spent hours throwing peanuts and old limes from gin and tonics to the bush babies and monkeys in the trees. Just as we were getting ready for bed and tucking in our mosquito nets, our house was invaded by the most terrifying spider anyone had ever seen. It was a mix between a scorpion and a spider and was bigger than a tennis ball. It had fangs. I convinced everyone that it was poisonous. It scurried behind a bookshelf, so we tried to drown it out, which didn’t work. We were really just giving it a shower. Eventually my friend Michelle stabbed it with a broom and we were saved. Subsequent Google searches determined that it was in fact, not poisonous.

The next night I was sitting at the beach bar, at the same couch next to the same ocean, watching the sun go down. Our waiter Ken walked by and picked up Michelle’s book on the couch and asked me if he could have it. He said he loved reading. We started talking and somehow it led to the election. His expression turned solemn as he said, “I wasn’t happy with the results. My candidate didn’t win.” He explained that gangs threatened and destabilized this area, so that polls were ineffective and understaffed, and a lot of people couldn’t vote. “Democracy is a luxury we don’t have in Africa.”

I tried to brighten his spirits and highlight the positive aspects of the election. While it wasn’t free of corruption, at least it was relatively peaceful. Democracy is a process; it requires a slow progression of stepping-stones. If there was progress this time, who’s to say there won’t be progress in the next? “Maybe someday soon there will be democracy in Kenya. Maybe one day you’ll actually get the president you want.” He looked at me, as if he appreciated my effort, and slowly shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

That was all it took. We both knew he was probably right. I promised that I’d try to find him a book and he headed back to the bar to take orders, the crowds were coming and there was beer to be served.  

On our last day in Diani Beach, Lydia tracked down a man with an octopus and had him grill it in a hole dug into the sand. Afterwards I said goodbye to the ocean with much too long of a swim, and the next morning we tuk-tuked it to Mombasa to head back to Rwanda. 

When the plane flew back over Rwanda, I was happy to see the rolling green hills and the iron tin roofs reflecting off of the sun below us. Normally I would be disappointed to be ending a trip, but this time it was sensible and somehow relieving. I am back home, with new energy, and there is work to be done.