A question of volume

I've not travelled much in Muslim lands, but when I do I'm often struck by the richness of the Islamic tradition. Its architecture is delicate and thoughtful; its music enchanting. But lying awake in my hotel room this morning at 5 a.m. as a cacophony of Arabic voices droned through the air from nearby mosques, I couldn't help but think that all those centuries of searching after divine beauty have been pulled to their doom by the wailing screech of the loudspeaker.

Or megaphone, because I'm pretty sure one of those was in use as well this morning. Either way, I've come to the conclusion that Muslim devoutness is no longer measured by study or submission. It's now a question of volume: may he (and it's always a he, yelling through the silence) with the most amped-up sound system or scratchiest megaphone find the swankiest digs in heaven.

Of course, that was all the coda to a thoroughly exciting early morning that didn't involve much sleep -- for other reasons. I was busy participating in my very own scene of the Fast and the Furious: Africa edition. And no, it didn't involve cars. Mo and I are now popping Cipro pills every day, trying to calm the thunderous storm that's constantly swamping our stomaches. She started earlier than I, and she's taken a dramatic turn for the better. Hopefully I'll have similar news to report tomorrow.

As for actual activities, we spent a good part of today at the tribunal into the Rwanda genocide. We managed to show up for a big fish: the genocide-era minister of finance was testifying in the trial of the Rwandan army chief of staff. The finance minister had also been accused, of misappropriating government funds to buy machetes, and then personally distributing those machetes at the roadblocks where Tutsis were massacred. We were spared gory descriptions -- courts the world round tend to anesthetize the gruesomeness as they bog down in detail -- but it was fascinating to watch justice at work.