"It is difficult to believe in the dreadful but quiet war of organic beings, going on in the peaceful woods, & the smiling fields."
- Charles Darwin
I am fighting a fever.
For the 2nd time in the last 20 minutes, Yves is going over what data they have, and how they want to display it. I try not to cough, and hold a clammy hand to my mouth to muffle the sound. I need a coffee, I need a thermos of Neo Citron, I need to be wearing my jammies and huddled next to a Book of Grave Consequence - something by Rohinton Mistry perhaps, or some other newly discovered, immensely talented, award-winning Asian Writer of Grave Consequence. Why is it that these types of Asian writers are so prized? Why can't there be an Asian Tom Robbins, or David Sedaris? Why is it always some mildly concealed identity political tract about the "asian" experience of living in another country, living in our own country, or moving from our country to another one and learning all the important life lessons along the way? Why do we take ourselves so seriously?
"So you want a spatial database of where people died, who killed them, when
and with what weapon? And you want all this cross-referenced to the video, audio
and written testimonies of the survivors and the pictures of the deceased? And
you want to display this on a 42" widescreen TV in the lobby and on the
Internet?"
"Exactly"
I look out the car window at the green hills of Rwanda -- they act as excellent visual scales of the landscape, telling you more acutely than a map how far you are from where you are going, and how close you are to where you are. My nose being clogged, I can't smell much, but I image the wind to carry a whiff of something earthy, something dusty, something brown. At the side of the road there is a woman selling those clay candle-holding pots that C wants for our patio. She looks up and sees me staring. She straightens up and stares right back, and I can read in her eyes either "How much do you think this is worth? I'll give you a good price." or equally probable "Why are you in my country?" I can't tell. And even if I could, I don't know.
I imagine men with hatred in their eyes stomping up and down these hills, their rusty machetes scraping the tall grasses. I imagine one of them holding a radio, letting the words of distant men with hatred on their tongues drone out the sounds of laughter, then horror, then silence. I imagine the boot prints on the blood-stained ground, and of the cold finality of that one location, that one set of co-ordinates for a person -- for 800,000 people -- and the ribbon of data connecting them all, made visible.
I am fighting a fever.
We were playing around with our photographer's new Canon EOS 5D, and he took this pic:
And because Wordpress is supported by Windows Live Writer and because the internet connection here is too slow to stay online composing Vox posts, I've been doing most of my updates on our wedding website [for those in the know, you already know where it is].
In abundance in Kigali, are the motorcycle taxi's or "motos" as they are called. Cheaper than a taxi, less crowded than the bus and fun. Now I'm considering of getting my own moto once a few paycheques have rolled in.
