On the trail of the Mahatma

I decided that beyond the larger context of studying the history of India's independence struggle, I would attempt to gain some insight into the life of its most central character - Mohandas K. Gandhi. I approached this goal in a variety of ways. I figured it would be important to let Gandhi tell his own story, so I decided to read his own book - Hind Swaraj or "Indian self rule". In it he defines the principles on which he founded his stratagey of Sattyagraha (non-violent non-cooperation). He explains the tactics he desired for Indians to deploy in their struggle for independence. He also explains how India's independence from Britian was dependent on the Indian people's ability to achieve self-sufficency and break their dependency on Brittish goods and obediance to Brittish laws. I believe that his writing is quite revolutionary for recognition of how Indian's own participation in the system constructed by Brittish rule prevented India's liberation and supported a political and economic systems that kept them enslaved. Reading his own words gave me a kind of insight into him that can not be duplicated by looking at other biographical works.

HISTORICAL SIGHTS
I also visited a number of sights in India that are historically significant to India's independence struggle and to Gandhi's life.

Gandhi's ashram: where he and his disciples planned their acts of resistance and from where he launched his historic Dandi Yatra or salt march; the event that signaled to many in India that Indians could break their domination by simply refusing to obey the injustices they saw in British laws.

I visited three Museums in Delhi, Ahmedebad and Mumbai that were dedicated to educating the public about Gandhi's life and works. In these museums I saw . Perhaps the most striking thing was the meager nature of his possession. The fact that someone could weild such power and influence over people, yet have sufficient self-control to limit their material wealth is incredible.

I also saw a number of sites that were connected to Gandhi's death. I saw the bullet that took his life, and the bloody cloth dodi that was the last article of clothing he wore(he hand-spun it himself of course). I visited a photo exhibit of the ceremonies of national mourning that took place after his death and I went to the site where that ceremony had its culmination and where he was cremated in front the perhaps millions of mourners.

I also visited a department store that was founded by Gandhi's followers and still attempts to adhere to Gandhi's philosophy in the conduct of all of its businiess transactions - a difficult thing to do and still compete in an economic system that favors profit motivated companies. In the process I'm sure I cemented my position in my history department as the resident "Gandhi-ophile"/dork, but having followed him around a bit and seen his belongings, where he lived, and the sights that were significant to the events of his life, I think that I have become more prepared to share his story and reflec on its meaning with my students.

Freedom at Midnight: and the story of India's independence

I am glad that while in the course of traveling through India I stumbled upon the book "Freedom at midnight" co-authored by Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins. Reading into their nearly hour-by-hour account of every major and minor event that made India's independence possible, while at the same time traveling within the society that is in large part a result of those events has been a unique way to gain perspective on what is in many ways the most remarkable independence struggle in history. The book is a worthy companion to anyone who is trying to understand the historically strange story of how the people of India gained their independence.

What makes India's eventual defeat of British rule in India so unlike many similar stories of struggle between colonizer and colonized people throughout history is of course the role that non-violent non-cooperation played in it. The thought that one can actually put an end to one's oppression by using methods that demonstrate to one's oppressor that they are unjustly causing suffering, and that this alone could be effective, is a notion that should not be overlooked by anyone proposing to teach valuable lessons in social studies. In no other event in history were as many individuals working with peaceful methods and in unity towards the overthrow of violent domination and oppression. the scale at which it was attempted in India and the variety of tactics which were developed there to achieve it, make the study of India's independence important for every society. As a model it provides an entirely different set of tools for creating positive change. Those strategies are practical for any institution or individual who is inclined to make something which they believe is "bad", be "good", and do so without being what they consider "bad" themselves. Perhaps the most important thing to remember about the history of India's non-violent revolution is - that it worked.

"Freedom at Midnight" tells this story with such attention to detail that it reads like a drama unfolding. These two authors have created a portrayal of this revolutionary event that includes the perspective of every angle, not just the major players.

Getting Around

Just crossing the street in India can be a challenging activity, especially when you're not familiar with its pace and etiquette. It can have a daunting look, with its constant flow of rickshaws, whole families piled on top of scooters, camel drawn carts, buses bulging at the seems, and of course a tranquil Hindu cow meandering through the traffic. Just when you think you know what to expect, a nine-year-old boy manages to drive his herd of forty goats straight down one of the busiest streets of the center of Calcutta, changing everything. I don't know what academic value there is to it, but I wanted to dedicate some space to a description of some of the more interesting ways of getting around in India.

AUTO-RICKSHAW

First, and perhaps a personal favorite, is the auto-rickshaw. It is the way to do local transport in India. If they were street legal back home I would import a fleet of them. Like little black and yellow beetles they whiz around on three wheels, turning on a dime. Powered by a two-stroke moped engine, they scoot through the chaos of Indian traffic, emitting there constant high pitched honk. The horn is used in India as part of a complex alert system that allows other drivers to know where everybody is at all times without anyone having to turn their head - or maybe they just really like it. When you get inside see if you can tell how the driver operates the brakes, the gas and changes gears all at once. A thirty minute ride should be about forty rupees (a little less than an American dollar).

CYCLE-RICKSHAW

A cycle-rickshaw is also an option in most of India, although it can be a slightly uncomfortable thing when you find yourself behind an elderly man straining to peddle you through the choking smog of India's streets. Almost all cycle-rickshaws are not owned by their drivers, but are rented out by the day from a larger company. They offer a great pace to tour an Indian city by, and I have sometimes arranged to stick with the same driver for a whole day of sight-seeing. On one occasion I had a driver let me take him for a spin and it was hard going, with only one gear. I can only imagine what it is like when you're hauling a whole family around back there, as they often are.

HAND-RICKSHAW

Last in the rickshaw family is the hand rickshaw, or jin riki sha in Japanese, literally meaning "man-powered vehicle". It was designed in about 1870 in Japan, and it soon spread throughout the colonial networks which were in Asia at that time. It is a light wooden cart with large diameter wheels, generally also in wood, drawn by a man running between two long shafts that project in front. Insofar as it required only one man to pull another, it was at the time an "advance" over previously available vehicles.

Today they are banned almost everywhere in the world, and the last sizable fleet

of hand rickshaws can only be found in Calcutta, where the rickshaw wallah union has resisted prohibition. In 1992, it was estimated that over 30,000 rickshaws were operating in the city, all but 6,000 of them illegally, or lacking a license. The large majority of rickshaw wallahs rent their rickshaws for a few hundred rupees per shift, so if they seem desperate for business it is because if they don't get enough customers it comes out of their pocket.

I saw hand-rickshaws when I was in Calcutta when the monsoon had first struck the city. No one was happier to see the rains come than them. Within days the street are flooded waist deep and hand-rickshaws become the only means of transportation capable of navigating much of the city.

BUS

You could take a bus, if you're crazy. Perhaps the most comfortable area inside is the small compartment for the driver which has seating for around five. The only drawback is your bird's-eye view of the near misses and potential head on collisions. And of course the blearing Indian duets that are blasted over the radio in an attempt to keep the driver awake.

Train
Indian trains are in a category of their own when it comes to travel in India. The Indian Railway System is one of the largest and busiest rail networks in the world, and it is also the world's largest commercial employer, with more than 1.6 million employees. It manages to transport over six billion passengers a year - that's roughly the equivalent of the entire population of the planet. Then there is the almost 750 million tons of freight moved along it tracks a year. It's pretty amazing that it call comes together and for the most part works.

There is nothing quite like sitting by the open door of an Indian sleeper train and watching the countryside roll by. For three or four dollars you can take a train from one side of India to the other. It may take a few days to get there, but you may find that the trip there is as much fun as wherever it is you are going. Food and beverages are available at every stop, you just have to listen for the call of the different vendors who call out their trade along the tracks when you pull into the station. When you come to complete stop they'll streaming down the eisle and coming up to the windows. I recomend the tiny packages of biscuits, the somosas, and if you're feeling crazy the fresh fruit.

When it's time to sleep the back of the bottom bench smartly folds up to form the middle berth, and what was your little living room suddenly becomes sleeping for eight , although that's just an estimate. Depending on the diligence of the TTE (traveling ticket inspector) you could have any number of people sleeping in your compartment during the night. I recommend the upper berths as you can turn in early or sleep in late at your leisure. There are three little fans that operate from a switch down below. Bring a little blanket to use as a sheet or to cover you if it's somewhere cold. Don't worry, the gentle sway of the train, the long fading whistle, and the click-clack of the wheels clamoring down the track, conspire to form a rhythmic symphony that lulls you into a dreamy sleep. Don't be surprised when a group of traveling musicians wake you from your slumber - when you pay them they'll go away. In the morning you wake to the sing-song voice of the chai wallahs making their rounds, "Chai, Chai, Chai....". The train pulls into a tiny little village station and you catch a glimpse of the India between its cities; a place where the pace has changed little for thousands of years. Village women dressed in saris of every color and laden with jewelry from head to toe scramble on with their goods to bring to the market in the next village. There is never a dull moment.

The train is also the place to experience the remarkable generosity of Indian people. More than once I have had the happy chance to share my compartment with an Indian family that takes out their little tin lunch-box containing the food for their journey, and insists that I get my share and give everything a try. It is a great opportunity to get your questions answered about Indian history, the caste system, arranged marriages, religion, philosophy or anything else you are curious about. Don't worry, they'll have plenty of questions for you too.

This is the toilet on the train, don't use it when you're at the station because it's just a hole that leads down to the tracks below.

Getting your ticket

Getting a ticket for an Indian train is something that takes some getting used to. To prevent being cut, Indians que up without an inch to spare between them - don't be surprised if someone has a little lean on you or drapes their arm over your shoulder. Personal space has an entirely different definition here. At the front of the line there is a bottleneck of Indians trying get a hand into the tiny hole through which you are supposed to speak to the reservationist. If you're lucky enough to make it up to the reservation's he will give you about twelve seconds to make sense to him, if you don't it's on to the next person begging for his attention. In some stations there is a separate window for "freedom fighters" and "foreign tourists," so if you fit into either of those categories you could save some time, unless you are uncomfortable accepting special treatment when there are so many other who have to wait.

There are cars with a number of different classes in an Indian train. What was called "3rd class unreserved" when I was in India last, is now euphemistically called "general seating". It consists of wooden seats in rows. General seating cars are always the first and last on an Indian train and it can be a real battle just to get on board. Once inside it is perfectly possible for there to be absolutely no place for you to sit or lay down even if it is an overnight train. In my experience once you make it clear that you intend to stay, someone finds some space for you somewhere. Once settled people are remarkably tolerant of one another considering the conditions they are forced to share and if it's good enough for the mahatma, who always rode third class, it's good enough for me.

The Pushkar Camel Fair

Although it meant a slight detour, when I heard that the Pushkar camel fair was going to be held while I was in India I could not resist. Pushkar is a natural spring oasis in the middle of the desert. It is actually one of the oldest sites referenced in any of India's ancient texts. Hindus believe that when Brahma, the creator of the universe (one of the three main gods among millions), realized that all the other major deities had earthly homes while he did not, he chose the middle of the desert for his. He dropped a lotus flower and there sprung up the sacred lake.


Whatever the case may be, it is a pretty spectacular place - picture a near perfectly circular lake, surrounded by 52 ghats (steps leading into the water), surrounded by over a hundred individual temples. During the religious ceremonies that coincide with the camel fair the lake is strewn with flowers and floating candles., and thousands of pilgrims come from all over India. I've been here three days now, and the chanting that comes from the temples that ring the lake, has not stopped, day or night. It apparently culminates on the fifth and final day, when the full moon is directly over the water, the chanting reaches its height and all of the Hindus wade into the water and believe that they are purged of all negative karma. The event is also a pilgrimage for sadhus (Indians who have renounced all worldly possessions), so everywhere there are these emaciated old guys with saffron robes, long white beards, and dreadlocks.




While all this religious action is taking place around the lake, in the desert dunes surrounding pushkar the camel fair is taking place. Semi-nomadic camel drivers from all over Rajasthan are camped out for miles. I've been going for walks out there among their little camps. During the day they converge around a big ring where there are all kinds of competitions - camel racing, horse dancing, ,snake charming, tight-rope acts, a mustache competition, a family of albino acrobats (not kidding), and every other imaginable form of entertainment. At night they each sit around their own little fire and the desert looks as though some medieval army is camped out.

Same, Same, But Different

In India there is a wonderful litany of uniquely Indian phrases that are floating around the subcontinent that are in the English language but entirely indigenous in origins. A foreign traveler encounters them so many times that they become an almost constant soundtrack that follows them everywhere they go. Among them is the ubiquitous "Yes friend hello, for you I make good price" and the indefatigable "Looking is free, come look my shop". One phrase however has become my favorite, not so much due to its use by Indian vendors in their attempts to push their goods, but because it is an equally appropriate description of how nearly everything in India can appear to those unfamiliar with it. The phrase is "same, same, but different" and it is best explained through examples.

Take the foreigner's first trip to the bathroom in India - always an awkward and baffling learning experience. As often as not, one finds a simple hole in the floor, but in more posh facilities they may be treated to a raised platform with two footpads, a faucet, a small pale, and a vessel the size and shape of a measuring cup. Without being too graphic, it is enough to say that the sequence that properly follows is far from intuitive, and it is really necessary to be instructed on how to carry out even this most basic bodily function in India. For those accustomed to toilet paper (something that most Indians find unsanitary) the options are limited in India by the fact that almost nowhere is there the plumbing to handle this kind of waist. Even though the toilet in this picture has a basin allowing it to flush, it still has the equipment to be used Indian style.

Then of course there are the accompanying cultural norms which have come as a consequence of Indian toilet habits, including the strict division between what one does with their left and their right hand, which the failure to observe can result in embarrassment if not illness. For instance, a very orthodox Indian considers his navel the ultimate divider and restricts every action above it to his right hand and every action below it to his left.

Sitting down to eat is no more familiar an experience than using the toilet for a foreigner in India. With no fork and no knife you are on your own when the food arrives. Easy enough if you're enjoying a hamburger, but a different matter when, like most food in India, your meal has the consistency of baby food. Watch those around you, as there is a whole art to be learned before you can turn your hand into the utensil that Indians do. It is not easy at first, but it is all worth it as the Indian food has more flavors to it than any other food that I have tried.

One might guess that physical gestures would be the earliest form of communication to develop, and hence somehow provide some common ground on which to communicate between cultures; not so in India. Ask a 'yes or no question' in India and be prepared for one of the most baffling gesticular displays imaginable - the Indian nod. With their neck slightly tilted, there is a kind of wobble of the head, often with a brief close of the eyes. It's almost a perfect mixture of what would indicate yes and no in the West, suggesting a disappointing "maybe". However, without any difference perceptible to the unaccustomed eye it is capable of meaning "yes", "no" and "I understand". If I've painted a rather crazy picture of it, it is only because to me it remains pretty unintelligible, but to them of course it is a perfectly clear form of communication.

I guess my point is that different people have developed different solutions to the same challenges which life has provided us all with. Experiencing different cultures shows us the variety of ways in which we have met those challenges, but also shows us our similarities. We have colors that are associated with the sexes and so do they, there's just aren't pink and blue. We wave ways to indicate our marital status and so do they, there's just isn't a wedding ring. In the same way that a fish comes to understand water in a new way when it is taken out and allowed to flop around on the ground, immersing one's self in another culture helps us to see what makes us the same and different.

Environmental Determinism: A different look at the Rwandan Genocide

In the chapter devoted to Rwanda in Jared Diamond's book Collapse, he explores the possibility that the tragic events that unfolded there could have been a result of over-population. His conclusion is that a basic competition for resources was among the major contributing factors in the genocide, and he sees in Rwanda a caution of what can happen when no preventative measures are taken to manage population growth. To aid him in the case Diamond calls upon Thomas Malthus, the 18th century economist whose observations led him to believe that human populations have the tendency to grow beyond the carrying capacity of their resources, at which point they are checked by either famine, disease, or war.


Diamond has no trouble qualifying Rwanda as a nation straining under the burden of its population; one with a population density even higher than developed nations, but completely lacking the import and highly mechanized farming that makes those nations sustainable, a place where farming is done by hand, with hoe, pick and machete, and each subsequent generation is allotted an increasingly small tract of land from which to eke out their existence. The undeniable picture is one of a country with too many people and too little land. The question is to what degree did these environmental pressures act as the underlying motives for the feelings of ethnic hatred that culminated in acts of genocide? For Diamond, the evidence is in, and Rwanda is a distressing model of what Malthus's worst-case scenario might look like; one in which population pressure reaches a breaking point, and manifests into the type of hatred that justifies humans wiping out other humans. If we agree to follow, and accept his brand of environmental determinism, it leads us into a strange and uncomfortable territory, where perhaps our beliefs, and the historical events that are driven by them, are not as much a product of our rational consideration as we would like.

Hutus Tutsis; Us and Them

When the tragic news of what was happening in Rwanda began to reach the outside world it seems that to many it was just more bad news from a continent from which they had come to expect nothing but bad news. I get a good sense of what our impression of Africa is in the west, when I ask my students to list ten things that they can remember seeing in the news that related to Africa. Most can't list ten, but almost without exception everything that they do list fits neatly into one of the following categories - War, disease, famine, corruption, political instability and poverty. Placed together on a chalkboard they paint a pretty grim portrait of the continent, but perhaps scarier is what happens if I ask my students why these types of things seem to happen so often in Africa. They are at a total loss, and not having any historical explanation they stray into the dangerous territory of negative stereotypes. Words like "savage ' and "primitive" get used, and the general consensus is that Africa is "messed up".

Whether one decries the media for its superficial or unbalanced coverage, or one blames our schools for inadequately teaching Africa, the fact remains that for most Westerners, Africa is still in the dark, outside of their realm of understanding. In our minds dozens of sovereign countries are reduced to homogeneous "Africans," interchangeable parts from Cape to Cairo. Africa is pictured as a backward economic and political failure in need of our help, and Africans are seen as culturally monolithic, yet somehow bent on something called "tribal violence". How many Americans think that Africa is in fact one country? As far as many are concerned, even if they know it is not, it might as well be. Then terrible events like what happened in Rwanda occur, and they are viewed through the prism of these stereotypes rather than with the necessary historical context. Perhaps this is in part due to the fact that when we dig a little deeper it seems like so many "African" problems have their roots closer to home.

The Colonial Legacy
Unlike most African states, Rwanda was not given artificial borders by their colonizers, it had been an established kingdom for many centuries. Because of its geographic isolation Rwanda was among the last regions of Africa to come under actual European influence, however when its time came it was at the strategic junction of three competing empires. Belgian's King Leopold II, who's personal acquisition of the Congo Free State had sparked the scramble for Africa, wanted the region for it's access to Lake Victoria and its link to Africa's east coast. Germany wanted the area to solidify its mittelafrika, or German central African empire. The British saw the territory as a necessary link in its dreamt of cape-to-Cairo railroad, essential in uniting British possession in the north and south of Africa. At the Berlin Conference of 1885, the fatefully meeting in which much of Africa's borders were haggled out, Rwanda was assigned to Germany as part of German East Africa (although at that stage no European had ever set foot within its borders).

When Germans finally did explore their new possession, they were surprised to find that their new colony included a centralized administration under the leadership of the Mwami, a Tutsi king. Germany concluded that the easiest way to bring the region under their influence was to offer military assistance to this Tutsi king, along with encouragement for him to launch a series of attacks on nearby autonomous Hutu settlements. So, promoting aggression between these two groups was a part of the original colonial strategy in Rwanda.

Prior to the arrival of Europeans, Hutus and Tutsis had occupied the same land for hundreds of years. Their main difference was that they held different economic roles, the Hutu being principally farmers, the Tutsi cow herders. The two groups had the same language, the same belief systems, they intermarried, and it was possible for one's identity to change from one group to the other during their lifetime.

The German tactic of divide and conquer was largely successful and territories that had not traditionally been, were consolidated under the Mwami's control. The German presence in Rwanda was short lived however, and during WWI their numbers were too few to prevent a Belgian takeover. Belgium followed the same pattern as Germany, using the tutsi aristocracy to administer the territory, but managed to increase their control by deposing the king, and putting his more manageable 18-year-old son on the thrown. Again, Rwanda's colonial rulers found it beneficial to create and exploit a divide between the Hutu and Tutsi populations. Schools were created through the subsidizing of missionary work, and were intended to create a class prepared to fill administrative positions - Tutsi only.

Perhaps the action with the most detrimental effect on Tutsi-Hutu relations, came in the 1930's with the Belgian effort to create a census of their colony and officially categorize the identities of the native inhabitants. Victims of this onslaught of calipers, measuring tapes, and scales were issued identity cards, and required to carry and be able to produce this mark of their ethnicity at all times. When, as often was the case, an individual's physical characteristics were not enough to determine their proper place, the Belgians simply counted those owning ten or more cattle as Tutsi. The result was the creation of a firmly entrenched ruling Tutsi class, with an unequal access to education, wealth, and positions of power.
It is no surprise that when the wave of independence that swept Africa in the 1950's and 1960's reached Rwanda, the country emerged as a nation boiling over with internal conflict. The decades leading up to the genocide can be categorized as ones filled with either ethnic group fearing political domination by the other. At the time of the genocide Hutus had a narrow hold on power in Rwanda, but a Tutsi army lay just outside its borders desperate to reclaim the country. The Hutu extremists that escalated the ethnic hatred to its extreme, did so out of fear that they would again by dominated by a Tutsi elite. It is worth noting that the difference between the two groups was apparently enough to warrant the wholesale slaughter of one at the other's hands, yet was not enough for those wielding the machetes and the clubs to tell who was who without first looking at their identification cards (the same identification cards that had been in use since the Belgian era).

Of course underscoring the role that Rwanda's colonial legacy had in widening the divide between Hutus and Tutsis does not admonish any of the guilty parties that carried out the individual terrible acts that took place there, but it is a necessary part of the picture, and one that has it's parallels in other "African" problems. So, when we in the West view the bad news that comes out of Africa, it may appear far removed, a part of the dark happenings of the dark continent, but its roots may reach closer to home than can be seen from the surface. 'tribal conflicts' are not due to any African predisposition towards violence, but a result of separate cultural groups, having been thrown together by artificial borders made by far away men, with eyes on resources and no understanding of, or concern for, the welfare of native inhabitants. The 'political instability' that plagues African nations today is not as much a result of any innate inability to govern, but is the natural outcome of once separate groups, now forced to compete with one another for control of a system that must now somehow serve the interst of both groups.

Football with the orphans

One of the most memorable experiences I had in Africa came by chance on a day without anything planned, when Simon and I decided to take a walk from the guest house we were staying in to a neighboring village. On a whim I decided to bring my camera along.

We had not taken ten steps up the road when the call "mazungo, mazungo" (white man) went out, and a steady stream of kids started pouring down to meet us. There was an orphanage that we had seen a ways up the hill, and I suspected that this accounted for the larger than normal number of kids hanging around, even by African standards. They were grubby little guys, with snot caked on their faces and not a pair of shoes between them, but their smiles were pure unadulterated joy. Some would run up purposefully and blurt "what is your country, what is your name?" then dart off once their English was exhausted. There was a lot of hand shaking and an almost endless round of introductions, then Simon and I started off again, but it was clear that our little entourage would be accompanying us.

As we walked along our little group snowballed into a sizable crowd, and we had a good laugh about the spontaneous parade we had somehow come to lead. After some time we came to a soccer field with some kids chasing a ball around. Everything came to a halt when we arrived, and kids keen on us playing were dragging us by the hand onto the field. I hadn't played soccer since playing soccer meant a swarm off kids in a clump around a ball kicking each other in the shins. These kids were something entirely different. They had serious footwork, and the game they played was graceful and moved with an incredible pace. Kids too small to play were on the sidelines practicing with a makeshift ball made from bundled plastic bags. Simon and I took turns playing while the other filmed. It was good fun. When one of them scored there was an immediate uproar. Kids jumped on top of each other and the place seemed to fall apart around us. When I made a sweet assist (which Simon neglected to catch on tape) there was a wild victory display - I guess it was the final point. I got caught up in it and it was all hi-fives from me for my team.

My video camera has a feature where you can spin the view screen around so that the footage can be displayed from the side. The screen was far to small for the mob of kids that were swarming around us to all see it once, so I had them line up on a dirt ledge by the edge of a field. When I got them settled, two rows deep and all squeezed in, I began to make slow passes with the camera letting them each get a little look. When the camera came by and they got a glimpse of themselves at play, a roar of excitement came out of that part of the line and kids crammed to fit in. It was an amazing feeling to be able to produce that much excitement. Their happiness was completely contagious. The screening of their little match created enough of a ruckus that soon a few farmers had come to see what all the commotion was, and they soon made up part of the line.

When the tape finished we made signs that we had to go, but the entire group decided they would walk us back. On the way two of the older kids told us that they had exams the following day, but had never seen the required book because they could not afford it. It sounded a little rehearsed and I was weary of a potential scam, but when we passed the little shack that was the school store it became more and more believable. Simon went in with the two of them, and they emerged, proudly displaying their new books, which they then clutched to themselves with a pathetic appreciation. These kids were ecstatic and they flipped through the pages with disbelief. I thought of the books my students leave sitting at the bottom of their lockers and the prodding that it requires to get them to look at them. I wondered what they would do if they could see these kids and the joy that a single book meant for them.

Arrived in Rwanda

Me with the second best dressed kid in Africa

Just a short post to let people know that I have arrived safely in Rwanda. Believe it or not for a limited time only you can reach me here live thanks to these cellular pirates who unlocked my phone and put a bootleg sim chip in. Watching these guys at work is enough to fold up any stereotypical notions of African primitivism. Just dial 250 08807689. It's six hours earlier in the states.

Gorillas In Our Midst

A visit to see the mountain gorillas is the reason why most tourists travel to Rwanda, and although I had come here to learn about the country's history and the chilling results of its colonial past, I could not resist the chance to see these remarkable animals in their natural setting. I should mention at this point that for this segment of my trip I have been joined by Simon, an old high school buddy of mine. With the exception of having a bladder the size of a nine year old girl he has proven to be an excellent travel companion. Best yet he came with a car, without which we would never have been able to cover so much of the country or reach such remote areas. To him I will always be indebted for the thrill of setting out by car through Africa.Rwanda is known by its native inhabitants as "the land of a thousand hills" and seen from the air it is a quiltwork of rolling hills as far as the eye can see - until you reach the West that is - there the Virungas, a massive chain of volcanoes dwarfs all else. Like jagged green pyramids they rise from the horizon with their peaks shrouded in mist almost constantly. Thier five major cones span the borders of three countries - Rwanda, Uganda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They are also the only place on earth where the mountain gorilla still exists in the wild.

The road up to the Virungas is really a rocky path between farms which in some places has waist-high ruts and soccer ball sized boulders which forces one to creep along at just a few kilometers per hour. As we scrambled up this track children came out of the woodwork to get to the side of the road in time to wave and scream out to our car. Many of them ran along side for as long as they could keep up. Some managed to thrust their crayon drawings of gorillas up to our windows as they ran, beaming with expectation. I could not resist, and not having any smaller notes was forced to buy the whole lot, making a few young artists very happy.

After some hours we reached the end of the road and were met by four armed guards. They would occompany us for our protection, "in case we meet the soldiers from the Congo," our guide explained. We were each issued a carved walking stick and then we marched off, two soldiers in front two in back, single file.

Being the most densely populated country in Africa, no inch of soil goes to waste in Rwanda. The base of the Virungas is no exception, and the beginning of our trek brought us through neatly terraced farm land. Because of its volcanic history, the soil here is dark and moist, entirely unlike the rest of Rwanda which is rather red and dry. We made our way through rows of potatoes and fields of permethrine - a plant used to create insecticide. Women working the fields stopped like statues and pivoted with their loads balanced on their heads to watch us as we passed by. We eventually reached a wall made of piled stones which marked the division of the cultivated land from the edge of the forest, and protected each from the other. Our guide stopped us here while he explained what we could expect once in the presence of the gorillas. We listened as he struggled to find the words in English to prepare us, often resorting to acting it out.

A low guttural sound almost like a belch would signal that the gorillas were comfortable, "like the cat's purr," he said. That sounded good. If they were agitated we would know it from the silverback, the patriarch of the entire gorilla group. First he would rise to full height and beat his chest, creating a pock-pock sound that could be heard from a great distance. Barks of annoyance would be followed by an explosive roar and a shrill scream and the bearing of his teeth. At this point we were all to assume the most submissive posture imaginable and under no circumstances run. This would normally constitute the end of the silverback's highly ritualized form of intimidation. If however, he felt his supremacy was not yet accepted widely enough, he would begin to pound the ground before him with both hands. This would signal that he was about to charge. There wasn't a lot of good that running would do at that point. That seemed to suffice.

We scrambled over the wall and crossed into the forest on the other side. We followed a muddy path up the mountain left by wild buffaloes, at some points having to crawl through the vine-tangled network of tunnels that penetrated the thick jungle. Stinging nettles left their odd bite on any skin that happened brush against these strange plants. We trudged on for close to two hours until we reached a certain elevation and the forest changed. Now we could walk easily through open glades of thin bamboo trunks. A web of animal trails meandered through the toppled colums and luxh foliage above concealed the sun. I began to wonder how our giude had any idea which way we were going. After some time he seemed to have arrived at some point and he cracked on his walkie talkie and began to speak in Kinyarwandan. There was a pause, and then a voice replied. These were the trackers that actually spent the night on the mountain following the movements of the gorillas. They were not far. We reached them in a clearing. They looked like part of the forest with their green uniforms, rubber boots and machatees.

The gorillas were very near now and we followed one of the trackers through the thick vegitation. Without warning, one of the trackers pulled back a layer of branches to reveal a hulking mass of black and silver fur. "Holy shit - it's a fucking gorilla," I think was my exact thought to be honest (any student of mine that should stumble upon this site - note that I did not say this out loud). Despite the morning's anticipation I found myself entirely unprepared for actually seeing a gorilla up close. But there it was, sprawled out right in front of me, massive. We were much closer than I had ever imagined, just a few feet away from him. It was the silverback of course, and there was more muscle in his head than in my entire body. He was laying on his side with his arm tucked under his head like a pillow. His eyes were groggy but they were open. I half expected him to have the jerky mechanical motions of an animated puppet from a them park ride, but he was real all right. He reached down to scratch the top of his foot and then raised his arm back to rest on the top of his head. Then he sat up, smacked his lips a bit, and had a look around. He looked sort of like a host who was slightly embarrassed that his guests had arrived and caught him in a nap.
We cowered in front of him, but he didn't seem the least bit disturbed. Most of all he seemed remarkably human and alien at the same time. His every little movement struck me as oddly familier. Here was this strange thing that spoke the same body language as us. When I collected myself enough to give him a good look I discovered the most incredible thing - when you stare into a gorilla's eyes, they stare right back. There was an undeniable recognition there - something not present in other animals. I had no problem understanding what it was that kept the famous primatologist Dianne Fossey compelled to stay among them as long as she did. Then there was the gorillas incredible acceptance of us. He could have run away as easily as he could rip my arms off, yet instead he tolerated our presense. I couldn't help thinking that if the mountain gorilla had the demeanor of another animal, or a human for that matter, this tranquil encounter could never be possible.

Under the careful watch of the silverback the rest of the group slowly made themselves seen. Directly behind him was a mother nursing a baby that peered out from her arms. Two other adult females lay off to one side with their heads propped up by a hand under their chins, starring. In the brush two adolescents tustled. We crouched in silence marveling at the family scene in front of us. Another adult male came into view and sat down right in front of us. It's left wrist stopped at a stub and our guide whispered that as a baby it had lost its hand in a poacher's snare. 'When this happens the silverback has no choice but to tear the hand off', he explained. I looked at the animal quitely eating in front of me, and thought about the strength and the pain involved in the events our guide explained. It made me think about all the bad things that go on down in the valley below and I felt as humble as if I had done it all myself.

Our guide broke the silence to tell us that we had five minutes left and that if we were to stay any longer it might stress the gorillas. Visitors are only permitted one hour among the gorillas and it passes quickly. Not wanting it to end, I placed my outstretched hand open on the ground next to me. I thought to draw back, but I had already sparked their curiosity. The two adolescents who had been sitting off a little distance cautiously made their way over to me. I tried not to move. together they leaned in to to give my hand a sniff.

Life in the Kingdom

I mentioned that Swaziland is a Kingdom - Swaziland has been a monarchy ever since the Nguni people entered the territory where they lived under the leadership of Dlamini I. Today Dlamini remains the surname of the royal family, although I met Swazi citizens with the last name Dlamini that were not of royal blood. The country and people derive their name from a later king, Mswati I, who reigned during the mid 19th century.

The monarchy is dual, with the King or Ngwenyama (lion) ruling along with the Queen Mother or Ndlovukazi (she- elephant). The Queen Mother may be the King's natural mother which is presently the case or, on her death, a senior wife. The rules of succession are guarded secrets, but it is generally known that the king must be the only child of his mother and unmarried. Hence, the Swazi kings are always young men when they come to the throne.

The monarchy has endured throughout Swaziland's history. Even when Swaziland became a protectorate, when British colonial rule was established in 1903, the Monarchy was left intact. The British found it easier to rule indirectly through the existing power structure. They were interested in control of Swaziland’s resources, not the administration of its domestic affairs. As a result a trip to Swaziland is an exposure to a far more traditional Africa than say South Africa with its history of Settler rule.

The present monarch, King Mswati III ascended the throne in 1986 at the age of 18. He is regarded as the mouth-piece of his people and is described as umlomo longacali manga (the mouth that tells no lies). I heard one story in which the late king had said in a speech to his people that they must “open their ears”. The devoted population took his expression literally, and promptly set about having their ears pierced - a practice that had not previously existed in Swaziland.

With this kind of unqualified clout, imagine what he could do if the current king were to direct his influence towards Swaziland’s most pressing national crisis - the spread of HIV. He does not. Swaziland has just recently surpassed Burundi as the country with the highest percentage of HIV positive citizens in the world. The epidemic is confounded by a host of superstitious ideas, including the widespread belief that one can cure oneself from AIDS by having sex with a virgin.

King Mswati has made no public announcement or policy regarding HIV in the six years since he conceded publicly that it was a “disease”. Since then he has consistently ignored the issue, even redirecting foreign aid to finance the construction of another royal palace. What little assistance Swazis with HIV do get is provided by foreign aid and volunteers like Norman. With political parties banned and freedom of the press non-existent it seems unlikely that change will come soon.

King Mswati currently has fourteen wives as well as an extremely active extramarital life. In a country where 39% of the population is HIV positive it is more than likely that he will fall victim to his own refusal to face the problem that plagues his people. In fact speculations already abound, as in the very few recent photos of the king made public, it appears that he’s gained some substantial weight - a common symptom of the retro-virus used to treat AIDS patients.

My short visit to the Kingdom was enough experience with the monarchical system for me. The whole situation is sure to appear in the case for the merits of representative government in my classroom in the future.

Swaziland

Back at the Backpacker Ritz I met an aid worker named Norman. He was at the end of a two year stint at an orphanage for children with HIV in the Kingdom of Swaziland. He and Tony, a Nigerian with a degree in micro-biology, had come to Johannesburg to do some shopping. Tony hadn’t been able to find work at home so he took a job teaching science in a remote village in Swaziland. I talked about an interest in seeing some of rural Africa and visiting a school. They were heading back in the morning and were happy to give me a lift. The next day we were off, driving in Norman’s mini-van across the border and into Swaziland. The trip took about five hours. I spent the first night in Manzini, the largest city in the tiny Kingdom of Swaziland. I slept in one of the empty volunteer’s quarters.

The following day Norman dropped Tony and I off at the bus terminal to catch a bus to Toney’s village. It was there in the dusty crowded Manzini bus lot that I had perhaps my most important moment in Africa. Norman’s departure made me suddenly aware that I was the only white person there. It was five o’clock. The place was packed. Radios bleared, horns honked, drivers shouted out there destinations. People held things out to me as they passed by trying to get me to buy them. Everyone was moving. Everywhere I looked there was a sea of black faces, and it seemed as though every single one was staring right back at me. It was the fact that I drew so much attention that made me begin to feel so acutely uncomfortable. It hit me. I’ve only known Tony for twenty-four hours. We could barely communicate. Now I was in the middle of a country I had barely heard of. I hardly knew where I was, let alone where I was going. Paranoia took hold of me. I tried to stay as close to Tony as I could as he maneuvered through the throngs of people to find the right bus. The scene was chaotic. I clutched my things. My eyes darted everywhere. I was resolved to see the danger that seemed inevitable before it struck.

Tony had me stand and wait while he went off to find a bus that still had seats. I watched the back of his shirt disappear into the crowd. I was alone. I was surrounded. It was ten minutes; an eternity. I could see a guy eyeing me. I looked at him then looked away, but I could see that he was coming over to me. I braced myself. He stood right in front of me and pointed at my watch. I recoiled a bit. Then he pointed to his own bare wrist. My fear turned to embarrassment. All he wanted was the time. I told him it was a quarter past five. We smiled and then he turned and hopped on a bus. It was enough to totally disarm me. It was funny. When I looked at the masses swarming around me now I saw a lot of people going about their business, mostly tired people trying to get home. I had not been prepared for the fear that came over me. This same feeling compounded over time is probably what made the racist Afrikaans I had met a few nights earlier racist.

Tony and I boarded a bus. Everyone stared at me. I waved. The whole bus waved back. We went to his village. I slept on the floor next to him, his wife and their two week old daughter.














Tony had me take a family portrait in every article of clothing they owned. This is just one in a long series.















He was also very keen to show me off around his village. A lot of the little kids cried or ran when they saw me. Most were curious.

Soweto

A visit to Soweto is an emotional roller coaster, however, being the most famous of the “townships” created by the Apartheid government to segregate its population, Soweto is a must see for anyone trying to understand this chapter of South Africa’s history. Its grid of indistinguishable drab box homes are a testament to what happens when a government has no concern for the welfare of a segment of its people. It is also here that the movement that would eventually dismantle that system first took root, and its people talk with pride about the part they played in its undoing.

I spoke with locals in a shebeen (township bar). One guy told me about how he and other youth organizers had to pretend that they were a swimming club and meet in secrecy at the pool. It was illegal for blacks to assemble in large groups under apartheid. He laughed about how it was sometimes difficult to take one another seriously while standing in their bathing suits. “Not one of us could swim” he said with another great laugh. Another middle-aged man told me emphatically, "none of this was here", gesturing to the things in front of us, "the roads, the cars, that gas station, that market, none of it was here - it was only dirt." The others at our table nodded, and I could see them envisioning the Soweto of their youth. This was perhaps the most tangible impression I had yet of what had changed since the end of Apartheid in South Africa. Indeed the signs of improvement were everywhere in Soweto. There were still “unofficial settlements” within Soweto – shanty towns of currigated iron and make shift fences that illustrated a poverty that could not be denied. But the signs of development were everywhere - electric lines and sewer systems being laid out. There was a huge hospital, the largest in the southern hemisphere. People owned cars. It was clear that with the restrictions of apartheid lifted the material things were trickling in.


An old coal burning plant that had been beautified


Me and "grandma"- she said she was 86 and had never had her picture taken.

The Lure of Gold

While taking care of the necessary task of exchanging travelers checks I stumbled upon an unexpected record of the cities sorted past. During the banks construction, right in the center of downtown Johannesburg, workers uncovered a vast network of tunnels running underneath the city itself. Beneath the tellers and the ATMs there is now a section of one of these tunnels which has been preserved as an exhibit. From the impressive marble lobby you can get into an elevator and when the doors open you are in a 19th century mine shaft. Lit only by lanterns, an iron cart sits on a track leading down a tight crack in the rock and onwards into the darkness below. Even more revealing are the black and white photographs on display - pictures of the mine when it was operational, with half-naked sweating Africans starring back blankly at the camera, or captured in their brutal task of breaking up the rock. In many pictures they are hunched over in the cramped spaces with knees bare in the rocky rubble, gouging at the rock with simple hand tools. In most they are not the focal point, but in the background behind a bunch of hard looking white bosses posing for the camera. In these pictures the words of Alan Paton, South Africa's most famous author, can be seen to be true - "the wealth of South Africa’s gold mining industry is not so much do to the richness of gold as it is to the poorness of black wages."

Nowhere is the vastness of the mineral wealth which has been drained from the African continent more apparent than in Johannesburg. The native name for the city - “gauteng” means “city of gold”. Of the metal estimated to have been mined in the world to date, around half has come from Africa, and the bulk of that has been from the nation of South Africa. It has been and remains the world's largest producer of both gold and diamonds. Its landscape is still littered with man-made mountains of mine waste and the hulking machinery of depleted mine-shafts. The demands of the mining companies for a guaranteed supply of permanently cheap black unskilled labor led to the legalized framework of racial discrimination. The origins of apartheid lays in large part in the mines and the lure of gold.

At the beginning of 1886 the undistinguished stretch of Transvaal highveld that would become Johannesburg was nothing more than open plains and sparsely settled farmland. All that would change when George Harrison, an Australian prospector, stumbled on the only surface outcrop of the richest gold-bearing reef in the world. Within months droves of diggers descended on the site, and a tent city was erected. Because the gold was deep and in reef form, not the easily accessible alluvial form, mining required heavy equipment, so mines were quickly concentrated in the hands of men who had the capital to finance large underground operations. From there the city of Johannesburg sprung up and is today the largest economic hub in all of Africa.




Though their conditions have been much improved miners in South Africa still do not have a life to be envied. Most begin their day by climbing into the metal cages that will take them deep into the belly of the earth where they will spend there shift in one of the narrow shafts that run as deep as 10,000 feet (nearly 2 miles). At that depth the temperature of the surrounding rock reaches 130°and it is necessary to pump refrigerated air in constantly. During my stay in South Africa the newspapers were filled with coverage of the current mine workers strike.