From a week ago I suppose

October 12, 2011. Nasika afa dahali. My counting of the days has gotten off. I don't know how to fix it, or if it even matters. Yesterday, we made batiks, a form of African art that involves dieing, waxing, and painting fabric. Mine is of a Masai warrior herding cattle. Most did theirs of lions, elephants, and trees. I couldn't stand for the hours while it took--still sick-- so instead drew while seated on the white tile, listening to the hum of Swahili, a rhythmic language in which every word ends in a vowel. Swahili is a language marked by its simplicity--there is one word for good/great/jolly/jovial/fantastic/excellent: "nzuri," and bad/unhappy/uncomfortable/homesick is simplified to, "mbaya." No one uses this latter word, however. I feel restricted in the same was as Orwell's characters in 1984, yet here, many seem all too aware of their desperate situations. Mzungus, or white people, are all the same to locals. We are assumed to be wealthy and ready to buy cheap goods at a grossly exaggerated price. I am indistinguishable from any of the other volunteers. It's a foreign feeling, to be unacknowledged.
(Feel free to skip this part if dry, boring writing is not really your thing). Today, as one of our cultural activities, we went to the ICTR, or International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, located in the heart of Arusha, a town larger than Moshi located about an hour and a half away. The building is one of the biggest I have seen yet in Tanzania, yet does not inspire intimidation. We left our bags, water bottles, and cameras in the van, and walked into the center of the world for bringing war-criminals of the Rwandan genocide to justice. We were ushered into the press room overlooking the trial of a well-known military leader during the genocide. Listening to the trial was fascinating, yet vastly dissimilar to the Law and Order episode some many in our group were picturing. The witness being interrogated by the defense team was anonymous, yet we heard his crisp French over the flimsy black earphones. He was also a high ranking military official during April of 1994, was was illustrating, using colored pens, the routes that were advised for civilians during the year. Questions were asked, objections made, and crushed developed on the defense lawyer with a British accent. We were then taken to a room where we watched a short documentary about the history of the court, its difficulties in sustaining years of trials, and the tribunal's planned development. The film was outdated and boring, but I remained interested. A few days ago, packets were passed out containing information about the court, and in my free time, (we have so much), I read the history of the court as well as the details of the 92 accused. A minister, (of what, I'm still not sure), then came to answer questions about the courts. Mine were about the Witness Protection Program created for the ICTR--how do you protect people from another country from persecution while trying to avoid external relocation from country to country-- and the remaining court system in Rwanda, in which there are two parts: the traditional, equipped with judges, jurors, defense and prosecution, and the community court, in which the accused is judged by peers.

Many were nodding off, having little interest in foreign policy, but I found the day fascinating.
The Internet works sporadically here, but in a moment of Firefox power on the computer's part and vanity on my own, I checked the stats of my blog: viewed 465 times since creation. In all likelihood, 400 are from my mom, but the notion that anyone besides my parents would read my words is odd. The power of language, the power of words; I want to master them all. We go on Safari tomorrow. I'm sorry if I repeat. Life is repetitious here. Men watch day after day their goats graze on similar patches of grass, as they sit in crouched positions. Women listen to the same four songs and children spin the same weathered tire up and down the road. I hear crickets every night, I laugh the same, smile the same. Trace the same scar on my arm and birthmark on my leg, around and around and around.