Years from now, I will look at my children and tell them that one day your mama was on a mountain top in Rwanda, East Africa planting trees. They will think I am a crazy mom, of course, but then I’ll show them these pictures and they will see that I ain’t so crazy. The journey to the mountaintop marked the inauguration of a new youth group that would be committed to service. I didn’t know that the walk would be so long. I didn’t know that it would actually be a hike. And lord knows I didn’t know it would be up a mountain. Nonetheless, I put on my standard, comfortable [and cute] clothes, my pretty, pink pumas and began the trek. There were times when I doubted my ability to make it through but I did.The end was rewarding for many reasons: the physical experience, the confidence building aspect of it, and the ceremonial experience of tree-planting here in Rwanda. The students sang and danced as they planted the trees. Some sat down and chatted, but I think in general, everyone felt a sense of community. I am glad I made the journey. Can I change my name to mountaineer now?
mama, i made it
leaving campus
this is when i realized that we were going up a mountain
we went beyond that bush in the background
two of my travel and tourism students looking awesome in their ranger gear!
it was amazing to see that people live up these hills
my pumas: from panama to rwanda
The
Rwandan government has made no mistake when it comes to investing in youth and
instilling in them, the mindset that youth can and do have the ability to
impact their country. Each time I am teaching a new group of students, they remind me that they understand their own power within society. My
students, when asked why they have chosen to study, rarely have selfish or
personal reasons; they always mention something about improving their country.
It’s an interesting phenomenon, I would say. Really, it is. Say what you must,
but they have got the youth empowerment thing figured out.
In just the two short months that I have been here, I have experienced quite a few things that compound my aforementioned observations. I sat in a presentation where some officials came by to discuss the role of democracy in society and how youth are a part of that equation. I went to the second year anniversary for the organization of students who are genocide survivors. To see the manner in which they regard themselves, the family they have created, and the dedication they have to upholding the legacy of the organization, is commendable. Finally, this week I was a part of an experience that reaffirmed one of the reasons why I do what I do. Who doesn’t want youth to journey to the mountaintop while sowing their seeds along the way, and becoming the voices of their generation?
student leaders addressing their peers, officials, and community members
everyone was in on the fun :)
chillin'
if this doesn't capture enjoyment, i don't know what does
to think: there's more to come folks!
*This blog (Bee's Backseat) is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.
From feisty Panama in Central America to soothing green
hills in Rwanda, East Africa, I welcome you once again to Bee’s Backseat. Or should I say 'Muraho," which means 'hello' in Kinyarwanda. Less
than three months ago I hauled my two overweight suitcases and hoped that my oversized carry-on and way-too-big personal item would fly. Pun intended ;) I
was moving all of my stuff back to my hometown, the DMV, but I was also headed
to a very important orientation in Washington DC. This year, I was awarded a J. William Fulbright grant to teach English in Rwanda. It is no secret how I
feel about Africa, education, youth development, language and cross-cultural
exchange, so you must know already that I am still trying to grasp how big of a
blessing and dream come true this is for me.
Because writing is more than a hobby, because I can’t wait to paint this
picture through my words, and because I couldn’t imagine taking anyone else on
this journey, I invite you to come along on this ride. This time, we are
journeying through a small country nestled in East Africa with lush greenness
overflowing. I can’t wait to pour out my experiences in Rwanda, onto my
keyboard, and to deliver the goodness of this blessing unto your browsers where
ever you are. I have made a pact with myself to journal more and blog at the
same time. This is bigger than me now J
Mama, I’m a Fulbrighter!
the best thing ever! vinaigrette filled avocado was simply the best thing ever. i dipped my fries in it, although the fries were not pictured! beef brochettes are yummy here. (roast beef, suya, kabob. you pick your name!)
peace
this is Rwanda.
a typical lunch. more to come on food! for now the basics: stewed meat, some type of greens, and green plantains.
standing somewhere in between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo :) pretty cool being in between two countries!
these women are walking across the border to buy and sell goods. My new home is a business/trading area!
I encourage you all to subscribe as a passenger on Bee’s
Backseat. I don’t want you to miss out on this journey in the Land of 1,000
hills!
Africa to the T gate. I’ll try not to feel like this section of the airport was partitioned just for us Africans, lol. Fine. I won’t be super American and overly analytical about it. I’ll just enjoy the shuttle ride, I thought to myself.
Leg 1 of the two-day journey was smooth. I slept the whole way and barely ate.
mandatory pre-departure selfie
Brussels. Africans. Oh, Africans going home. When I saw the black leather pants in a row, I knew they were going to Francophone Africa---Cameroon or Congo to be exact. When I saw the blackest stuntin’ dreadheads spittin’ wollof, I KNEW they were going to the Gambia. But when I saw the sneakers, hats, vests, swag on 1,000 and know-it-all-talkin’ people, I knew they [we] were going to Sierra Leone. And even if I missed those things, the three-year-old girl decked out in the two-piece denim vest set with furry boots screamin’ “Look am yah. Kalilu dey nah yah,” would have been a dead give away. Gate T 67, Flight 241 to Freetown now boarding.
Malaria medicine. Okada power. Lights out. I’m here. Breeze blowin,’ ferry chillin.’ I’m here. If I ever wanted so badly to paint a picture with my words through the journey of mind, this would be the time. Si-erra Le-oooone (Say this like Frank Ocean). Who are you, if you don’t know where you are from? I can recall my first trip back to the birthplace of my parents in 2006. My mother watched my brother and I as we assessed the brick red, clay dirt roads, trashed streets. Two American-born children making their first visit to the place that created their parents. At that moment, my mother said to us, “I know you guys are wondering why I brought you here, but you have to see where you all are from.” Out of this nation, my parents existed and therefore I exist. Through the red dirt roads, pan body homes, palm trees. Out of those things, I exist. Those words from my mother echo in my mind each time I think of Sierra Leone and my future. But we’ll get there.
“Welcome,” the men on the tarmac said as I stepped off of the last step of the big, Brussels airplane, boasting of the holidaymakers’ arrivals (JC). He smiled. I said, “Thank you, una tenki.” Felt good. I had been yearning to be there since I stepped on the tarmac at Helicot seven years ago. I cried when I was leaving last time. For the connection that I felt. For the first taste of what it meant to be of this place. For the plight of my people and for the work that I felt charged to do. The same tears rimmed my eyes upon arrival.
Had to wipe those tears quickly though because Lungi Airport during the holiday season is no joke. If you ever wonder why you should travel as lightly as possible, try arriving with more than one piece during this time. Figuring out who is really there to pick you up and be of real assistance is a task in itself. Lucky me, somehow I had two people waiting to pick me up at the airport. One route would have me splashing through this river on the $40.00 speedboat that my mother had warned vehemently against. And the other would subject me to the ferry, which I have never minded until January 10th---but more on that later.
My aunt sent a woman to collect me at the immigration post. She asked if I was Bintu and I responded yes. I assume that my aunt must have described her American niece, as a cute, chocolate-y, shapely, chic with a flair. Okay, fine, maybe she didn’t. Either way, the woman found me. Together we proceeded to collect my two suitcases that screamed “traveling to Africa,” because only Africans buy those types of suitcases from the DC Farmer’s Market. After I lugged my suitcases from the carousel [alone], I wheeled them back to her where we placed them on a cart. Before we headed out, I needed to show my yellow card record of the proper immunisations, which due to the fact that no one has ever asked me for, I left in my drawer in Panama. But in true fashion of developing countries, the guy said that I was OK since I was with this particular woman. It’s the small things, lol. On our way out I noticed that she asked a guy to push the cart, and as an experienced traveller, I asked if she knew the guy and if he was trustworthy enough to be wheeling all of my summer essentials. She quickly retorted that she was a police officer and that this was her partner. Of course I should have never doubted that my aunt would send anyone incapable of obtaining her trust. She’s tough.
And there she stood as we walked out of the airport. My mom’s little sister. Or as we say in Krio, ‘di wan wey e call beyen,’ which translates to the one that she [my mother] called (after birth). I embraced my aunty Kumba and quickly began catching her up to all that an aunty needs to know. About myself. About mommy. About Eddie. About my daddy. About family things. Family feuds. The whole nine. And of course, about the hottest topic in an African family with an educated daughter/niece in her mid 20s---my love life. And of course prospects for marriage. A recurring theme in conversations when you're in your 20s, lol.
We rode from the airport to the dock to get on the ferry that would take us into Freetown. We jazzed on the ride, relaxed, and chatted together. Even took a couple of selfies. I felt good being with my aunty. Just she and I after a few years. She really is like a second version of my mom.
Even though I arrived when it was already dark, just like the last time, I made it a point to be observant. To take in everything about my surroundings. To watch roads. To watch people. To take mental notes. More mental notes than pictures, I told myself. This time, unlike the last time, I wanted to have a good sense of where I was going. Literally. Figuratively.
The next few days were spent sleeping and eating. And requesting dishes since I was a guest. But I was completely content having bread, fry-fry, stew, fish, plantains for breakfast everyday. Lol. And lucky me, I had two places of residence while I was home. My aunty’s house on Spur Loop, where I would kick it with my cousins, sit outside and overlook the hills in the city, enjoy sugar cane, pray for light, and receive visitors. And then I had my get-away, where I would---well you guessed---get away ;) lots of space. A glistening view of the ocean. Staff to cater to my needs and all around sweetness. Just being spoiled like the queen that I am.
In all of this goodness, I had lost a sight of the fact that I was travelling in Sierra Leone and forgot some of the idiosyncrasies of being in a developing country. I let the patience and calm that I prayed and worked so hard to achieve in Panama, slip out of the door. And I needed it most when I went to change my first $100.00 bill on the black market. I handed my money to this guy to change for me. He looked at the year on the bottom that tells the series. And he fixed his mouth to tell me that since it was 1996 series I could only get 400,000 LE for it as opposed to the going rate of 435,000 LE for 2006 and up series. First, I laughed. Then I got angry. And the more we travelled to get 435,000, the angrier I became. No one would give me 435 because the bill was 1996. They claimed that banks no longer accepted those series so the rate was much lower. But for the life of me, when I wake up to go to work everyday, and wait for the 15th and the 30th to get paid, and eagerly take my bank to Banco General to cash, not once does the discussion of what series I have been working for come up. Money is money. But they didn’t see it that way. I chalked it up to being the fascination/craving/wanting of all things new. There is a new $100.00 bill, something that my mom made me aware of, but knowledge by which I was not moved. Apparently, in the Sierra Leonean money market, this matters. Ditto. I ended up finding a guy that would give me 420,000. It took a while to decompress, #thingsyouhavetoadjustto #TIA
Who best to help you decompress than your family who have been waiting for years to see your face again. A large part of this trip was about family. Though I had my own agenda with community events and such, I wanted to spend time with my family and meet some of my dad’s family that I have never met. I knew that this trip would be emotional in a lot of ways. The last time I left Africa, my great grandmother and my grandmother were alive. They passed in January and May 2007 respectively. In fact when I bought my ticket back in July, I got excited at the thought of cracking jokes with my grandmother on her veranda. Then it dawned on me that this time I wouldn’t be able to crack jokes with her nor lie on the floor mat to feel the Harmattan breeze on her veranda; this time, I wouldn’t even get to see her in the flesh. Grandmas’ houses around the world always seem like the pillar. It shows that there is some hierarchy in the family. Not this time.
mommy, grandma and bee in 2007
On the brighter side I would get to meet my cousins from my dad’s sisters whom I had never met until this trip. But little did I know that there would be a whole host of aunties and uncles that I never knew existed. Apparently, my paternal grandfather had over 30 children. Yes, 30 children. Right, I knew that my grandmother was the first of many wives. I think I recall my grandfather boasting that he had seven wives. What I don’t recall is anyone ever telling me that somewhere out there I had 30 something Musa aunties and uncles. Lol. That may or may not have been important information.
bintu and bintu <3
my partner in all young people affairs, lol.
As you know a Panama beach babe like myself couldn’t wait to hit the beach in my homeland. My aunty woke up early on Boxing Day and started preparing food for us to take to the beach. And I mean lots of food. Couscous, rice sticks, fried fish fingers, chicken, and beverages in a cooler. We set off on the bumpy road to No.2 River Beach. Just as we walked onto the sand, a petite chocolate girl grabbed my arm and said, “Bintu.” I looked at her trying to make sure I would say the right name. After a while, I too looked at the girl, and said “Bintu.” She responded yes and we embraced. This was my aunty Aminata’s daughter from Guinea. Both of us named after our beloved Grandmother. This was our first meeting, on the beach in Sierra Leone. Only fate could explain why I arrived at that time, why she decided to walk away from the beach at that time, and how two sisters who have never met could feel so connected. She came to see me several times a week after that. She stole my heart this Bintu girl. In a short time, our bond has become unbreakable. She recognized me from facebook. Thank you Mark Zuckerberg.
okada baby
My aunt would be coming in from Guinea soon for a big Musa wedding. The day she arrived she came to my aunty Kumba’s house to surprise me. I had been out with my friend having dinner at Bliss Restaurant on Wilkinson Road. My cousin came to pick us up and we got stuck in traffic on Signal Hill Road. I jumped on an Okada (for the 2nd time on my first day riding) and went to meet my sweet Aunty Aminata. Her presence, her sweetness, her warmth, the way she embraced me. Everything about her reminded me of my Guinean grandmother Bintu Janneh.
What does one super-cute, hot, chocolate, [and broke]
teacher do during a 10-day vacation? This was the question. Not a bad problem
to have, I must admit.
Months ago I had planned on entertaining a visiting guest,
or going to Nicaragua, or returning to Costa Rica or buzzing Bocas del Toro.
All of those plans fell through because I am on a budget, since I am traveling
to Sierra Leone in T minus ___ days!!! I toyed with the idea of Boquete in the
northern part of Panama because I wanted to spend some time in nature, going on
hikes, writing, and just planning. Planning whatever the heck I want to plan.
But then I did a bit of research and realized it would be too expensive to
spend a week there andddddddd I’m not exactly sure that it would have been the
most poppin’ place for a single lady like myself. Yeah, sure I could do some
writing and thinking and planning, but the truth is right now I am not sure
that I would have gotten a lot of writing done because I would have found a way
to be un-relaxed. And secondly, I tend to over-think and over-plan; I am actually
making an effort to relax and trying not to plan so many things in my life. I
am still grasping the concept of truly ‘going with the flow.’ And let Bee tell
you: it ain’t easy. It ain’t easy. Although, I have loads of fun, do crazy
things here and there (all within
reason), I tend to spend a lot of time making lists, jotting down plans, and
seriously over-planning even things that I over which I have no control.
So what did I do this break? I didn't make any plans. Not one, single
plan. I simply (well, not really), decided that I would sit at home and do
absolutely nothing until I was inspired to get up and go. Saturday I rested because the bed summoned my body. By
Sunday, my good friend and partner in many ridiculous things around Panama,
reminded me that this was the same weekend last year that he “allowed” me to be
in his circle. In other words, he wanted us to celebrate our year anniversary
of an amazing, rewarding, and truly eccentric friendship and many adventures
later. He didn’t have to ask twice. I packed an overnight bag and headed to ‘di
Colon side.’ Things were sure to pop-off as it was independence weekend. He
would march with his school, we would up-turn in the streets, eat lots of
street meat, hit the club, and be merry---all with the blackness and richness
of Colon City.
I am not sure that I have ever blogged about Colon proper.
But dammit, they deserve a few hash tags, peace signs, and a big, warm
thank-you hug from me. Colon is Caribbean. Colon is rich. Colon is intriguing.
Colon is unique. Colon is black. Colon is me.
Colon captured my heart in a way that gringos who live by
traveller’s book wouldn’t understand. Every piece of Colon reminded me of an
experience that I had in other parts of the world where the diaspora exists.
Every well-coordinated, neon-colored, leopard/cheetah, sandal-wearing ensemble,
gelled-hairstyle, reminded me of home. A home that could be anywhere. A home
that could be Georgia Avenue day in DC. A home that could be MASH in Guyana. A
home that could be New Year’s Day at Lumley Beach in Sierra Leone. A home that
could be a Friday-fish fry in Barbados. A home that could be anywhere where my
aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends live.
As we waited for my friend to finish marching with his
school, we enjoyed the ocean breeze from the Atlantic sitting pretzel-style on
the back lawn of the Washington Hotel in Colon City. Soon after, we set out to handle
the most important business: food. I was able to get a taste of the
independence kick-off parade, which left me wanting more. We found a $3.50
comida sold by a church on the street. Win.
What’s culture here? The combination of the obviously West Indian dishes
being called “comida.”
Next up…partying. Y’all know I love a good dance. It was a
holiday Sunday. So no work on Monday and Quincena; needless to say the club
would be a win and indeed it was. I danced with my friends. Alone. With
strangers. Danced so much a girl invited me to a birthday “parking.” I danced
so much, the people felt curious about me. And I felt this curiosity.
Monday was a beach day. We spent just a dollar to journey to
Playa La Angosta. The dollar bus ride was made more interesting by the
beautiful black man that adorned the seat in front of me. He was the symbol,
the essence of being on the Caribbean side. His black shone. Teeth glistened.
Jet-black shape-up screamed fresh. I didn’t speak to him, but I remember the neighborhood
where he got off. Don’t judge me.
The beach of course was---well, I can’t really say anything
bad about a beach in November ;)
Having been intrigued by the glimpse that I caught of a
Colon-style parade, I decided that I would go back to Panama City, collect some
more clothes and return on Tuesday morning for the Colon Day Parade.
Every November 5th, the people of Colon take the
street to celebrate the foundation of the Colon city. People fill the sidewalks
and the streets, corners, and even rooftops to witness the local schools march.
And just when you think the show is over, the independence bands show up late
in the evening and blow their horns, bang their drums, and fill the city with
their pride.
Colon is where there a large number of black migrants
settled after having arrived from primarily Barbados and Jamaica for the
construction of the canal back in the day. Needless to say, the Caribbean
influence and remnants of Caribbean culture is heavy. Old men talkin’ shyt to
their other gray-haired friends on porches. Older Caribbean women with one
special gold tooth. A plate of oxtail, rice and peas and a salad. And my brand
new favorite---icing glass---and the “original, original, icing glass,” as the
aunty-esque woman shouted down the carnival route. Colon is the kind of place
where you come to be reminded of the fact that really, we all are one. It is
the place where you see so many things that are similar in your life as a black
person. It’s the kind of place that tourists say don’t go to because its’ building
are decrepit, its trashcans are overflowing. But its’ trashcans ain’t the only
thing overflowing. The culture, the richness, the soul---Colon is overflowing
with these things as well. It is the
place where an old man, whom I have never met, can eye me with a toothpick in
his mouth, and speak to me with a familiarity as a patois-esque accent laces
his words asking if I “change up.” It is
a place where I would respond as if I had known this man as an uncle or so
before. It is a place where I understand nuances that some people just wouldn’t
get.
This is where I saw a man playing the drums in a band, who
reminded me so much of my grandfather that I chased him. His tall and stately
presence, his OG hat, his long Kissi chin, his Bambara finger length, his
entire swag. I chased him down the parade route. I bumped into old ladies.
Stepped on kids’ toes. Weaved throughout hundreds of people in the crowd. No
matter what I did, I couldn’t catch up with his steady pace. All I wanted was a
picture. Then it occurred to me that sometimes it’s best to just take in the
moment and not try to capture it. Maybe I would have captured more of him with
my own eyes, heart and soul if I weren’t so busy chasing him down with a
camera. He made me think of my paternal grandfather and it made me sad, but
happy at the same time. Maybe if I would have just took it all in, I would have
had more peace. I have been working on this more since that moment.
Trying to learn to just enjoy the ride. Next stop---AFRICA! :)
