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.
January 31, 2009
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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