Tonight, George and I return to Dar es Salaam. We'll be sleeping there, then tomorrow head off for a final trip to the beach. In the evening, I'll be boarding a flight to Switzerland, and expect to arrive in Canada in the afternoon on the 28th. It's going to be tough to leave -- I've become very used to the East African pace of life, and the way that people relate to one another with warmth and humour. North America feels so much more impersonal in comparison. I'm going to miss the music, the food, the dancing, the vibrant and sometimes hilarious styles of dress, the sense of community and communal responsibility. But there is a lot to look forward to as well. It's going to be amazing to see my friends and family again. I'm looking forward to listening to CBC and going to see some live indie and jazz shows. And it will be quite novel to be the one who's always considered to be late, rather than the one who's always late, but early compared to everyone else. And the food! Well, I'm sure that you all know by now that I love food, and there's so many foods that I miss that I could dedicate an entire entry to that. But I'll spare you my culinary ramblings. It's also going to be great to be able to relax at home and plan my next step.
I'm not sure what's going to happen with this blog now, whether I'll be closing it completely, or perhaps keeping it open for random thoughts about East Africa, or for accounts of further travels. Keep an eye on this space, as I'll be figuring things out for the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, thanks for reading -- it has been a pleasure to share my travels and stories with all of you. Hopefully I'll be seeing some of you soon, to share more stories in person!
With much love,
xox K
February 26, 2009
back to Zanzibar
The return to Zanzibar, and to George, was wonderful. Though G and I had only been apart for about three weeks, it felt much longer -- which means it's really going to be tough not to see him for months or even years on end! But we both have our plans for the year, so I'm glad we'll both have the opportunity for personal development before we meet again.
We met up in Dar for a night, and came straight to Zanzibar by ferry the next day. The first stop was Stone Town, and it was everything I'd remembered -- the narrow alleyways, filled with women wrapped in colourful cloths and men their white kofias. The markets crammed with spices, strange fruits and fish. The vendors hawking samosas, fish and octopus on the street, stray cats lurking under the stands waiting for their next meal to fall. The wonderful pilau and coconut beans and fresh fruit juices. And the sad reminder of the slave trade. We stayed in Stone Town for two days, mainly wandering the alleys and doing some shopping. But our cheap hotel had no air con, and we were dying in the humidity. The only escape was to get closer to the sea.
We decided to head to the East coast first, to the quieter and more secluded beaches for a couple of days. After taking an extremely cramped and uncomfortable ride out on the local transport (dalla-dallas, basically a pickup truck fitted with wooden benches and a roof on the back), we arrived in Paje. Walking through the village, we could tell it was definitely going to be a quiet place -- hardly anyone was around. The beautiful white beach had some hotels, but nothing crazy or gaudy. There in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, my baby dreadlocks met an untimely demise. I couldn't stand swimming in the ocean with an uncomfortable swimming cap, and only about a dozen dreads survived my first dip (they were incredibly strong ones, though, and I was sad to have to rip them apart later on). I didn't have the heart to start all over again, and decided that I'll just try again the next time George and I are in the same place together for longer than 3 months. If he had been with me for the past three weeks, they might have been locked completely, and swimming wouldn't have been a problem. Oh well.
Apart from swimming, much of our time in Paje was spent simply wandering the beach. One day we rented bicycles and rode along the beach during low tide, as far as we could go in both directions. It was tough going at times, but worth it! It was neat to see the villagers going about their daily business on the beach -- the women collecting seaweed or removing the soft hair from coconuts, the men and the boys fishing, young girls collecting shells and other treasures in the sand.
After a couple of days in Paje, we headed back to Stone Town to have lunch with Khaleed, the lawyer that I'd met on the train. After lunch, we headed up to the North coast. The North is more of a party area than the East, and Nungwi is the centre of the action. We decided to head up there because Moon, a guy we had met in Uganda, was working there, painting a guesthouse with psychedelic ocean and forest scenes. Nungwi had a completely different atmosphere than anywhere else I've been in Zanzibar. Forget about being laid-back; the place is jam-packed with beach boys and tourist junk. The beach is spectacular, though. Pure, fine white sand, with hardly any seaweed. I've never seen water so clear. The hotels along the waterfront, with no space between them, have become Disneyesque in their desire to portray themselves as fantasy-land paradise resorts, but if you can ignore them, it is a beautiful place. And I must admit that it was also good to be somewhere with nightlife, unlike in Paje where the beach was completely dark and empty, and therefore unsafe to walk, at night. There were even guard dogs along the beach, I assume to dissuade thieves from coming into the hotels -- but they were also effective in keeping us from wandering along the oceanfront at night. It became tiresome to be confined to the hotel premises for the evenings, so this was a nice change. We could also walk into the village at night to get dinner -- delicious rice, coconut beans and whole fried fish -- and hang out with local people. The town is a strange mix of traditional Swahili folk, Rastafarians, and Maasai who have come out to vie for tourist dollars.
The days in Nungwi were filled with beach time and relaxation. We took a day snorkeling trip (George's first time!), and gazed at the extraordinarily beautiful fish, in their vibrant blues and yellows, flitting around the coral reefs. There, we had lunch on the most perfect beach I have ever been on in my life. It was so warm, so clear, so blue, it was like swimming in a pool with fine sand at the bottom. In the evenings, we danced to reggae and sipped cocktails made with fresh fruit. In some ways, Zanzibar really is like paradise -- I could imagine living here and effectively cutting oneself off from the troubles and hectic pace of the outside world. It was a good place to wind up my year in Africa, with good friends, good food and lots of sun!
We met up in Dar for a night, and came straight to Zanzibar by ferry the next day. The first stop was Stone Town, and it was everything I'd remembered -- the narrow alleyways, filled with women wrapped in colourful cloths and men their white kofias. The markets crammed with spices, strange fruits and fish. The vendors hawking samosas, fish and octopus on the street, stray cats lurking under the stands waiting for their next meal to fall. The wonderful pilau and coconut beans and fresh fruit juices. And the sad reminder of the slave trade. We stayed in Stone Town for two days, mainly wandering the alleys and doing some shopping. But our cheap hotel had no air con, and we were dying in the humidity. The only escape was to get closer to the sea.
We decided to head to the East coast first, to the quieter and more secluded beaches for a couple of days. After taking an extremely cramped and uncomfortable ride out on the local transport (dalla-dallas, basically a pickup truck fitted with wooden benches and a roof on the back), we arrived in Paje. Walking through the village, we could tell it was definitely going to be a quiet place -- hardly anyone was around. The beautiful white beach had some hotels, but nothing crazy or gaudy. There in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, my baby dreadlocks met an untimely demise. I couldn't stand swimming in the ocean with an uncomfortable swimming cap, and only about a dozen dreads survived my first dip (they were incredibly strong ones, though, and I was sad to have to rip them apart later on). I didn't have the heart to start all over again, and decided that I'll just try again the next time George and I are in the same place together for longer than 3 months. If he had been with me for the past three weeks, they might have been locked completely, and swimming wouldn't have been a problem. Oh well.
Apart from swimming, much of our time in Paje was spent simply wandering the beach. One day we rented bicycles and rode along the beach during low tide, as far as we could go in both directions. It was tough going at times, but worth it! It was neat to see the villagers going about their daily business on the beach -- the women collecting seaweed or removing the soft hair from coconuts, the men and the boys fishing, young girls collecting shells and other treasures in the sand.
After a couple of days in Paje, we headed back to Stone Town to have lunch with Khaleed, the lawyer that I'd met on the train. After lunch, we headed up to the North coast. The North is more of a party area than the East, and Nungwi is the centre of the action. We decided to head up there because Moon, a guy we had met in Uganda, was working there, painting a guesthouse with psychedelic ocean and forest scenes. Nungwi had a completely different atmosphere than anywhere else I've been in Zanzibar. Forget about being laid-back; the place is jam-packed with beach boys and tourist junk. The beach is spectacular, though. Pure, fine white sand, with hardly any seaweed. I've never seen water so clear. The hotels along the waterfront, with no space between them, have become Disneyesque in their desire to portray themselves as fantasy-land paradise resorts, but if you can ignore them, it is a beautiful place. And I must admit that it was also good to be somewhere with nightlife, unlike in Paje where the beach was completely dark and empty, and therefore unsafe to walk, at night. There were even guard dogs along the beach, I assume to dissuade thieves from coming into the hotels -- but they were also effective in keeping us from wandering along the oceanfront at night. It became tiresome to be confined to the hotel premises for the evenings, so this was a nice change. We could also walk into the village at night to get dinner -- delicious rice, coconut beans and whole fried fish -- and hang out with local people. The town is a strange mix of traditional Swahili folk, Rastafarians, and Maasai who have come out to vie for tourist dollars.
The days in Nungwi were filled with beach time and relaxation. We took a day snorkeling trip (George's first time!), and gazed at the extraordinarily beautiful fish, in their vibrant blues and yellows, flitting around the coral reefs. There, we had lunch on the most perfect beach I have ever been on in my life. It was so warm, so clear, so blue, it was like swimming in a pool with fine sand at the bottom. In the evenings, we danced to reggae and sipped cocktails made with fresh fruit. In some ways, Zanzibar really is like paradise -- I could imagine living here and effectively cutting oneself off from the troubles and hectic pace of the outside world. It was a good place to wind up my year in Africa, with good friends, good food and lots of sun!
life on the rails
Coming back to Tanzania was a bit of a misadventure, but at least an entertaining one. After having traveled all around East Africa and down into the South by road, I was sick and tired of buses, and decided to give the train a try. Due to a combination of having to get a visa in the morning and having to wait until the bus to the town where you catch the train (Kapiri Mposhi) became full so that it could leave, I managed to miss the train by mere minutes. But T.I.A., as they say -- this is Africa. Anything that can go wrong likely will, but there's always a way around it. With the help of a strange, snuff-sniffing woman who spoke very little English, I managed to get myself onto a matatu that was roughly following the train route for the next few towns. A three-hour chase ensued, in which all the matatu passengers eventually became involved. At one point, everyone started to shout and point out the window excitedly, scaring the hell out of me until I glimpsed it myself: the train! We passed the train and branched off the highway onto a dirt road, all the passengers being thrown around the vehicle as we went over rocks and potholes at high speed. When we stopped, the tout grabbed my bag, held it over his head and ran off into the high grass. I followed as quickly as my cramping legs would allow, just in time to see the matatu driver whistling and waving at the oncoming train. Before I knew it, my luggage had been dumped on board and hands hauled me up. I had made it with only seconds to spare.
After that madness, the train itself was positively tranquil. I shared a sleeping cabin with two Zambian ladies. The train moved exceedingly slowly, and made very long, frequent stops during which hawkers would surround the cars, calling out their wares. I entertained myself by reading, but after finishing my books on the first day, I mostly sat in the dining car, staring out the window and chatting with a lawyer from Zanzibar. He was an interesting guy; he wanted to go into politics and lead Zanzibar back into independence (or at least, as he put it, "gain equality in the union"). He also delighted in getting me to teach him English words and sayings -- his favourite new saying was "every cloud has a silver lining".
The journey took an astounding 55 hours in total -- more than two full days! The arrival in Dar es Salaam was pretty frightening. We came in at 9:30pm, and for some reason the open-air train station had no lights. Of course it was full of people, many of whom were sure to be thieves, and I was worried as I tried desperately to navigate my way out of the crush of people. Luckily my friend Jacob and another friend of his were there to pick me up -- if I'd had to get a taxi myself, it could have been a bad scene.
The following day I went back with Jacob to Morogoro, the small town where I'd spent almost two weeks working in November. Since I only had a day and a half, much of it was spent saying hello and goodbye to people, who would invariably remark on how I'd "gotten fat" over the past few months (thanks, guys!). When it comes to Maasai, you really can't afford to be sensitive; they're incredibly blunt people. I laughed about it, and assured them that it's simply because I've been traveling and eating well lately, with not too much time for exercise, but I'll likely lose a bit when I'm back home. Though opinion was divided on whether I should lose the weight or not! Again, I was totally blown away by the beauty of the Ulguru mountains, which overshadow the town. It was a fun visit, if short, and I've promised to return next time I'm in Tanzania. Jacob might also have the opportunity to come to the States this year, which would be fantastic.
After that madness, the train itself was positively tranquil. I shared a sleeping cabin with two Zambian ladies. The train moved exceedingly slowly, and made very long, frequent stops during which hawkers would surround the cars, calling out their wares. I entertained myself by reading, but after finishing my books on the first day, I mostly sat in the dining car, staring out the window and chatting with a lawyer from Zanzibar. He was an interesting guy; he wanted to go into politics and lead Zanzibar back into independence (or at least, as he put it, "gain equality in the union"). He also delighted in getting me to teach him English words and sayings -- his favourite new saying was "every cloud has a silver lining".
The journey took an astounding 55 hours in total -- more than two full days! The arrival in Dar es Salaam was pretty frightening. We came in at 9:30pm, and for some reason the open-air train station had no lights. Of course it was full of people, many of whom were sure to be thieves, and I was worried as I tried desperately to navigate my way out of the crush of people. Luckily my friend Jacob and another friend of his were there to pick me up -- if I'd had to get a taxi myself, it could have been a bad scene.
The following day I went back with Jacob to Morogoro, the small town where I'd spent almost two weeks working in November. Since I only had a day and a half, much of it was spent saying hello and goodbye to people, who would invariably remark on how I'd "gotten fat" over the past few months (thanks, guys!). When it comes to Maasai, you really can't afford to be sensitive; they're incredibly blunt people. I laughed about it, and assured them that it's simply because I've been traveling and eating well lately, with not too much time for exercise, but I'll likely lose a bit when I'm back home. Though opinion was divided on whether I should lose the weight or not! Again, I was totally blown away by the beauty of the Ulguru mountains, which overshadow the town. It was a fun visit, if short, and I've promised to return next time I'm in Tanzania. Jacob might also have the opportunity to come to the States this year, which would be fantastic.
February 16, 2009
Livingstone
Livingstone is the centre of Zambia's tourism industry because of a single and very major attraction: the famed Victoria Falls. However, I didn't get around to seeing the falls themselves until the second night I was there -- I wanted to wait until Miles arrived, or until I found out where she was. Instead, I spent the first two days exploring the town of Livingstone, so named after the explorer, who was the first European to have seen the falls (why you would bother naming a town after him, I don't know). The town is a tiny thing, a main road running through a downtown core surrounded by townships. There isn't much to do, really. There are some expensive tourist shops, and a local market selling the usual second-hand clothing, produce, household goods and cheap booze. There's also a small but fascinating museum, which intrigued me because whoever designed the exhibits so obviously romanticized "simple village life", and was disgusted by the pace of modernization and globalization in Zambia. I'd never seen a museum with such a blatant agenda before. It also gave a good overview of the history and geology of Zambia.
The second night I was there, there was a full moon. When there is a full moon, a phenomenon called the lunar rainbow occurs at the falls. During this time, the moon is bright enough that the light reflects off the spray from the falls to create these strange, ethereal rainbows that hover full-circle, around the forest and cliff face. The falls themselves are ghostly and beautiful in the moonlight, the never-ending cascade of water looking smooth and glass-like, the spray creating an almost eerie atmosphere. The full-circle rainbows, some double-ringed, look like huge bubbles which contain different worlds. One side of the rainbow would plunge down into the boiling chasm below, the other reaching around the high, rocky cliffs. It looked like something out of science fiction, it was so unreal. It was probably one of the coolest things I've ever seen.
Seeing the falls again the following morning was a whole different experience. I went with the free shuttle provided by the hostel, and ended up exploring the area with a hilarious young British guy who had done the bungee jump the previous day, but not yet seen the falls. The immensity and sheer power of the Victoria Falls is almost indescribable -- the cliffs are impossibly deep, the unceasing gush of water is hypnotic, the roar overwhelming. The spray hangs in the air like great columns of smoke. No wonder the local name for the falls is Mosi-o-Tunya -- "the smoke that thunders". We stood, watching the water fall, getting soaked to the bone by the spray, completely in awe. All around the falls is a lush, localized rain forest, growing thick and green and beautiful from the constant "rain" of spray. In the bright morning sun, rainbows formed everywhere, even sometimes directly in front of our feet as we walked along the forest's edge.
There are a number of "adrenaline activities" that one can do in and around the falls, including the bungee jump, swinging, a zip line, white water rafting and kayaking, skydiving and flying over in various light craft. I would have liked to have done a few of these, but unfortunately all cost more than 75$US -- a bit beyond my budget. I know I keep saying this, but -- next time! For now, just seeing the falls was enough. We also walked down to the boiling pot, where the water pouring down from the falls begins its journey down the river in a rolling, living mass. The area wasn't as crawling with tourists as I imagined it would be, nor is it as sickeningly commercialized as it could easily have been. People are definitely making money, but it hasn't been built up into something cheesy and off-putting. But, on the other hand, the town of Livingstone doesn't seem to get as much benefit from tourists as one might think.
I did splurge on the last day, making a trip to the Royal Livingstone, the town's only five-star hotel. I went for a pedicure (my poor feet were so dry and cracked and nasty at this point, so it was worth it), then down to the deck overlooking the Zambezi River for a drink while I watched the sunset. The Royal Livingstone is a real colonial-style hotel, with rich, lavish furnishings and waiters dressed in crisp white uniforms. I can imagine that the clientele is mostly older people who are exceedingly well-off and perhaps not in the habit of chatting to staff, because my youth and stories seemed to amuse the waiters. They gave me a drink and a few appetizers for free (though a monkey stole one right off my plate -- cheeky thing. I can see why they don't normally sell food down on the deck). You could see the spray from the falls, and hear the thunder, from the deck. It was an absolutely beautiful sunset.
Although Miles didn't make it and I missed her presence sorely, the hostel I stayed at, Jollyboys, was full of interesting characters. I liked the fact that, although it was mostly younger people, there was a good mix, and some seniors were around as well. In addition to the British guy, I ended up hanging out with a couple of young insurance agents from Wales who were taking six months off to travel the world; an aspiring organic farmer and all-around granola girl from Oregon; and a feisty Canadian grandmother. Though the company was good and I had originally intended to stay until Saturday, I decided to leave a bit early. I though it would be nice to get a bit more time in Zanzibar, and more time with George, before heading home in only 11 short days.
The second night I was there, there was a full moon. When there is a full moon, a phenomenon called the lunar rainbow occurs at the falls. During this time, the moon is bright enough that the light reflects off the spray from the falls to create these strange, ethereal rainbows that hover full-circle, around the forest and cliff face. The falls themselves are ghostly and beautiful in the moonlight, the never-ending cascade of water looking smooth and glass-like, the spray creating an almost eerie atmosphere. The full-circle rainbows, some double-ringed, look like huge bubbles which contain different worlds. One side of the rainbow would plunge down into the boiling chasm below, the other reaching around the high, rocky cliffs. It looked like something out of science fiction, it was so unreal. It was probably one of the coolest things I've ever seen.
Seeing the falls again the following morning was a whole different experience. I went with the free shuttle provided by the hostel, and ended up exploring the area with a hilarious young British guy who had done the bungee jump the previous day, but not yet seen the falls. The immensity and sheer power of the Victoria Falls is almost indescribable -- the cliffs are impossibly deep, the unceasing gush of water is hypnotic, the roar overwhelming. The spray hangs in the air like great columns of smoke. No wonder the local name for the falls is Mosi-o-Tunya -- "the smoke that thunders". We stood, watching the water fall, getting soaked to the bone by the spray, completely in awe. All around the falls is a lush, localized rain forest, growing thick and green and beautiful from the constant "rain" of spray. In the bright morning sun, rainbows formed everywhere, even sometimes directly in front of our feet as we walked along the forest's edge.
There are a number of "adrenaline activities" that one can do in and around the falls, including the bungee jump, swinging, a zip line, white water rafting and kayaking, skydiving and flying over in various light craft. I would have liked to have done a few of these, but unfortunately all cost more than 75$US -- a bit beyond my budget. I know I keep saying this, but -- next time! For now, just seeing the falls was enough. We also walked down to the boiling pot, where the water pouring down from the falls begins its journey down the river in a rolling, living mass. The area wasn't as crawling with tourists as I imagined it would be, nor is it as sickeningly commercialized as it could easily have been. People are definitely making money, but it hasn't been built up into something cheesy and off-putting. But, on the other hand, the town of Livingstone doesn't seem to get as much benefit from tourists as one might think.
I did splurge on the last day, making a trip to the Royal Livingstone, the town's only five-star hotel. I went for a pedicure (my poor feet were so dry and cracked and nasty at this point, so it was worth it), then down to the deck overlooking the Zambezi River for a drink while I watched the sunset. The Royal Livingstone is a real colonial-style hotel, with rich, lavish furnishings and waiters dressed in crisp white uniforms. I can imagine that the clientele is mostly older people who are exceedingly well-off and perhaps not in the habit of chatting to staff, because my youth and stories seemed to amuse the waiters. They gave me a drink and a few appetizers for free (though a monkey stole one right off my plate -- cheeky thing. I can see why they don't normally sell food down on the deck). You could see the spray from the falls, and hear the thunder, from the deck. It was an absolutely beautiful sunset.
Although Miles didn't make it and I missed her presence sorely, the hostel I stayed at, Jollyboys, was full of interesting characters. I liked the fact that, although it was mostly younger people, there was a good mix, and some seniors were around as well. In addition to the British guy, I ended up hanging out with a couple of young insurance agents from Wales who were taking six months off to travel the world; an aspiring organic farmer and all-around granola girl from Oregon; and a feisty Canadian grandmother. Though the company was good and I had originally intended to stay until Saturday, I decided to leave a bit early. I though it would be nice to get a bit more time in Zanzibar, and more time with George, before heading home in only 11 short days.
February 11, 2009
experiencing institutionalized homophobia
Unfortunately, Livingstone began on a low note for me. I was supposed to be meeting a friend there, Miles, who I had met at the conference in Cape Town and had been communicating with ever since. She was coming up from Zimbabwe and I wasn't sure how long it would have taken her to get to Livingstone from Harare, so when she wasn't there when I arrived, I didn't panic. When I hadn't heard from her two days later, though, I was really panicking, afraid that something had happened to her. Thankfully, one of my phone calls finally got through the terrible Zimbabwean network. It turned out that she had been denied entry at the border. Miles works for a gay and lesbian advocacy organization in Harare, and had wanted to bring me some samples of their publications, not thinking anything of it. At the border, her bag was searched; she was told that such materials were "un-Christian", questioned, and had to resort to bribing the officials to let her go. Needless to say, she wasn't allowed into Zambia. The irony is that she is a very religious person herself.
At first when I reached her, I was just relieved to hear that she was okay. Then I was angry about what happened. Angry that she was treated like a criminal. Angry that Christian values had been used to justify homophobia. And really sad that I wouldn't have the chance to see her again before leaving -- I had been eagerly looking forward to our visit.
I would be deluded if I didn't acknowledge that the same thing could have happened anywhere on the continent (except perhaps South Africa). Homosexuality is not embraced in Africa as a whole, but Zambia in particular is known to be quite a Christian, and quite a conservative country. I was extremely disappointed, but I can't say that I was shocked about what happened. I really admire Miles and others like her who continue to push for the rights of queer people in Africa, despite such encounters (and much, much worse incidents). It must be a hard and lonely journey, at times.
As someone who comes from the West, my own arguments for tolerance and acceptance can too easily be dismissed as foreign values. In discussions with people I've been quite close to (and thus comfortable enough with to bring up the topic), I've been told that my opinions are sinful, that equality for all people regardless of sexual orientation would corrupt proper values and destabilize the nation (seriously!). That's why it's so important for queer Africans, those who were born and raised here, to stand up and say, we're here. We exist. We're people too, and deserve as much dignity and respect as anyone. The problem is that the act of declaring one's presence opens the doors to ostracization, isolation and physical danger. For someone who has such deep connections to family, community and faith as many Africans do, it can be so painful and damaging to be told that you don't belong in any of those places anymore, to be shut out completely. I can't even imagine what it must be like.
It's difficult for me to conceptualize how queer rights in Africa might be achieved. I don't blame those who are living closeted for wanting to protect themselves from harm or death, from unemployment or disownment. These are the things that people might face, should they speak out. But I also know that unless people are exposed to different ideas about sexual orientation than what conservative ideology tells them, attitudes will never change. At least in major cities, gay and lesbian organizations do exist, even if their operations are underground at the moment. But how do they counter homophobic rhetoric without endangering themselves? Maybe they don't. Maybe their profiles are too low to make any difference in public opinion. Or maybe putting oneself in danger at some point is a prerequisite for radical social change. I don't know. But I do have hope that things will change, if slowly. The fact that these organizations exist at all is testament to the fact that some things have already changed. It'll be a long and difficult journey, but maybe, ten or twenty years from now, the attitudes that led to Miles being turned away will be a thing of the past.
At first when I reached her, I was just relieved to hear that she was okay. Then I was angry about what happened. Angry that she was treated like a criminal. Angry that Christian values had been used to justify homophobia. And really sad that I wouldn't have the chance to see her again before leaving -- I had been eagerly looking forward to our visit.
I would be deluded if I didn't acknowledge that the same thing could have happened anywhere on the continent (except perhaps South Africa). Homosexuality is not embraced in Africa as a whole, but Zambia in particular is known to be quite a Christian, and quite a conservative country. I was extremely disappointed, but I can't say that I was shocked about what happened. I really admire Miles and others like her who continue to push for the rights of queer people in Africa, despite such encounters (and much, much worse incidents). It must be a hard and lonely journey, at times.
As someone who comes from the West, my own arguments for tolerance and acceptance can too easily be dismissed as foreign values. In discussions with people I've been quite close to (and thus comfortable enough with to bring up the topic), I've been told that my opinions are sinful, that equality for all people regardless of sexual orientation would corrupt proper values and destabilize the nation (seriously!). That's why it's so important for queer Africans, those who were born and raised here, to stand up and say, we're here. We exist. We're people too, and deserve as much dignity and respect as anyone. The problem is that the act of declaring one's presence opens the doors to ostracization, isolation and physical danger. For someone who has such deep connections to family, community and faith as many Africans do, it can be so painful and damaging to be told that you don't belong in any of those places anymore, to be shut out completely. I can't even imagine what it must be like.
It's difficult for me to conceptualize how queer rights in Africa might be achieved. I don't blame those who are living closeted for wanting to protect themselves from harm or death, from unemployment or disownment. These are the things that people might face, should they speak out. But I also know that unless people are exposed to different ideas about sexual orientation than what conservative ideology tells them, attitudes will never change. At least in major cities, gay and lesbian organizations do exist, even if their operations are underground at the moment. But how do they counter homophobic rhetoric without endangering themselves? Maybe they don't. Maybe their profiles are too low to make any difference in public opinion. Or maybe putting oneself in danger at some point is a prerequisite for radical social change. I don't know. But I do have hope that things will change, if slowly. The fact that these organizations exist at all is testament to the fact that some things have already changed. It'll be a long and difficult journey, but maybe, ten or twenty years from now, the attitudes that led to Miles being turned away will be a thing of the past.
February 8, 2009
Lusaka
I wanted to go to Lusaka primarily to finally see someone that I'd known since childhood, but never met. In the early 80s, a young Zambian man named Emmanuel flew to Saskatchewan to work in a northern, predominantly First Nations town, through Canadian Crossroads International. His presence caused a sensation, and the local newspaper would run such ludicrous pieces as "Emmanuel in the Snow" and "Emmanuel Eats Out!". On his occasional trips down to Regina, he needed a place to stay. CCI tried to place him in the home of another African, or at least with another black person, to make him feel more at home. "The closest person they could find," he told me, "was your dad." At the time, my parents were living in Regina, newly married and childless, so they had the space for a guest, and became good friends with Emmanuel. In 1985, when I was just a baby, Emmanuel came back to Canada to work, this time along with his wife Ruth. The two families remained in contact, and when I was young, I struck up a correspondence with their first born, Penjani. We would write letters, send clothing and trinkets back and forth across the globe. In our teenage years and early twenties, the correspondence dried out -- we only wrote the occasional email.
This year, the connection was rekindled. Penjani came to Nairobi as a competitor on a singing-based reality show called Idols (the African equivalent to American Idol, and just as wildly popular!). We didn't get to meet then because of scheduling, but we reconnected then, and I thought it would be a good idea to make a trip down to Zambia to see the whole family now that I had the chance. The family has expanded to eight now, and they gave me a very warm reception, especially considering that I had arrived at such an uncivilized hour (5am). It was so nice to spend time in a real family home again. Ruth and Penjani showed me around Lusaka, from the townships to the upmarket shopping malls. We visited the house where Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia's first President, planned the move towards independence. We the grave of Levy Mwanawasa, the third President, who just passed away in August. We went to the manic, colourful city market, and the more sedate Kabwata cultural centre. And in the evenings, we would gather for a delicious, home-cooked meal. I was interested to see that they also have ugali in Zambia, except it's called nshima and is a prepared slightly differently than in East Africa, making it a bit softer. Apparently, this is the same thing as mealie-pap in South Africa. After dinner, Emmanuel would tell me stories of his time in Canada, like the time that, in his words, "my ears nearly broke off." All because he was too vain about his afro to wear a hat in the winter. Penjani would tell me about her business ideas and music career. At 22, she is running her own wedding planning business, singing at events, recording and album, and has made various radio and tv appearances. I was awed by her energy, talent and ambition -- the girl makes me feel positively lazy! It was so wonderful to meet her after all the years that we'd been in touch.
While Lusaka itself is fairly small and low-key, I thoroughly enjoyed the company. One interesting thing was that, immediately after stepping off the bus, I knew that I wasn't in East Africa anymore. Something about the people -- particularly the way they spoke and dressed -- screamed South. There were also quite a lot of South African chain stores in Zambia, and it seemed that there was a lot more variety in terms of produce than I'd seen anywhere else (peaches! plums! grapes sold on the street!), so that was exciting for me. Zambia is also an amazing country in terms of its cultural diversity -- there are about 72 different ethnic groups packed into the country. Many of the traditional cultural ceremonies are still practiced (or, perhaps I should say are practiced again -- they seem to have enjoyed a revival of sorts in the 80s). These include a large-scale seasonal migration away from floodplains; a masquerade, complete with masks representing various facets of humanity; and many coming-of-age ceremonies, which inevitably involve a lot of song and dance. Unfortunately, I came at the wrong time of year for ceremonies, but I'd be very interested in checking out some of these events another time. There's always something to come back for.
This year, the connection was rekindled. Penjani came to Nairobi as a competitor on a singing-based reality show called Idols (the African equivalent to American Idol, and just as wildly popular!). We didn't get to meet then because of scheduling, but we reconnected then, and I thought it would be a good idea to make a trip down to Zambia to see the whole family now that I had the chance. The family has expanded to eight now, and they gave me a very warm reception, especially considering that I had arrived at such an uncivilized hour (5am). It was so nice to spend time in a real family home again. Ruth and Penjani showed me around Lusaka, from the townships to the upmarket shopping malls. We visited the house where Kenneth Kaunda, Zambia's first President, planned the move towards independence. We the grave of Levy Mwanawasa, the third President, who just passed away in August. We went to the manic, colourful city market, and the more sedate Kabwata cultural centre. And in the evenings, we would gather for a delicious, home-cooked meal. I was interested to see that they also have ugali in Zambia, except it's called nshima and is a prepared slightly differently than in East Africa, making it a bit softer. Apparently, this is the same thing as mealie-pap in South Africa. After dinner, Emmanuel would tell me stories of his time in Canada, like the time that, in his words, "my ears nearly broke off." All because he was too vain about his afro to wear a hat in the winter. Penjani would tell me about her business ideas and music career. At 22, she is running her own wedding planning business, singing at events, recording and album, and has made various radio and tv appearances. I was awed by her energy, talent and ambition -- the girl makes me feel positively lazy! It was so wonderful to meet her after all the years that we'd been in touch.
While Lusaka itself is fairly small and low-key, I thoroughly enjoyed the company. One interesting thing was that, immediately after stepping off the bus, I knew that I wasn't in East Africa anymore. Something about the people -- particularly the way they spoke and dressed -- screamed South. There were also quite a lot of South African chain stores in Zambia, and it seemed that there was a lot more variety in terms of produce than I'd seen anywhere else (peaches! plums! grapes sold on the street!), so that was exciting for me. Zambia is also an amazing country in terms of its cultural diversity -- there are about 72 different ethnic groups packed into the country. Many of the traditional cultural ceremonies are still practiced (or, perhaps I should say are practiced again -- they seem to have enjoyed a revival of sorts in the 80s). These include a large-scale seasonal migration away from floodplains; a masquerade, complete with masks representing various facets of humanity; and many coming-of-age ceremonies, which inevitably involve a lot of song and dance. Unfortunately, I came at the wrong time of year for ceremonies, but I'd be very interested in checking out some of these events another time. There's always something to come back for.
February 7, 2009
on the road
After Rwanda, my next step was Zambia. Unfortunately, there's the inconvenience of a vast country in between the two: my old friend Tanzania. Crossing Tanzania by land is no easy feat, particularly when coming in through Rwanda. Unlike the well-worn route from Kenya, few people pass this way, except long-distance truckers, so there's not much choice when it comes to transportation. After failing to find any transportation directly from Rwanda, I opted to simply take a matatu to the border and hope for the best. In my experience in East Africa, it's always possible to arrange transportation -- as long as you're not too picky, or impatient.
I left Kigali on January 28th, and finally arrived in Lusaka on February 3rd. That's six days of travel, one of which I took as a rest day. That was in Dar es Salaam, after a particularly gruelling 25-hour bus ride on a terribly old, cramped bus that was so laden with cargo that we had to put our luggage in the aisle. In total, I was traveling for almost 60 hours over the five travel days. I was stuck on every level of transport, from a shared taxi with cracked windows, busted door handles and a peeling interior, to busses seating five across with seats bereft of stuffing, to "luxury" busses with toilets, movies and drink service. I took seven vehicles in total: four busses, two matatus and one shared taxi. Had I come from Nairobi, I could have done the trip with only two busses!
The journey had its hitches. There were unexpected transfers, close calls with the police on an overloaded bus, long stretches of travel without a bathroom break, and sections of road so bad that I feared the windows would shatter from the force of their rattling. There were sleepless nights, and two border crossings by foot (one of which involved quite a strenuous climb with my big pack!). There were chickens stored, untied, in the overhead compartment that made a dash for freedom into the aisle in the middle of the night, giving us all a rude shock.
Two things made the journey bearable, and even enjoyable at times. The first was all the beautiful landscape I passed through -- Tanzania in particular, which made up the bulk of the travel, is so green, with spectacular mountains and lots of quaint villages. I managed to spot some wildlife, too: some elephants, impalas, baboons, and one zebra. The other plus for the journey was the number of interesting and incredibly kind people I encountered along the way. Over and over, I was helped out by absolute strangers; at one point, I felt as if the whole bus was looking out for me. People helped me out in the police encounter; squeezed themselves into awkward positions to give me more room; helped me negociate various transfers; and one kind soul even bought me breakfast when I was starving and short on cash. I'm sure I would still have made it safely without all the help, but the kindness of strangers smoothed things over a lot. In Dar, I returned to the same cheap hotel I had used before, and was greeted like a long-lost sister. The country may have some pretty miserable transportation and terrible roads, but the people -- the people are Tanzania's saving grace.
I left Kigali on January 28th, and finally arrived in Lusaka on February 3rd. That's six days of travel, one of which I took as a rest day. That was in Dar es Salaam, after a particularly gruelling 25-hour bus ride on a terribly old, cramped bus that was so laden with cargo that we had to put our luggage in the aisle. In total, I was traveling for almost 60 hours over the five travel days. I was stuck on every level of transport, from a shared taxi with cracked windows, busted door handles and a peeling interior, to busses seating five across with seats bereft of stuffing, to "luxury" busses with toilets, movies and drink service. I took seven vehicles in total: four busses, two matatus and one shared taxi. Had I come from Nairobi, I could have done the trip with only two busses!
The journey had its hitches. There were unexpected transfers, close calls with the police on an overloaded bus, long stretches of travel without a bathroom break, and sections of road so bad that I feared the windows would shatter from the force of their rattling. There were sleepless nights, and two border crossings by foot (one of which involved quite a strenuous climb with my big pack!). There were chickens stored, untied, in the overhead compartment that made a dash for freedom into the aisle in the middle of the night, giving us all a rude shock.
Two things made the journey bearable, and even enjoyable at times. The first was all the beautiful landscape I passed through -- Tanzania in particular, which made up the bulk of the travel, is so green, with spectacular mountains and lots of quaint villages. I managed to spot some wildlife, too: some elephants, impalas, baboons, and one zebra. The other plus for the journey was the number of interesting and incredibly kind people I encountered along the way. Over and over, I was helped out by absolute strangers; at one point, I felt as if the whole bus was looking out for me. People helped me out in the police encounter; squeezed themselves into awkward positions to give me more room; helped me negociate various transfers; and one kind soul even bought me breakfast when I was starving and short on cash. I'm sure I would still have made it safely without all the help, but the kindness of strangers smoothed things over a lot. In Dar, I returned to the same cheap hotel I had used before, and was greeted like a long-lost sister. The country may have some pretty miserable transportation and terrible roads, but the people -- the people are Tanzania's saving grace.
January 31, 2009
around Rwanda
After Kigali, I was on my own. George had to go back to Nairobi to move into a new place. I took the opportunity to indulge in my nerdy side and do more of what I love to do -- visit museums. I set out to the town of Butare, a tiny place which is home to the University of Rwanda. It also boasts the National Museum of Rwanda, which I had come to see. It's an anthropological museum, which explores the geography and people of Rwanda from prehistoric times to about 1950. It was really neat to learn about the social structure back in the day, and to see the rather complicated forms of dress, and instruments of divination. But what really fascinated me about the museum was that there was absolutely zero mention of either "Hutu" or "Tutsi" culture -- only Rwandan. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was an intentional effort at conflating two cultures to encourage a unified identity, or whether Hutu and Tutsi were really so similar as to be completely interchangeable. Either way, it's very interesting.
The following day, I set out into the countryside to visit one of the many memorials. The trip itself was stunning -- I would never tire of those rolling hills, the little red houses and great fields of green. I was a curiosity in the matatu, first drawing stares and whispers, then the bold "We would like to know which country you come from," followed by all manner of hilarious inquiries in three different languages. The memorial was on the outskirts of a small town called Gikongoro. I took a motorbike out, and was dropped off in such a beautiful place, it was hard to believe that anything painful had ever happened here. But then I entered the memorial. This was a technical school where Tutsi families had taken refuge during the genocide. Many had died of dehydration and starvation; those who didn't were slaughtered en masse. I was the only visitor that day, and the woman who took me around had actually hidden at the school with her family during the genocide. She and her youngest child, only a month old at the time, survived (I didn't have the heart to ask how). Her husband and her two other children, aged seven and three, were murdered.
The school was a horrifying place. The bodies of those who were killed there, those that remained whole, had been preserved with lime powder, and were still in the positions of their death. These bodies lay on simple white wooden platforms. And that was it. There were just rooms and rooms of bodies, looking something like mummies with no muscle or fat to them, but contorted and with broken skulls or limbs. They gave off the sickly sweet scent of ancient decay. Some of the rooms were filled almost completely with children and infants. That's where I cried, while my guide simply said, "Oui, ils ont tués beaucoup d'enfants." I can't imagine how it must feel for her to work there, having lost children herself.
Some of the bodies were found in mass graves, all jumbled together, and the bones of those were put together in other rooms. Rooms and rooms of skulls, some with deep slashes from machetes. They looked vulnerable somehow. There was a room full of clothing, too -- the clothing that the "génocidaires" had not taken for themselves. The only time I heard my guide speak with bitterness was when she took me to a spot with a sign that read, "French soldiers played volley here." While the killers were massacring innocent people, she said, the French soldiers were only about ten feet away, playing a game as if nothing was happening. After fifteen years, she still sounded incredulous.
The memorial was very difficult to take. Over 4,800 people had died there; I'd seen only a fraction of those, and it was still deeply disturbing and overwhelming. I don't know what it must have been like to live through; what it must be like to still live with the memories. That's the thing I find most amazing about Rwanda. The genocide only happened 15 years ago, and it was a widespread phenomenon. Everyone in the country was affected. That means that almost every adult in Rwanda today lived through the genocide, one way or another. They all have memories of that time. They all have stories to tell. A good number probably suffered, and maybe even still suffer, from post-traumatic stress disorder. It's impossible to forget what happened -- there are too many Rwandans missing arms or legs, too many still bearing the scars of that time. There are too many memorials and too much public remembrance to forget. And yet, the country moves forward. It not only functions, it progresses. Now those who took part in the genocide are being tried, either in the international tribunal on Rwanda in Arusha, or in community hearings. That probably helps, for healing and for forgiveness. But it must still be so difficult, and I really admire the strength of a country that can move on like Rwanda seems to have done. I can only hope it will continue on this path.
After visiting the memorial, I was feeling a bit traumatized myself, and decided to take the long walk back to town, on a dusty red road with a forest on one side and a valley full of farms on the other. There must have been a break for lunch at school, because I was met by hordes of children, who would run screaming towards me, then grab my hand and cry "Bonjour, mzungu!" or "Donne moi un bonbon!" After shaking hands all around and assuring them that I didn't have any bonbons, they would run off laughing. Some of the adults I passed, especially the old women lugging hoes or carrying goods on their heads, would shake my hand as well, murmuring shy greetings and grinning widely.
When I returned to town, I decided to take a bus ride. I had originally planned to visit Nungwe National Park, home of the Nungwe rain forest, and monkeys and birds galore. But it was impossible to arrange transportation directly there. That's the problem with National Parks: unless you have your own car, they're very inaccessible. Instead, I hopped on a bus heading to Cyangugu, a town near the DR Congo border, which drove through the park itself. It was well worth the trip. The forest was just as deep and dark and mysterious-looking as I had imagined. It looked ancient, as if dinosaurs could still be living in there somewhere. The forest was packed tight with lush green ferns, trees and vines, like something out of a Tarzan movie. In some parts, mist was rising up from the trees. It appeared impenetrable and, spreading across many mountains, seemed to go on forever. I can see why rebel groups like to hide out in forests like this; it would just swallow you up, you'd be impossible to find. I did manage to see some colobus monkeys as we passed through, so I was happy. Though it may seem imprudent to build a road through a national park (though I think the road may have been built before it became a park), the forest seems to be more of an imposition on the road than the other way around. Someday, when I'm rich and can afford private transportation, I'll go back there and explore Nungwe properly.
Cyangugu was a beautiful place as well. On the shore of Lake Kivu, the town has spectacular views of DRC across the lake. I was only there for one night, but the people were extremely welcoming -- I already received several invitations for home visits for next time. Rwanda was full of places to come back to, and I just barely scratched the surface. I didn't even make it to the famed Parc National des Volcans, which I'd desperately wanted to see. One week wasn't nearly enough time in this fascinating and beautiful country.
Next time, next time.
The following day, I set out into the countryside to visit one of the many memorials. The trip itself was stunning -- I would never tire of those rolling hills, the little red houses and great fields of green. I was a curiosity in the matatu, first drawing stares and whispers, then the bold "We would like to know which country you come from," followed by all manner of hilarious inquiries in three different languages. The memorial was on the outskirts of a small town called Gikongoro. I took a motorbike out, and was dropped off in such a beautiful place, it was hard to believe that anything painful had ever happened here. But then I entered the memorial. This was a technical school where Tutsi families had taken refuge during the genocide. Many had died of dehydration and starvation; those who didn't were slaughtered en masse. I was the only visitor that day, and the woman who took me around had actually hidden at the school with her family during the genocide. She and her youngest child, only a month old at the time, survived (I didn't have the heart to ask how). Her husband and her two other children, aged seven and three, were murdered.
The school was a horrifying place. The bodies of those who were killed there, those that remained whole, had been preserved with lime powder, and were still in the positions of their death. These bodies lay on simple white wooden platforms. And that was it. There were just rooms and rooms of bodies, looking something like mummies with no muscle or fat to them, but contorted and with broken skulls or limbs. They gave off the sickly sweet scent of ancient decay. Some of the rooms were filled almost completely with children and infants. That's where I cried, while my guide simply said, "Oui, ils ont tués beaucoup d'enfants." I can't imagine how it must feel for her to work there, having lost children herself.
Some of the bodies were found in mass graves, all jumbled together, and the bones of those were put together in other rooms. Rooms and rooms of skulls, some with deep slashes from machetes. They looked vulnerable somehow. There was a room full of clothing, too -- the clothing that the "génocidaires" had not taken for themselves. The only time I heard my guide speak with bitterness was when she took me to a spot with a sign that read, "French soldiers played volley here." While the killers were massacring innocent people, she said, the French soldiers were only about ten feet away, playing a game as if nothing was happening. After fifteen years, she still sounded incredulous.
The memorial was very difficult to take. Over 4,800 people had died there; I'd seen only a fraction of those, and it was still deeply disturbing and overwhelming. I don't know what it must have been like to live through; what it must be like to still live with the memories. That's the thing I find most amazing about Rwanda. The genocide only happened 15 years ago, and it was a widespread phenomenon. Everyone in the country was affected. That means that almost every adult in Rwanda today lived through the genocide, one way or another. They all have memories of that time. They all have stories to tell. A good number probably suffered, and maybe even still suffer, from post-traumatic stress disorder. It's impossible to forget what happened -- there are too many Rwandans missing arms or legs, too many still bearing the scars of that time. There are too many memorials and too much public remembrance to forget. And yet, the country moves forward. It not only functions, it progresses. Now those who took part in the genocide are being tried, either in the international tribunal on Rwanda in Arusha, or in community hearings. That probably helps, for healing and for forgiveness. But it must still be so difficult, and I really admire the strength of a country that can move on like Rwanda seems to have done. I can only hope it will continue on this path.
After visiting the memorial, I was feeling a bit traumatized myself, and decided to take the long walk back to town, on a dusty red road with a forest on one side and a valley full of farms on the other. There must have been a break for lunch at school, because I was met by hordes of children, who would run screaming towards me, then grab my hand and cry "Bonjour, mzungu!" or "Donne moi un bonbon!" After shaking hands all around and assuring them that I didn't have any bonbons, they would run off laughing. Some of the adults I passed, especially the old women lugging hoes or carrying goods on their heads, would shake my hand as well, murmuring shy greetings and grinning widely.
When I returned to town, I decided to take a bus ride. I had originally planned to visit Nungwe National Park, home of the Nungwe rain forest, and monkeys and birds galore. But it was impossible to arrange transportation directly there. That's the problem with National Parks: unless you have your own car, they're very inaccessible. Instead, I hopped on a bus heading to Cyangugu, a town near the DR Congo border, which drove through the park itself. It was well worth the trip. The forest was just as deep and dark and mysterious-looking as I had imagined. It looked ancient, as if dinosaurs could still be living in there somewhere. The forest was packed tight with lush green ferns, trees and vines, like something out of a Tarzan movie. In some parts, mist was rising up from the trees. It appeared impenetrable and, spreading across many mountains, seemed to go on forever. I can see why rebel groups like to hide out in forests like this; it would just swallow you up, you'd be impossible to find. I did manage to see some colobus monkeys as we passed through, so I was happy. Though it may seem imprudent to build a road through a national park (though I think the road may have been built before it became a park), the forest seems to be more of an imposition on the road than the other way around. Someday, when I'm rich and can afford private transportation, I'll go back there and explore Nungwe properly.
Cyangugu was a beautiful place as well. On the shore of Lake Kivu, the town has spectacular views of DRC across the lake. I was only there for one night, but the people were extremely welcoming -- I already received several invitations for home visits for next time. Rwanda was full of places to come back to, and I just barely scratched the surface. I didn't even make it to the famed Parc National des Volcans, which I'd desperately wanted to see. One week wasn't nearly enough time in this fascinating and beautiful country.
Next time, next time.
Kigali
Driving from the Ugandan-Rwandan border into Kigali, the landscape is absolutely stunning. Once you cross into Rwanda, it becomes immediately obvious why this is called "Le Pays des Milles Collines" -- the land of a thousand hills. Rwanda is all lush green hills and valleys, stretching in every direction as far as the eye can see. It's one of the most beautiful countries I've ever visited, and also the most well-organized of the East African countries.
Unfortunately, Rwanda is best known worldwide for the terrible genocide of 1994, in which approximately one million Tutsis and "moderate" Hutus were killed in only 100 days. During colonial times, the Belgium administration employed a divide-and-conquer approach to ruling the country, creating strong ethnic divisions where none had previously existed. Prior to colonization, the Hutu and Tutsi intermarried freely, and one's ethnic designation was determined not by birth, but by economic activity (one could become Tutsi by acquiring a certain number of cattle, for example, or so the story goes). Unlike in other countries where tribes are divided by tongue, the Hutu and Tutsi have always spoken the same language, Kinyarwanda. So this division, imposed by external forces, didn't make a whole lot of sense.
As in apartheid-era South Africa, the two groups were divided primarily by arbtrary physical features -- length and width of nose, height, head shape, darkness of the iris, etc. -- and issued an identity card with their tribal group clearly marked. The Tutsis, thought by the Belgians to have the more "Caucasian features", were favored by the Belgian administration and brought into positions of power, creating resentment among the Hutu population, who made up the majority of the country. Later, when the Tutsis began to agitate for independence, the Belgians switched sides. Combined with increasing mistrust and stereotyping between the communities, this set the stage for various clashes and back-and-forth massacres between Tutsi and Hutu groups. Following independence, the Hutu-led government restricted Tutsi access to education and work; Tutsi militia groups launched guerilla attacks; and revenge missions built upon each other.
It all came to a head in 1994. There had been rumblings of "something big" coming, and UNAMIR, the UN mission to Rwanda, had even been alerted to the existance of huge stashes of weapons, mainly guns and machetes, hidden away under the homes of prominent politicians. But no pre-emptive action was taken. In April, President Habyarimana's plane was shot down (exactly by whom, we still don't know, though many suspect it was Hutu extremists wanting an excuse to start a massacre), and the killing began immediately. The Rwandan Army and the Interhamwe, an extremist Hutu-power group composed mostly of young men, led the charge. The "Tutsi sympathizers" in government, including the Prime Minister, were the first to go. Regular Hutu citizens, blinded by hatred, pressure and fear for their own lives and families, and spurred on by the hate speech from Radio Milles Collines urging them to kill, took up their machetes and hammers and went after their neighbours. Children were not spared. On the contrary, they were specifically targeted in order to wipe out the next generation.
During the slaughter, the world looked the other way. Belgium withdrew its troops after ten of its soldiers were killed. France remained, but only to evacuate its own citizens, and even the family members of those who had planned the genocide and happened to have ties with the French government. UNAMIR, led by Canadian General Roméo Dallaire, had been pressing the UN for permission to intervene even before the genocide began. But with direct orders not to intervene, and few resources at their disposal, they were forced to stand helplessly by. After about 100 days, the genocide came to and end with the military action of the Rwandan Patriotic Army, a militia wing of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), a Tutsi group let by General Paul Kagame. The RPF pushed the genocide's perpatrators into neighbouring countries and seized central Rwanda; but as a result, many of the perpatrators fled, and some are still in hiding today. Kagame is now the President of Rwanda, and the country is doing well. But after those 100 days in 1994, Rwanda was as good as dead.
Walking around Kigali today, it's hard to believe that 15 years ago, it was completely decimated. We've all seen the nightmarish version of the city in movies: the roadblocks, the fires, the bullet-ridden houses, the streets filled with corpses, dogs feeding on the bodies. That image bears no resemblance to Kigali today. Now it's a clean, efficient and beautiful city. I was astounded at how orderly it was compared to all the other East African capitals. There were motorbikes everywhere, like in Kampala, but these ones drove at reasonable speeds, and the drivers all wore vests with their registration number and area of work. There were even helmets for passengers, as I'd heard. I was stunned. There is no garbage in the streets, cars actually obey traffic lights, and a lot of new buildings are coming up. The roads are all in really great shape (Nairobi take note! No excuses!). And the view is gorgeous, especially at night; the glittering lights on the hills all around look like stars come down to earth. Though I had expected a lot of French to be spoken here, it seems that French is being phased out, at least in the capital, and English is coming to the fore. Some Swahili is also spoken. But you still come across people who only speak Kinyarwanda. I heard tell that French is being phased out because of the country's bitter history with France and Belgium -- and Kagame's desire to distance his country from the ravages of colonialism. In fact, Kagame is the reason for much of Rwanda's recent reform, particularly the tight security which has turned Rwanda into one of the safest countries in Africa (save, perhaps, from some of the border regions with Congo). The man is strict -- I've heard him described as "a dictator, but the good kind". As long as he can keep the good of the country in mind and not cling ruthlessly to power as some of his neighbours have done, I'm all for him. From banning plastic bags to attempting to replace ethnic divisions with a unified national identity, Kagame has done an outstanding job so far. Especially for someone who was so involved in fighting the genocide, it would have been easy for him to go into revenge mode. But he didn't. And partly as a result of that, you really get the sense that Rwanda is a country that's looking forward to a brighter future.
Of course, all this looking forward doesn't mean that Rwanda is trying to forget the past. The country is dotted with genocide memorials, where large numbers of people were killed or buried. In Kigali, the genocide memorial is both a burial ground and a museum to educate visitors about what happened here. It's a beautiful place, extremely well put-together, but heartbreaking. Between the text describing the history, there are videos of survivors telling their stories -- stories of how they escaped, of the people they lost, of how they coped afterwards. They were very affecting. It's so hard to imagine dealing with the trauma of losing family members that way, of seeing them killed or raped. And it's not as if these people have the luxury of therapy. There were stories of Hutus who sheltered Tutsis, some of whom were also killed. There were rooms full of photographs of victims, rooms full of skulls and bones, rooms full of ripped clothing. There was also a section which explored genocides around the world, and how and why they occurred. Most saddening and incomprehensible of all was a room upstairs dedicated to the memory of children who were killed. There, photos of innocent kids were accompanied by facts about them -- their name, age, favourite food, favourite toy or song. How they were killed. Some even had their last words. It was so terribly sad -- who would kill a helpless child, in the name of anything at all? Why??
In the evening, we went back to the memorial to watch a screening of Shake Hands with the Devil, a film based on a book of the same name, written by Gen. Dallaire about his experiences in Rwanda. It was really interesting to watch it in Kigali, where most of it is set, and to see how the audience reacted. We also visited Hotel des Milles Collines, a hotel where thousands of refugees hid during the genocide. The movie Hotel Rwanda is based on that time, and though the movie is actually set in South Africa, I was very happy to visit the original. Our time in Kigali wasn't all serious, though. Kigali has all sorts of wonderful cafes and restaurants, lots of places to dance and interesting neighbourhoods. It's a city that's safe and clean without being boring, a rare combination in these parts, which I really appreciated.
Unfortunately, Rwanda is best known worldwide for the terrible genocide of 1994, in which approximately one million Tutsis and "moderate" Hutus were killed in only 100 days. During colonial times, the Belgium administration employed a divide-and-conquer approach to ruling the country, creating strong ethnic divisions where none had previously existed. Prior to colonization, the Hutu and Tutsi intermarried freely, and one's ethnic designation was determined not by birth, but by economic activity (one could become Tutsi by acquiring a certain number of cattle, for example, or so the story goes). Unlike in other countries where tribes are divided by tongue, the Hutu and Tutsi have always spoken the same language, Kinyarwanda. So this division, imposed by external forces, didn't make a whole lot of sense.
As in apartheid-era South Africa, the two groups were divided primarily by arbtrary physical features -- length and width of nose, height, head shape, darkness of the iris, etc. -- and issued an identity card with their tribal group clearly marked. The Tutsis, thought by the Belgians to have the more "Caucasian features", were favored by the Belgian administration and brought into positions of power, creating resentment among the Hutu population, who made up the majority of the country. Later, when the Tutsis began to agitate for independence, the Belgians switched sides. Combined with increasing mistrust and stereotyping between the communities, this set the stage for various clashes and back-and-forth massacres between Tutsi and Hutu groups. Following independence, the Hutu-led government restricted Tutsi access to education and work; Tutsi militia groups launched guerilla attacks; and revenge missions built upon each other.
It all came to a head in 1994. There had been rumblings of "something big" coming, and UNAMIR, the UN mission to Rwanda, had even been alerted to the existance of huge stashes of weapons, mainly guns and machetes, hidden away under the homes of prominent politicians. But no pre-emptive action was taken. In April, President Habyarimana's plane was shot down (exactly by whom, we still don't know, though many suspect it was Hutu extremists wanting an excuse to start a massacre), and the killing began immediately. The Rwandan Army and the Interhamwe, an extremist Hutu-power group composed mostly of young men, led the charge. The "Tutsi sympathizers" in government, including the Prime Minister, were the first to go. Regular Hutu citizens, blinded by hatred, pressure and fear for their own lives and families, and spurred on by the hate speech from Radio Milles Collines urging them to kill, took up their machetes and hammers and went after their neighbours. Children were not spared. On the contrary, they were specifically targeted in order to wipe out the next generation.
During the slaughter, the world looked the other way. Belgium withdrew its troops after ten of its soldiers were killed. France remained, but only to evacuate its own citizens, and even the family members of those who had planned the genocide and happened to have ties with the French government. UNAMIR, led by Canadian General Roméo Dallaire, had been pressing the UN for permission to intervene even before the genocide began. But with direct orders not to intervene, and few resources at their disposal, they were forced to stand helplessly by. After about 100 days, the genocide came to and end with the military action of the Rwandan Patriotic Army, a militia wing of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), a Tutsi group let by General Paul Kagame. The RPF pushed the genocide's perpatrators into neighbouring countries and seized central Rwanda; but as a result, many of the perpatrators fled, and some are still in hiding today. Kagame is now the President of Rwanda, and the country is doing well. But after those 100 days in 1994, Rwanda was as good as dead.
Walking around Kigali today, it's hard to believe that 15 years ago, it was completely decimated. We've all seen the nightmarish version of the city in movies: the roadblocks, the fires, the bullet-ridden houses, the streets filled with corpses, dogs feeding on the bodies. That image bears no resemblance to Kigali today. Now it's a clean, efficient and beautiful city. I was astounded at how orderly it was compared to all the other East African capitals. There were motorbikes everywhere, like in Kampala, but these ones drove at reasonable speeds, and the drivers all wore vests with their registration number and area of work. There were even helmets for passengers, as I'd heard. I was stunned. There is no garbage in the streets, cars actually obey traffic lights, and a lot of new buildings are coming up. The roads are all in really great shape (Nairobi take note! No excuses!). And the view is gorgeous, especially at night; the glittering lights on the hills all around look like stars come down to earth. Though I had expected a lot of French to be spoken here, it seems that French is being phased out, at least in the capital, and English is coming to the fore. Some Swahili is also spoken. But you still come across people who only speak Kinyarwanda. I heard tell that French is being phased out because of the country's bitter history with France and Belgium -- and Kagame's desire to distance his country from the ravages of colonialism. In fact, Kagame is the reason for much of Rwanda's recent reform, particularly the tight security which has turned Rwanda into one of the safest countries in Africa (save, perhaps, from some of the border regions with Congo). The man is strict -- I've heard him described as "a dictator, but the good kind". As long as he can keep the good of the country in mind and not cling ruthlessly to power as some of his neighbours have done, I'm all for him. From banning plastic bags to attempting to replace ethnic divisions with a unified national identity, Kagame has done an outstanding job so far. Especially for someone who was so involved in fighting the genocide, it would have been easy for him to go into revenge mode. But he didn't. And partly as a result of that, you really get the sense that Rwanda is a country that's looking forward to a brighter future.
Of course, all this looking forward doesn't mean that Rwanda is trying to forget the past. The country is dotted with genocide memorials, where large numbers of people were killed or buried. In Kigali, the genocide memorial is both a burial ground and a museum to educate visitors about what happened here. It's a beautiful place, extremely well put-together, but heartbreaking. Between the text describing the history, there are videos of survivors telling their stories -- stories of how they escaped, of the people they lost, of how they coped afterwards. They were very affecting. It's so hard to imagine dealing with the trauma of losing family members that way, of seeing them killed or raped. And it's not as if these people have the luxury of therapy. There were stories of Hutus who sheltered Tutsis, some of whom were also killed. There were rooms full of photographs of victims, rooms full of skulls and bones, rooms full of ripped clothing. There was also a section which explored genocides around the world, and how and why they occurred. Most saddening and incomprehensible of all was a room upstairs dedicated to the memory of children who were killed. There, photos of innocent kids were accompanied by facts about them -- their name, age, favourite food, favourite toy or song. How they were killed. Some even had their last words. It was so terribly sad -- who would kill a helpless child, in the name of anything at all? Why??
In the evening, we went back to the memorial to watch a screening of Shake Hands with the Devil, a film based on a book of the same name, written by Gen. Dallaire about his experiences in Rwanda. It was really interesting to watch it in Kigali, where most of it is set, and to see how the audience reacted. We also visited Hotel des Milles Collines, a hotel where thousands of refugees hid during the genocide. The movie Hotel Rwanda is based on that time, and though the movie is actually set in South Africa, I was very happy to visit the original. Our time in Kigali wasn't all serious, though. Kigali has all sorts of wonderful cafes and restaurants, lots of places to dance and interesting neighbourhoods. It's a city that's safe and clean without being boring, a rare combination in these parts, which I really appreciated.
January 25, 2009
Lake Bunyonyi
Coming from the heat of Kampala, our arrival at Lake Bunyonyi was wonderful -- it was a cold that reminded me of a Canadian autumn, a drop of probably about twenty degrees from one place to the other. It was so good to be in the country again, to breathe in the cold, fresh air. The camp we were staying at was right on the lakeshore, looking out over the rolling hills dotted with farms and huts. Lake Bunyonyi is Uganda's deepest lake at about 6,500 feet, and boasts more than thirty islands. The landscape around the lake is gorgeous; it's very hilly and green, and the calm of the lake is broken only by the passage of the traditional canoes used for transport in the area, and the occasional motorboat taking a tourist group on a ride. We stayed in a cute little permanent tent, set on a platform on stilts built into the hillside. It turned out that the manager of the camp was Kenyan, and he took an immediate liking to us. The rest of the staff were extremely friendly as well. We also met another Canadian, who was traveling around Africa with her Tanzanian boyfriend, working as a masseuse. It was definitely interesting and lively company.
The first day, we tried our hand at canoeing. I was confident that we would have an easy time of it, since I canoe back in Canada, but it was not so. The canoes used in that region are little dugout canoes, the kind that are carved by locals from trees, and are very shallow and deep. Something in their design makes them turn in circles constantly, so at the beginning we were frustrated by always spinning 'round no matter what we did! The locals, gliding past in their own boats and making it look so easy, tried to ask us where we were going and give us some help, but it was pretty much hopeless. We soon enlisted the help of a boy who happened to be paddling by, who quickly docked his own canoe and took charge of ours. The boy was called Moses and said he was fifteen, though he was really quite small. He also had no shoes, and was only wearing a t-shirt, despite the cold. Moses guided us through the lake's many islands and took us to one that had a small hotel on it, where we had lunch. From the island, we could see another tiny island, isolated from the others and bearing only a single tree. This lonely place was called Punishment Island, where unmarried pregnant women used to be dumped. There, they might be rescued by someone who wanted to marry them. But if you were "ugly or unlucky", as one local man put it, you would simply be left there to die. Many drowned as they attempted to swim back to shore. On our way back from lunch, we gave a ride to one of the employees of the hotel -- who stood inside the canoe the entire way, and even paddled while standing! That takes skill.
After spending two nights at Bunyonyi, we decided to extend our stay for one night, partially because the camp got CNN, and we wanted to watch the inauguration. A small group of people, mostly Kenyans and Americans, but some Ugandans and others as well, gathered together in the evening to watch the historic moment. People everywhere in East Africa are riding high on this whole course of events. Though some are still hoping that Obama will somehow show special attention to this region because of his heritage, it's acknowledged that even without material or economic benefits, the fact that he made it to his current position as president of the US at all gives so much hope and inspiration, which are incredibly valuable as well. I think that a positive outlook is even more important than money in most cases. If you have resources but don't think you can make a difference, you won't even try and whatever you have will be wasted. But if you have nothing, and still have faith in yourself and your abilities, you'll fight hard to achieve something. And that's the beautiful thing about Obama's story. All the young people I've spoken to here have been electrified by his victory -- if he can achieve something that big, why can't they?
The first day, we tried our hand at canoeing. I was confident that we would have an easy time of it, since I canoe back in Canada, but it was not so. The canoes used in that region are little dugout canoes, the kind that are carved by locals from trees, and are very shallow and deep. Something in their design makes them turn in circles constantly, so at the beginning we were frustrated by always spinning 'round no matter what we did! The locals, gliding past in their own boats and making it look so easy, tried to ask us where we were going and give us some help, but it was pretty much hopeless. We soon enlisted the help of a boy who happened to be paddling by, who quickly docked his own canoe and took charge of ours. The boy was called Moses and said he was fifteen, though he was really quite small. He also had no shoes, and was only wearing a t-shirt, despite the cold. Moses guided us through the lake's many islands and took us to one that had a small hotel on it, where we had lunch. From the island, we could see another tiny island, isolated from the others and bearing only a single tree. This lonely place was called Punishment Island, where unmarried pregnant women used to be dumped. There, they might be rescued by someone who wanted to marry them. But if you were "ugly or unlucky", as one local man put it, you would simply be left there to die. Many drowned as they attempted to swim back to shore. On our way back from lunch, we gave a ride to one of the employees of the hotel -- who stood inside the canoe the entire way, and even paddled while standing! That takes skill.
After spending two nights at Bunyonyi, we decided to extend our stay for one night, partially because the camp got CNN, and we wanted to watch the inauguration. A small group of people, mostly Kenyans and Americans, but some Ugandans and others as well, gathered together in the evening to watch the historic moment. People everywhere in East Africa are riding high on this whole course of events. Though some are still hoping that Obama will somehow show special attention to this region because of his heritage, it's acknowledged that even without material or economic benefits, the fact that he made it to his current position as president of the US at all gives so much hope and inspiration, which are incredibly valuable as well. I think that a positive outlook is even more important than money in most cases. If you have resources but don't think you can make a difference, you won't even try and whatever you have will be wasted. But if you have nothing, and still have faith in yourself and your abilities, you'll fight hard to achieve something. And that's the beautiful thing about Obama's story. All the young people I've spoken to here have been electrified by his victory -- if he can achieve something that big, why can't they?
January 17, 2009
So I've left Nairobi. Not forever, of course, but until the next time I'm in Kenya, which could be anywhere from two to ten years away. It was hard to leave, to say goodbye to the people and places I've poured my heart into for the past year. I'll miss the colour and grit and attitude of the city. I'll miss the matatus, the music, the ghetto, my favourite haunts, my own little servant's quarters. I'll miss my friends and co-workers, the Roots kids, the hawkers and security guards and people I'd meet every day. But I'm sure I'll be back. It's just a question of when, and how.
After a week of frantic packing and heart-rending goodbyes, George and I were off to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. We went with Akamba bus, supposedly one of the most reliable bus companies in Kenya, and set off at around 7pm. It was meant to be a 14 or 15-hour journey, which would have been bad enough on its own. Unfortunately, the "reliable" company we went with had stuck us with an old bus on its last legs (last wheels?). From the very beginning, it was obvious that the engine was struggling, but it was only when we broke down at 1am in the middle of nowhere that we realized how serious the trouble was. Luckily, the place we stopped at was a police roadblock, so we weren't completely vulnerable to whoever or whatever might be lurking in the forest at night. It turned out that a gas line had come loose, and gasoline was actually dripping out the bottom of the bus. How the company let such an unsafe and unsound bus on the road, I have no idea. The driver and mechanic were having a hell of a time trying to secure this tube with ropes and improvised materials -- at one point, one of them actually went into the woods and came back with some hacked-off branches, to attempt to somehow stop the leak or secure the line with them. We were sitting out there for an hour, to no avail; after all that work, the bus would only move in fits and starts. It was only when Akamba sent out another mechanic with a replacement part that we were able to travel again.
Two aspects of the breakdown were kind of amazing to me. The first was that during this entire ordeal, neither the driver, conductor nor the mechanic made any kind of announcement to the passengers to inform them of what was going on. They simply went ahead, trying to fix up the bus while leaving the passengers to grumble amongst themselves. The second amazing thing was that, while sitting and grumbling, none of the passengers except George did anything to contact the company, or even speak to the driver or conductor. Though they were obviously unhappy about the situation, their complaints and suggestions about how to handle it were directed only at others who had no influence over the course of events. Georgie, however, did call the company itself to let them know what was going on and suggest a solution. I suspect that this tendency not to address "authority figures" or those directly in charge may stem from having grown up in a dictatorship. In that environment, people learn that their complaints and opinions will generally not be received well, and that they should simply accept whatever comes their way. At any rate, aside from the night-time breakdown which stretched our journey to 17 hours, it actually wasn't too bad a ride.
Kampala is a beautiful city, filled with greenery and spread out over seven hills. It does get pretty hectic during the day, but somehow feels more laid back than Nairobi. There are matatus here (though they're painted a boring, uniform white and have no music), but the biggest deal in transportation is the boda-boda, the motorcycle. I've taken boda-boda rides in rural Kenya before, when no other means of transportation has been available, but never in a city. I tell you, it's quite a different experience. After taking half a dozen rides on somewhat dated machines which wove their way through traffic and pot-holed roads and breakneck speeds, we decided to stick with cabs, at least until we get to Rwanda where the passengers as well as the drivers are supplied with helmets (or so we hear, it seems kind of fantastical to me), and only one passenger at a time is allowed on the bike. Here it would be funny if it weren't so frightening, the way it seems like a competition to see who can pile the most people and goods on the back of one bike.
One of the things I didn't expect about Uganda is that hardly anyone here speaks Swahili. At least, it's not used in everyday conversation. Luganda is the dominant language in Kampala, and English is also quite prevalent. The food is pretty similar to Kenyan fare. However, matoke, which is basically mashed green plantain, is the staple food here, and many dishes come with a yummy peanut sauce. Ugali, Kenya's stable food, is conspicuously absent from the menu. The weather has been terribly hot and dry, though broken at times by heavy downpours which last about twenty minutes and create rivers, red with dust, which stream down the streets.
Here we've mostly been catching up with a Congolese friend who studies here, exploring the city's attractions and nightlife, and doing a little shopping. Of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, the latter is known to have the best education system. Kampala is home to the famed Makerere University, which attacts students from all over the East African region. The student area is a bustling neighbourhood filled with little restaurants and stalls open 24-hours to accomdate odd student hours. There you hear people speaking French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and more. Kampala is full of neat little pockets like these, and is a city worth further exploration.
Tomorrow, however, we're moving on to see a bit of the Ugandan countryside. Our destination is Lake Bunyonyi, near the Rwandan border, for a bit of exercise and fresh air (biking, canoeing and kayaking, hourrah!), before heading to Kigali.
After a week of frantic packing and heart-rending goodbyes, George and I were off to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. We went with Akamba bus, supposedly one of the most reliable bus companies in Kenya, and set off at around 7pm. It was meant to be a 14 or 15-hour journey, which would have been bad enough on its own. Unfortunately, the "reliable" company we went with had stuck us with an old bus on its last legs (last wheels?). From the very beginning, it was obvious that the engine was struggling, but it was only when we broke down at 1am in the middle of nowhere that we realized how serious the trouble was. Luckily, the place we stopped at was a police roadblock, so we weren't completely vulnerable to whoever or whatever might be lurking in the forest at night. It turned out that a gas line had come loose, and gasoline was actually dripping out the bottom of the bus. How the company let such an unsafe and unsound bus on the road, I have no idea. The driver and mechanic were having a hell of a time trying to secure this tube with ropes and improvised materials -- at one point, one of them actually went into the woods and came back with some hacked-off branches, to attempt to somehow stop the leak or secure the line with them. We were sitting out there for an hour, to no avail; after all that work, the bus would only move in fits and starts. It was only when Akamba sent out another mechanic with a replacement part that we were able to travel again.
Two aspects of the breakdown were kind of amazing to me. The first was that during this entire ordeal, neither the driver, conductor nor the mechanic made any kind of announcement to the passengers to inform them of what was going on. They simply went ahead, trying to fix up the bus while leaving the passengers to grumble amongst themselves. The second amazing thing was that, while sitting and grumbling, none of the passengers except George did anything to contact the company, or even speak to the driver or conductor. Though they were obviously unhappy about the situation, their complaints and suggestions about how to handle it were directed only at others who had no influence over the course of events. Georgie, however, did call the company itself to let them know what was going on and suggest a solution. I suspect that this tendency not to address "authority figures" or those directly in charge may stem from having grown up in a dictatorship. In that environment, people learn that their complaints and opinions will generally not be received well, and that they should simply accept whatever comes their way. At any rate, aside from the night-time breakdown which stretched our journey to 17 hours, it actually wasn't too bad a ride.
Kampala is a beautiful city, filled with greenery and spread out over seven hills. It does get pretty hectic during the day, but somehow feels more laid back than Nairobi. There are matatus here (though they're painted a boring, uniform white and have no music), but the biggest deal in transportation is the boda-boda, the motorcycle. I've taken boda-boda rides in rural Kenya before, when no other means of transportation has been available, but never in a city. I tell you, it's quite a different experience. After taking half a dozen rides on somewhat dated machines which wove their way through traffic and pot-holed roads and breakneck speeds, we decided to stick with cabs, at least until we get to Rwanda where the passengers as well as the drivers are supplied with helmets (or so we hear, it seems kind of fantastical to me), and only one passenger at a time is allowed on the bike. Here it would be funny if it weren't so frightening, the way it seems like a competition to see who can pile the most people and goods on the back of one bike.
One of the things I didn't expect about Uganda is that hardly anyone here speaks Swahili. At least, it's not used in everyday conversation. Luganda is the dominant language in Kampala, and English is also quite prevalent. The food is pretty similar to Kenyan fare. However, matoke, which is basically mashed green plantain, is the staple food here, and many dishes come with a yummy peanut sauce. Ugali, Kenya's stable food, is conspicuously absent from the menu. The weather has been terribly hot and dry, though broken at times by heavy downpours which last about twenty minutes and create rivers, red with dust, which stream down the streets.
Here we've mostly been catching up with a Congolese friend who studies here, exploring the city's attractions and nightlife, and doing a little shopping. Of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, the latter is known to have the best education system. Kampala is home to the famed Makerere University, which attacts students from all over the East African region. The student area is a bustling neighbourhood filled with little restaurants and stalls open 24-hours to accomdate odd student hours. There you hear people speaking French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and more. Kampala is full of neat little pockets like these, and is a city worth further exploration.
Tomorrow, however, we're moving on to see a bit of the Ugandan countryside. Our destination is Lake Bunyonyi, near the Rwandan border, for a bit of exercise and fresh air (biking, canoeing and kayaking, hourrah!), before heading to Kigali.
January 4, 2009
Lamu and the New Year
As we sat in a little juice bar on the waterfront in Lamu, sipping on our freshly-made drinks (passion, lime and mango juice and a chocolate milkshake, respectively) we heard the sound of hand-drums approaching. We finished our drinks and poked our heads out, curious, to be greeted by an onslaught of men and boys in white robes and kofias, drumming and dancing. Some held signs with anti-drug messages, others little paper flags. It seems that we had unknowingly arrived in Lamu in the midst of the Islamic New Year celebrations. It was lucky for us, since there was a lot of activity in Lamu town while we were there. The town square held movie screenings, plays and speeches every day.
Getting to Lamu is a pretty rough ride. We took a bus from Mombasa very early in the morning. For the first few hours, it’s an alright ride; the roads are paved and everyone in the bus is sitting in an orderly fashion. It’s when you pass Malindi and get out into the countryside when it starts to get really uncomfortable. The paved highway gives way to bumpy, potholed dirt roads. It’s unbearably hot, but terribly dusty, so you have to choose between sweating it out with the windows shut, or having dust and grit constantly blown in your face, sticking to your moist skin. It’s very unpleasant. Once you’re out of the city, people start piling in at every stop. Before you know it, the aisle is crammed full of people standing, and attempting to sit on the arms of seats. There are boxes and bags everywhere, and chickens stuffed into boxes or tucked under arms. Children are plunked down on strangers’ laps. It’s slow going, so we were stuck like this for five hours or so. At every stop, shouting hawkers would immediately surround the bus, thrusting up trays of fat mangoes and bananas, empty oil containers now full of fresh milk, boiled eggs, meat on skewers and ultra-sugary sweets. God help you if you make eye contact by accident.
The trip is definitely worth it, though. We stumbled out of the bus at the port feeling grumpy, sweaty, dirty and stiff, but soon enough we were on the boat to Lamu, a wooden motorboat which was also crammed full of people, luggage, and a huge freezer. In about fifteen minutes, we reached the island. The waterfront, with its white buildings all crammed together and beaches on either side, was a welcoming sight. The crowd of beach boys and touts, all of whom want to take your bags and show you around to the “best” hotels, were not as welcome, but we managed to avoid them by walking purposefully on and plunging directly into the alleyways of Lamu town. The town is very similar to Zanzibar’s Stone Town in many ways – the buildings are built close together, leaving only narrow alleyways to walk through, and the older buildings are frequently decorated with elaborately carved doors and sometimes balconies. Old men sit in entrance-ways sipping coffee from absurdly small cups, and children race by with a wheel and stick, or dragging small cars fashioned from old plastic bottles. There are mangy street cats lurking everywhere, slipping in and out of homes, leaping across rooftops and sitting under stands on the street, waiting for something delicious to drop.
What is so unique about Lamu, though, is the lack of cars. There are only a few vehicles on the island – two ambulances, a donkey ambulance, a police car and the chief’s car. Instead of jumping out of the way for motorbikes, you’re stepping into doorways to let donkeys pass – and sometimes they’re moving along at quite a trot! Donkeys carrying one or two grown men, donkeys lugging sand or rocks, donkeys loitering outside homes, even donkeys fighting each other in the street (vicious!). There are no car accidents, only donkey accidents. I felt quite sorry for the poor beasts – they’re worked very hard, and many of them have sores from the ropes they’re tethered with. If things get too bad, though, there’s always the donkey sanctuary. I was a little skittish around them myself, remembering the Swahili saying, “A donkey’s thanks is its kick.”
Aside from the donkeys, Lamu is known for several things: the huge number of mosques; the fantastic seafood; the stunning, isolated beaches; and dhow rides. We were only there for about four days, but managed to pack a lot of food, beach time and cultural activities in. We had henna painted on our hands and feet at the home of a local family, ate crab and fish curry, prawn samosas and coconut bread, and watched a dhow race. A trip in a dhow, a traditional wooden Swahili sailboat, is a must. In order to get one, you must simply take a stroll along the waterfront, let the beach boys come to you and decide who to go with. The beach boys in Lamu have almost universally adopted the Rastafarian look and lingo. There were so many men with beautiful, long dreadlocks, which made me happy. Most of them have solid Muslim names like Ali, Muhammed and Hassan, but they also have ridiculous nicknames like Happy, Barracuda and Aloe Vera. We befriended a guy with the improbable nickname of Sunflower. Initially, we had arranged a dhow ride with a random beach boy, but unfortunately he turned out to be a con man, so we had to scramble to make other plans. Sunflower was a crew member for a Captain Ali, so we ended up taking a dhow ride with them, along with four other people from Canada, Norway and the UK. The trip involved heading out into the deep sea to do some fishing with a rather rudimentary line, then going to a small island across from Lamu and swimming in the absolutely-perfect stretch of beach while the guys cooked up a delicious lunch of rice, veggie curry and grilled spicy fish. Then more swimming and walking on the beach, before heading back to Lamu for a little shopping. There was a lot of singing and laughter on the way back. It was pretty much a perfect day. The only downside to it was the intensity of the sun: Jenny ended up getting completely burnt, poor girl, and I had the second burn of my life, on my face and back (the other time I burned was also on the Kenyan coast, gotta watch out for that). Even Georgie got a bit of burn on his face, which just shows how serious that sun was.
We were so relaxed and content in Lamu that it was hard to return to the mainland. But return we did, taking another brutal bus ride back to Mombasa just in time for New Year’s Eve. The big thing in Mombasa is beach parties, and we all trooped out to the beach for the celebrations. George’s brother Elijah also came along, which was nice. At the beach party there were DJs, live acts, a bonfire, and even fireworks at midnight. We took to wading into the ocean and dancing out there. It was pretty surreal, thinking about times we had attempted to spend New Year’s Eve outdoors in Canada and how cold it was there. It was a fantastic evening.
As is typical for New Year’s Day, we were pretty lazy on the first. The highlight of the day was going to see a Bollywood movie, Ghajini, which was basically a Bollywood take on Memento. Although they show them pretty frequently, I’d never seen a Bollywood movie in a proper theatre before, and I didn’t realize that they have an intermission (they tend to get pretty long, because of the musical numbers I guess). It was a pretty intense one. Lots of crazy action, melodrama and over-the-top costumes. If you’re into Bollywood at all, I would definitely recommend it.
Now we’re back in Nairobi. I’ll be here for about a week longer before saying my goodbyes to Kenya. It’s going to be sad, but I’m excited to move on and see more of East Africa. In the next two months, the plan is to visit Uganda, Rwanda, Zambia and Tanzania. I’ll be coming home at the very end of February – just a little over a year and a month since I left. I’m planning to make some visits in March, so if you’re around Montreal, Toronto or Barry at that time, expect a very cold and culture-shocked visitor!
Getting to Lamu is a pretty rough ride. We took a bus from Mombasa very early in the morning. For the first few hours, it’s an alright ride; the roads are paved and everyone in the bus is sitting in an orderly fashion. It’s when you pass Malindi and get out into the countryside when it starts to get really uncomfortable. The paved highway gives way to bumpy, potholed dirt roads. It’s unbearably hot, but terribly dusty, so you have to choose between sweating it out with the windows shut, or having dust and grit constantly blown in your face, sticking to your moist skin. It’s very unpleasant. Once you’re out of the city, people start piling in at every stop. Before you know it, the aisle is crammed full of people standing, and attempting to sit on the arms of seats. There are boxes and bags everywhere, and chickens stuffed into boxes or tucked under arms. Children are plunked down on strangers’ laps. It’s slow going, so we were stuck like this for five hours or so. At every stop, shouting hawkers would immediately surround the bus, thrusting up trays of fat mangoes and bananas, empty oil containers now full of fresh milk, boiled eggs, meat on skewers and ultra-sugary sweets. God help you if you make eye contact by accident.
The trip is definitely worth it, though. We stumbled out of the bus at the port feeling grumpy, sweaty, dirty and stiff, but soon enough we were on the boat to Lamu, a wooden motorboat which was also crammed full of people, luggage, and a huge freezer. In about fifteen minutes, we reached the island. The waterfront, with its white buildings all crammed together and beaches on either side, was a welcoming sight. The crowd of beach boys and touts, all of whom want to take your bags and show you around to the “best” hotels, were not as welcome, but we managed to avoid them by walking purposefully on and plunging directly into the alleyways of Lamu town. The town is very similar to Zanzibar’s Stone Town in many ways – the buildings are built close together, leaving only narrow alleyways to walk through, and the older buildings are frequently decorated with elaborately carved doors and sometimes balconies. Old men sit in entrance-ways sipping coffee from absurdly small cups, and children race by with a wheel and stick, or dragging small cars fashioned from old plastic bottles. There are mangy street cats lurking everywhere, slipping in and out of homes, leaping across rooftops and sitting under stands on the street, waiting for something delicious to drop.
What is so unique about Lamu, though, is the lack of cars. There are only a few vehicles on the island – two ambulances, a donkey ambulance, a police car and the chief’s car. Instead of jumping out of the way for motorbikes, you’re stepping into doorways to let donkeys pass – and sometimes they’re moving along at quite a trot! Donkeys carrying one or two grown men, donkeys lugging sand or rocks, donkeys loitering outside homes, even donkeys fighting each other in the street (vicious!). There are no car accidents, only donkey accidents. I felt quite sorry for the poor beasts – they’re worked very hard, and many of them have sores from the ropes they’re tethered with. If things get too bad, though, there’s always the donkey sanctuary. I was a little skittish around them myself, remembering the Swahili saying, “A donkey’s thanks is its kick.”
Aside from the donkeys, Lamu is known for several things: the huge number of mosques; the fantastic seafood; the stunning, isolated beaches; and dhow rides. We were only there for about four days, but managed to pack a lot of food, beach time and cultural activities in. We had henna painted on our hands and feet at the home of a local family, ate crab and fish curry, prawn samosas and coconut bread, and watched a dhow race. A trip in a dhow, a traditional wooden Swahili sailboat, is a must. In order to get one, you must simply take a stroll along the waterfront, let the beach boys come to you and decide who to go with. The beach boys in Lamu have almost universally adopted the Rastafarian look and lingo. There were so many men with beautiful, long dreadlocks, which made me happy. Most of them have solid Muslim names like Ali, Muhammed and Hassan, but they also have ridiculous nicknames like Happy, Barracuda and Aloe Vera. We befriended a guy with the improbable nickname of Sunflower. Initially, we had arranged a dhow ride with a random beach boy, but unfortunately he turned out to be a con man, so we had to scramble to make other plans. Sunflower was a crew member for a Captain Ali, so we ended up taking a dhow ride with them, along with four other people from Canada, Norway and the UK. The trip involved heading out into the deep sea to do some fishing with a rather rudimentary line, then going to a small island across from Lamu and swimming in the absolutely-perfect stretch of beach while the guys cooked up a delicious lunch of rice, veggie curry and grilled spicy fish. Then more swimming and walking on the beach, before heading back to Lamu for a little shopping. There was a lot of singing and laughter on the way back. It was pretty much a perfect day. The only downside to it was the intensity of the sun: Jenny ended up getting completely burnt, poor girl, and I had the second burn of my life, on my face and back (the other time I burned was also on the Kenyan coast, gotta watch out for that). Even Georgie got a bit of burn on his face, which just shows how serious that sun was.
We were so relaxed and content in Lamu that it was hard to return to the mainland. But return we did, taking another brutal bus ride back to Mombasa just in time for New Year’s Eve. The big thing in Mombasa is beach parties, and we all trooped out to the beach for the celebrations. George’s brother Elijah also came along, which was nice. At the beach party there were DJs, live acts, a bonfire, and even fireworks at midnight. We took to wading into the ocean and dancing out there. It was pretty surreal, thinking about times we had attempted to spend New Year’s Eve outdoors in Canada and how cold it was there. It was a fantastic evening.
As is typical for New Year’s Day, we were pretty lazy on the first. The highlight of the day was going to see a Bollywood movie, Ghajini, which was basically a Bollywood take on Memento. Although they show them pretty frequently, I’d never seen a Bollywood movie in a proper theatre before, and I didn’t realize that they have an intermission (they tend to get pretty long, because of the musical numbers I guess). It was a pretty intense one. Lots of crazy action, melodrama and over-the-top costumes. If you’re into Bollywood at all, I would definitely recommend it.
Now we’re back in Nairobi. I’ll be here for about a week longer before saying my goodbyes to Kenya. It’s going to be sad, but I’m excited to move on and see more of East Africa. In the next two months, the plan is to visit Uganda, Rwanda, Zambia and Tanzania. I’ll be coming home at the very end of February – just a little over a year and a month since I left. I’m planning to make some visits in March, so if you’re around Montreal, Toronto or Barry at that time, expect a very cold and culture-shocked visitor!
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