Michelle May

The DRC was one of those places I often referenced when talking about places I would never be crazy enough to visit.  For instance when people wrongly think that Iran is a place of “chaos and war” I correct them- “It’s not like it’s the DRC” I often say.  Here in Rwanda I heard many stories about the violence that goes on over in the Congo.  The violence perpertarted against women is on par with Darfur- it is said to be a lawless corrupt place- not a place I would risk going to.  But then I went.  Unlike other countries, I still believe, post visit, that the DRC is a place which is very dangerous.  I am not an expert- I just read books & read news- all of which could be misconstrued propaganda.  That said, the NGO workers I have met who have been there tell me that what I hear about the DRC in the news is correct, if anything understated.  Like the long going genocide in Rwanda, foreign powers seem to turn a blind eye. The chaos in the Congo makes it so they can rape the land of its natural resources- including minerals which are used in cell phones, and diamonds… seems like that may be why no one does anything about it (my opinion at least).

I hired a guide to take me around- I was told that one is absolutely a must or else a tourist like me would get hassled to death.  Even with a guide we were bombarded by people desperate to make money that they would surround us trying to get us to go on their motor taxi or buy something- quite different from Rwanda.  We visited a poor part of the city of Goma, near the airport & just one of the many UN compounds.  There young children in scraps of clothing toiled away clinking at rocks-  the rocks are in fact dried lava, as most of the town of Goma was covered in lava after a volcano erupted in 2002.  My guide tried to show me some houses still immersed in lava but as we tried to walk to the area a man came out behind a shack and started screaming at us- he seemed to be very angry.  My guide said that the man was simply “overtaken with joy in seeing a visitor” Ha!  That story again changed to “he’s a hooligan who smokes marijuana” and then finally to “It is a government official who wants a bribe.” 

We also visited the “rich” part of Goma- which is on the lake- land which was not there pre volcano eruption.  There we chatted with prostitutes drinking beer in shacks as construction on houses went on all around them.  We still had to stumble around on dried lava which made visiting this area even more exhausting- never mind the emotional inundation.  The newly built compounds were surrounded by bundles and bundles of razor wire.  I asked who lived in these homes as we passed some homeless people getting comfortable in the driveway entrance of one home. “They’re empty” my guide explained.  I guess they are counting on NGOs to rent them out for their foreign workers.  The UN has its biggest mission going in the DRC; from what I saw most of them consist of Indians and Uruguayans- we saw them riding about 100 to a truck- heading over to Rwanda for some R&R.  I can imagine it is extremely intense and depressing working in the DRC- something I have learned this trip is that the darkness and intensity n this region is something far too powerful for me at this point in my life- it would engulf me.  I don’t think I could ever live and work here.

In my brief visit I saw images of war and abject poverty at a level unlike I have seen before - a little boy sucking on a real gun on roadside, hate in a young boys eyes when he saw me, women walking about as empty vessels- no doubt they had been raped at least one in their lifetime, wooden bicycles that look like they are out of the movie Mad Max ridden by young boys in dirty ragged clothing- desperate for work or a way to make money.  I could not help but think of the DRC as a crying helpless baby- only wanting its mother and the most basic of comforts- but it cries in vain- no one comes- at least not to help- take advantage of her yes- help- no.  The DRC cries alone- shivering- cold, hungry, terrified.  I pray for this country’s people- what a horrific and unjust existence.  No one should have to live that way just so the rick can get richer.  We are very lucky to have been born where we were born- I think it is up to us to speak up and help those who have had the bad luck to have been born into something so horrible.

Tags: Congo, poverty, rape, the Democratic Republic of Congo, the DRC, war.

Happy Holidaze from Kigali, Rwanda ya’ll… Made it here from Uganda a few days back.   For 2 such small (relatively speaking) countries, Rwanda & Uganda could not be more different from eachother!  I took a local bus to the Rwandan border from Kampala, Uganda.  THere we had to exit the bus & take all contents out of our bags and bus.  The Rwandan authorities went through everyone’s bag, etc- to be sure that no plastic bags were on board- little boys were running around selling brown and cloth bags rather than the usual water, sweeties, etc-.  I learned that Rwanda has a law that is truly enforced-  no plastic bags are allowed.  Apparently this happend after they did a big clean up in Kigali & found millions of plastic bags littering the place- The President Paul Kagame made the decision- no more plastic bags!  Wow, if America could just do that.

As we drove into Rwanda we shifted from driving on the left side of the road to the right- another surprise.  Something else that struck me was that the green rolling hills and small villages were not littered with trash like i am used to seeing in nearly every corner of the globe (hey, have never been to SIngapore).  THere seemed to be a dignity even in simple homes & huts- flower gardens were bursting, etc-.  A man I met on the bus told me that Rwanda has strict laws around littering, and they also pay people to clean up the streets- creating jobs/income & keeping it clean.  Every last saturday of the month is community project day where all businesses are closed & no one is allowed to drive a car or motorbike- because they ought to be working on their community project!  Amazing….   My new friend & I discussed how many many countries, like Rwanda,  get huge amounts of international aid- but many of them do not seem to benefit or make real progress.  Well considering the genocide just happened 15 years ago- i would say that Rwandans & the Kagame government seem to be doing something VERY right here. 

It has been heartening to see how well this country is doing now- I did not expect it.  That is not to say that there is not still poverty, pollution, chaos- but from what I see so far Rwanda is much better run than any other sub-Saharan African country i have been to, all while carrying the huge burden of their past.  When i think about the aid that say, Haiti has gotten & compare to it here there is such a big difference- as my friend on the bus said, the difference is having a good leader versus a bad one- but we also suspect there is more to it than that & we need someone to do some hard research on the subject.  I just got here so i am no expert but so far I give Kagame my stamp of approval.  It’s not just the plastic-A few other things that made me say hmmmm…:

- pedestrian appears to have the right of way when crossing the street- cars stop so us pedestrians can cross in cross walks where there is no traffic light- not true in most parts of the world where crossing the street is the biggest travel safety hazard (ie:  Tehran, Beirut, Hanoi, Bangkok, Ramallah, etc-)

-Kagame has changed the official language from the local Rwandan & French to the local Rwandan & English.  Seeing as how France sold the genocide perpetrators millions in arms which were used to carry out the genocide, I can see why- also it is a smart $/business/tourism in my (selfish) opinion ; )

- i thougt there was more & there definitely is, but i just cannot think of them right now (it’s nap time).  What i am telling you is all very surface- there is so much to say about everything else.. i will get to that soon… But must get some shut eye now…  Much love from Rwanda.

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July 19, 2009

At dusk Hilton & I drove to the Saudi Arabian Border, about 10 kilometers south of Aqaba, where he lives in Jordan.   There is something invigorating about borders to me- they represent possibility of something new, and also very clear limitations and rules.  Both things that we as humans can be simultaneously intrigued and comforted by.  Still, if Saudi Arabia was not so bloody difficult to get into then I could go there.  Fact is unless I am accompanied by my brother, husband or father- it is simply a no-go zone for me.  That is probably why I want to go so badly. 

As Hilton and I watched the sun set over the border crossing the desert mountains turned a pinkish orange behind the border fences.  The lights on at the Saudi side of the border crossing gradually flickered on.  “Those are Saudi waters, Michelle!” Hilton said, looking away from the lights and pointing to the portion of the Gulf of Aqaba just south of a beach clubs where we are allowed to frolic-and wear what we want- co-ed.  I wondered further: what it would be like to actually swim to Saudi?

Hilton and I took a long pause and exchanged a few stories of border crossings.  Me, I told him of a time back in 2003 that I convinced myself I would be content with a 2 week holiday in Spain and Portugal at Christmastime.  Naturally, I found myself painfully bored with Western Europe, so I came up with a last minute plan to take a ferry boat from Southern Spain to Morocco.  As I waited for the ferry to Morocco in Algeciras, Spain I saw a very handsome Frenchman in the terminal wearing a black peacoat, carrying a guitar case.  I stole glances at him, wondering what sort of artist/musician he must be, as we went through customs.  I sat on the boat for 40 minutes watching out of the corner of my eye as he spoke to a French couple.  He glanced over at me- I feigned nonchalance and disinterest, never looking back at him.  I assumed he was traveling with the couple.  As we were getting off the boat to enter Morocco he left his place in line with the couple and came to the back of the line where I was.   “Are you traveling alone?”  he asked.  Surprised, I nodded.  “So am I” he smiled.  “Pierre” he put his hand out to shake mine. “Michelle” I must have been blushing.  We made small talk as we both entered into our 1^st point of entry onto the African continent- Tangier. 

Men in long brown long robes with pointy hoods dotted the streets.  There was a lack of female presence.  It was winter so I bundled my coat and put all of my hair up into a hat.  Pierre and I walked through a mud street near the dock, and found a large rusty tea hall, full of men.  We ordered hot tea which came in tall glasses full of dark tea, mint leaves, and at least an inch of sugar on the bottom of the glass.  Pierre told me about the band he is in Toulouse & how he came to Morocco to see a Moroccan friend who lived on the outskirts of Fes.  Pierre was tall and lean; his dark hair was in contrast to his perfect white French skin.  He had a boyish smile, and had an air of French chic that was hard to find back home in granola-y, weather-functional Berlin, where I was living at the time. 

We eventually boarded a bus for Fes.  I was tired, having hardly slept the night before- he explained that he was also exhausted- since he took and an overnight train from Toulouse to Madrid & then onto Algeciras.  The bus was not crowded but men and women were seated separately.  I sat in 2 vacant seats across the aisle from Pierre, where he sat with his own two vacant seats.  I told him I was going to lie down and take a nap.  “Okay, or you can lay down in my lap to sleep if you like.”  That was pretty bold.  I was not about to refuse that offer, since it felt almost like a dare.  I scooted over to where he was.  We only knew eachother about 2 hours at that point so it was a bit awkward to go ahead and put my head in his lap, like I have my mother or long-term boyfriends when i want nurturing.  As soon as I did he began playing with my hair.  My neck.  My back.  My upper legs.  His touch was delicate, but arousing; it conveyed more care than I thought could be allotted considering we did not know eachother at all.  The tension built.  I sat up.  We began making out.  I took a scarf and put it over our heads to try to hide what we were doing.  Afterwards he put his head in my lap.  He played with my knees.  He pulled up my pant legs and stroked my calves.   It was too bad  we were on a public bus- in an Islamic country.

When we arrived in Fes his friend was waiting for him.  His friend gave me his home phone number in the village he was taking Pierre to.   Pierre kissed me goodbye, and said see you again- soon “call me.”  I skipped away, excited by what had happened, even more thrilled about what was to come and in awe of how life can change and be so interesting in a matter of minutes.  I kept thinking back to the sound of his voice and accent as I walked about a mile to find a hotel to stay in.  The next morning- after fantacizing about him all night-  I tried to call his friend’s home.  The phone number was a defunct number- there was a number missing.  My heart sank.  I thought about sending him an email but we never even exchanged email addresses.  I did not even know his last name.  I contacted the border police to see if they could tell me the last name of a Frenchman by the name of Pierre who had arrived by ferry the day before at about 1PM.  No luck.  I felt lonelier than before I met Pierre- because now there was this unexpressed emotion.  This stirred up sensuality.  What was worse was wondering that perhaps Pierre even asked his friend to give me the wrong phone number.  Maybe he did not like the way that I smelled or kissed?  My insecurities deafened the chaos of the souks, and washed out the pungent colors of the mosques. 

Two days later in a museum in Marakesh I heard a woman with French accent say my name “Michelle- hello! Michelle!”  it was the female half of the couple Pierre was talking to on the ferry- I had met them briefly through Pierre as we were disembarking.  “How are you and Pierre doing?” she asked me with a smile suggesting a bit of oo-la-la.  “I don’t know- the last time I saw him was when we arrived at the Fes bus station.”  Auriele went on to explain that she knew Pierre from high school- and that on the ferry from Spain was the first time that they had seen one another in about 10 years- by chance.  It hit me that this woman could help me find him “What is his last name?!”  “You can remember this easily- because his last name is a French word meaning fear- Effroy.”  “Effroy– Effroy” I repeated her while jotting it down in large letters in my Morocco guide book.  Back in Berlin, I had a French friend call French Yellow Pages inquiring into Pierre’s whereabouts.  “I am very sorry Michelle- there are no Pierre Effroys listed”  my romance-inspired French friend broke the news, as crushed as I was.   I had to give it up.  And I did.   

Fast forward to Jordan nearly 6 years later:  the story inspired Hilton so much that he went home & google searched Pierre.  I guess a lot has changed, technology-wise, in the past 6 years… We found him on youtube- we listened to him sing, read reviews of his band, and saw his myspace page.  “Write him right now!” Hilton excitedly demanded.  I jotted down Pierre’s email from his myspace page.  On grainy footage, I watched his lean body fold over his guitar- his cheekbones lit up by the stage light.  I have not written Pierre yet and may not.  I still love borders and romance. Combine the two and I can barely contain myself.  But Pierre was not my first border romance & he was not the last.  Still, I do not know why I brought that particular story up to Hilton- as we sat at the Saudi border in Jordan after the sun went down- but it was great to see someone else as excited about Pierre as I once was.       

Tags: border crossing, hot Frenchmen.

My experience of Dubai is very different from when i was here 4 years ago.   In a nutshell, I now see what all the fuss is about, whereas last time i really did not enjoy.  Dubai has all sorts of exotic touches- of India, of Africa, or Arabia, all in one place, but with all the creature comforts of home.  Strangely enough it reminds me of a hyper-diverse strip-mally Arizona with Arabic flavor.  I think it would be very liveable here but also it would be difficult not to get spoiled & wrapped up in all the luxuries that can be had.  It has potential neo-colonialist written all over it- that’s part’s not nice. 

Today I had to go and pick up my visa at the Iran embassy.  The process of getting the visa here was about 50x easier than it was in Germany last summer.  Everyone at the embassy appeared happy, helpful and uber efficient.  It seems that many Iranians can be over here in Dubai, and like me , still have many of the creature comforts of home, plus having all sorts of liberties that they don’t have at home such as dressing how they want in public, shopping like mad (there is more variety here) & even kicking backa few beers and going to nite clubs!  Now i understand more why friends back in Tehran talk at length about Dubai and try to make it here a few times a year.  Makes sense…

I was told that of the 4 million Dubai-ians (what are they called?) only 1million hail from the UAE.  From what i have seen i would say it is even less than that.  With all the different nationalities here it is a dream for me, and an ideal example of many different cultures coexisting very peacefully.  Today at the gold souk I spoke with Eritreans, Somalians, Afghanis, Iraqis, Pakistanis, Indians, Filipinos, and finally even met my 1st native Emirati (UAE-er).  All the while an occasional gaggle scantily clad tourists walked by without an eyelash being bat or much gawking.  It made a place like NYC seem homogenous in comparison.

I am still jet-lagging, but it sure is nice to stay at the fabulous hotel I am at and in a “family suite” which is much bigger than my apartment back home-  Am online here now & regret to say that i still cannot figure video out on this website, so i am having to default again to Blogger.  THat said, i am not even sure if blogger is blocked or not in Iran, so i will rely more on the podcast & photos– Still, this flip is so fun and handy that all day i cold not resist filming glimpses of assortment of Dubai-ians.  

I am off to Oman tomorrow and leaving the bike here in storage along with my gear. That means i only have one small bag to take.  it is about 42 Celcius- HOT and air quality is verrry bad- visability is a about arms length.. if is foggier (smoggier) than i have ever had seen in SF, LA, Tehran, or Mexico City for that matter.  My eyes sting.  I did see a biker-biker here and was wondering how he was coping and if he has a grey lung or two as a result. 

PS:  I can hear Obama speaking on a telly in the background- Obamarama is ***hot*** even here! ; )

Tags: Arizona, Dubai, India, Iran, Kerala.