It never ceases to amaze me how little I know. As one grows older, every once in a while he thinks he’s getting a handle on certain things.

As we mature as parents, we begin to think we know something about raising kids. Then they become teens.

As we rise up the proverbial business ladder, we think we know something about managing people, operations or administration. Then the company is bought, and everything we did was wrong.

As athletes, we think we know something about football. Then we go to a Cal game.

Which of us would ever be so arrogant as to pretend that he understood what makes the distaff side tick? Yet, occasionally we think “Wow. I figured her out.”

That’s about the time she hits you with an emotional Loma Prieta and you find yourself picking up the pieces like so many jig saw puzzle parts, and attempting once again to put them in some kind of comprehensible order.

Little do we know that we ain’t got a clue about nuttin’.

Once the Gods think you think you are gaining a little ground, that’s their cue to dump an entire new pile of information on you and drown you in your own stupidity.

My incredible ignorance once again hit me like a pie in the face during this past trip to Africa. I had never been.

In fact, I’m not a third world kinda’ guy. Poverty and suffering are not my strong suits. Eating well while others don’t has never set well with me. Riding while others walk is not my idea of fun. Vacationing while others labor makes me uncomfortable.

When the contrasts come down to indoor plumbing and drinking potable water, I toss up my hands and surrender.

Africa is indeed a life changing experience. The sheer vastness of the continent, and the unfathomable size of its problems shrink one to insignificance. If sailing on the ocean—or gazing at a starlit night makes you feel small—set foot on the darkest contentment—anywhere—the Serengeti, Kenya, the Masai Mara, the Kalahari—or the Okavango Delta. I defy one to feel important or even minorly significant afterwards.

Think you’ve ever had a bad day? Visit Second Gorge, at the North east end of Victoria Falls. This is where (according to Wikipedia) the bodies of Mrs. Moss and Mr. Orchard, mutilated by crocodiles, were found in 1910, after two canoes were capsized by a hippo at Long Island above the falls. Now that’s bad Karma.

Perhaps this tale is an urban legend. What is not made up, however, is what happened in Rwanda. You might not think a Genocide Museum would be high on your list of vacation spots, but how glad we were that we went.

Sloppy American that I am, I originally fell asleep while watching the CD of Hotel Rwanda. It was a downer. (Duh!).

It was at the Museum in Kilgari that we learned about “Gacaca” (pronounced Ga-cha-cha). Gacaca means “justice on the grass.” Originally the Gacaca settled village or familial disputes—“did you steal my goat?”

As all of us know, but can’t grasp, in 1994 (in a country of 5 million) over a million Tutsi’s were murdered (mostly by machete) by their Hutu neighbors during a 100 day orgy of violence.

How does a country function—how does one get up in the morning-- after that? Spot a Hutu of a certain age, and it’s almost sure he was involved in the killings. See any Tutsi and it is certain that he lost at least one relative.

As it would be physically impossible to try hundreds of thousands for war crimes, they hit upon the “Gacaca” as a way towards reconciliation. We saw films of men confessing their crimes to some elders in front of the entire village. The villagers get to ask questions. Then in most cases, it is forgiven and the community moves forward. These are amazing people.

Literally, over beers at the hotel Rwanda (Hotel des Mille Collines), Paul and Amon told us their stories. They were Tutsi’s.

Amon (who lost two brothers) has stopped going to Gacacas.

“I can’t go anymore. The guilty man admitted to murdering, a father and two sons. The third son was still alive.”

“Can I ask a question?” the boy asked from the audience.

“Yes.” Said the elders.

“Before you killed my father, why did you put his eyes out.”

That man was not forgiven and he went back to jail.

What do we, as Americans, know of problems—of suffering?

Upon returning to the US, the first paper I saw said that it took something like $77,000 to live in the Bay Area, and families making $53,000 couldn’t get by.

My guess is that we met some folks who could get by on $53,000. Even in San Francisco.

I think how we boast about spending $249,000 for a “Green” school bus. How many water purifiers would that buy?

We hold town meetings to save one oak tree, while starving Elephants destroy thousands of trees annually, searching for food.

In Kigali, the big question is: “Where was the International Community?”

It was no secret that the majority Hutus were arming militias to slaughter the minority Tutsi’s. Only military force ended it. Can you spell Darfur? Or Kosovo?

Isn’t that the big question in Iraq, today?

Without police protection, would the Shia majority treat the Sunni minority any different than the Hutus treated the Tutsi’s?

We met at least two hard working folks who have strong opinions about that.

And my guess is: They know much more about the world than we ever will.