coming home

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

Xmas on the beach

Christmas was a low-key affair for me this year. On the 23rd, we took the bus to Mombasa, the second-largest city in Kenya. As with all the coastal towns in East Africa, the original Bantu people had traded and intermarried with mostly Omani traders, and also with early Portuguese colonialists, forming the unique Swahili culture which still remains strong today. Though not as business-oriented as Nairobi, Mombasa is still a hectic place, filled with the usual mix of hawkers, matatu touts and con artists, with a seemingly huge homeless population. But it's a beautiful city. As the population is mostly Muslim, huge white mosques dominate every few blocks or so. The city looks old, its white and pastel buildings falling into disrepair, but still retaining their old charm. And it's hot -- I'd guess that the temperatures go above thirty every day at this time of year, especially with the heavy press of humidity.

Our hotel was right in the centre of town, a relatively cheap place (though they had raised their rates for the holidays, of course) with simple but large and clean rooms. I was surprised at the number of foreigners I saw there, and indeed all over Mombasa. I guess I just don't usually think of traveling over the holidays to somewhere so far from home. It was nice, though -- this is definitely the first time I've been swimming on Christmas Eve! From town it takes about half an hour to reach the various beaches, with their clear water and white sand. The scene is somewhat marred by the various tourist traps, like camel rides and kite boarding, but once you're in the warm embrace of the Indian ocean, that's easily ignored.

On the night of Christmas Eve, we went dancing at a place called Bob's (for Bob Marley) -- a parking lot during the day which is converted to a dance floor at night. The DJ was fantastic and the place was packed. Georgie and I had fun speculating about where people were from based on the way they were dressed. Mombasa women, we noted, are a bit more feminine and classy, while Nairobi women go all-out for trends and skimpiness. The table of women dressed in stiletto boots, hot pants and backless shirts were definitely Nairobians! This being the coast, there was also some evidence of sex tourism. The tables with one older white person (just as frequently a woman as a man), and one younger Kenyan, not speaking to each other, were pretty sad. I particularly felt sorry for the young man at the table next to us, who sat watching other people dancing all night, and looked like he would have joined them had he not been with what looked like a client -- a middle-aged white woman who sat staring straight ahead and chain-smoking the entire evening. I can't imagine how sad it must be for both of them, to spend Christmas Eve with a stranger who doesn't say a word, or with someone you are essentially paying to make you feel less alone. I'd think it would just make you feel even more lonely. I had a fantastic evening, though, dancing the night away with good friends!

On Christmas itself, some businesses closed and some remained open, but the informal businesses were booming. The hawkers were setting up in the morning, adding gaudy Christmas garlands to their usual wares of clothing, accessories and counterfeit DVDs. The restaurants were also doing great business. Families with young kids especially were taking the opportunity in what is probably a rare treat of eating out. We didn't do a lot during the day -- mostly poked around a bookshop and relaxed in the afternoon. In the evening, it seemed like all of Mombasa was heading to the beach -- traffic was completely jammed up in the direction of the public beach, and masses of people were walking along the side of the road. We hired a tuk-tuk -- a little three-wheeled vehicle which I think is made out of a modified motorcycle -- and headed off into the crowd. We went to a nicebeach side hotel and had Christmas dinner down by the ocean. While the others had steak, I opted for chicken -- the closest I could get to turkey! There was even carrots and zucchini, which was exciting. The dinner was complemented by delicious fresh mango juice. Though it wasn't anything like Christmas at home, it felt good to be with friends, surrounded by palm trees and the sounds of waves crashing in the warm night air.

On the next day, we left for Lamu -- but I'll have to save the details of that trip for another entry. For now, I'll wish you all a happy New Year. It's been a crazy year here in Kenya, and an amazing and challenging year for me personally. I hope that next year is just as boundary-pushing and fulfilling. Here's to friendship, happiness and good health in 2009! Be well, everyone.

Happy Holidays, everyone

So I've been hearing stories from my friends and family back home about the huge amount of snow you've been getting. I guess it's really starting to look like Christmas over there! Here it's looking a lot like... well, like a very hot summer with Christmas lights. There haven't been too many of the traditions that normally signal "Christmas" to me. No house parties, none of the holiday food I'm used to, few Christmas movies or music, and obviously no snow. Here it seems like the holidays aren't so much a family affair as an excuse to go out and party (at least, for people my age it's okay to hang out with your friends and go off on vacation -- older people are expected to visit their families back in "shags", the countryside). Which is also fun... just not really what I'm used to.

The gift-giving tradition hasn't caught on much either. It's a bit odd because on the radio and in the newspaper, we're getting all the gift guides and such as we would back home. But absolutely nobody that I know, even the middle-class people, are buying presents. So I wonder who all these ads and articles are targeting. It must be exclusively for the upper class/Westernized families. There have been quite a few Santa Clauses around town (black Santa, woo!), but no kids lining up to sit on his lap, not even at the mall. I guess if you don't get presents, you wouldn't really believe in Santa. And there's not too much incentive to sit in a strange man's lap if you don't think you're going to get a shiny new toy out of it. There are some lights and other decorations around town, but without the snow they just look odd. The holly and ivy, reindeer and snow-covered pine trees painted in store windows look particularly out of place alongside the hawkers, bustle, dust and heat of downtown Nairobi.

I hear there is a lot of good food around Christmas, though not of the turkey and stuffing variety. I've told my co-workers, with much nostalgia over Christmas dinners past, about the food we traditionally eat at this time. They thought that eggnog sounded disgusting (fair enough, lots of Westerners do too), and cranberry sauce strange. Here the more common foods are those that you find at other celebratory occasions, like weddings -- pilau, chicken, roast meat (roast beast!), chapati, etc.

Today was my last day of work at IIN, which was a bit bittersweet -- it will be nice not to have to come into the office anymore, but I'll be sad to go and leave my coworkers. It's been fun working in an office composed almost exclusively of young women. And of course I've had a lot of amazing experiences while working here. But I'll still be doing some work for my boss here and there, so I won't be completely out of touch. It will be really nice to take a break for awhile, this year has been a lot of hard work!

My Christmas plans have been shaping up well. Tomorrow I leave to the coast with three companions -- Georgie, Jennie (a Canadian friend who was working in Elangata Wuas for the past few months), and Konzo (another Kenyan friend from Elangata Wuas). We'll spend Christmas in Mombasa, Kenya's major coastal city. So many Nairobians are heading out there for Christmas to go to the beach, so I'm sure it's going to be crazy, and I hope a lot of fun. On Boxing Day, we're going to Lamu, a small island off the coast which is much like Zanzibar in its preservation of Swahili culture. Lamu is even smaller, though -- the only vehicles on the island are the ambulance and the police car, and donkeys are the main means of transportation. They have fantastic fruit juices and seafood, and it's a great place to just chill, go sailing on a dhow, go swimming and relax. I'm looking forward to that. For New Year's, I'll either be heading back to Mombasa or going to Diani Beach on the south coast.

I hope that all of you have safe and happy holidays. I'll certainly be missing family and home, but I'll make the best of being here. So while you're sitting around the tree or slogging through the snow, just think of me, dancing on the beach. Merry Christmas!

The rest of my whirlwind stay in Cape Town passed much too quickly. After the conference, I was there for four days, and it wasn’t nearly enough neither to visit all of my family there, nor to see much of the city itself. Ah, Cape Town. What can I tell you about this place? It’s the city of my father’s childhood, and one of the most beautiful cities in the world! It has everything – mountains, including the famous Table Mountain; ocean, with both rocky and sandy beaches nearby; friendly people; fabulous restaurants and shopping. I was staying with my cousin Heidi, her husband Francois and their two daughters, Katje and Tiero, aged three and five. It was so great to stay with them and to get to know a side of the family that I haven’t had the opportunity to know well before. It’s kind of difficult when you live across an ocean from each other!

Heidi and Francois are very social people despite their hectic schedules and young kids, so with them I got a good dose of Cape Town hospitality, family and friends. One of the gatherings we attended was a birthday party for Francois’ sister-in-law, and it reminded me so much of the barbecues and picnics that Grandma and Grandpa used to have (and that Grandma still has when us kids are around). All the lovely food: the briyani, chicken curry, samosas, chicken wings, fish cakes and salads. The family and friends all gathered together in one place. There’s a way of relating to others, of speaking and cooking that is so unique to the Cape Town Coloured community, which I never recognized as being part of a distinct culture when I was younger. It’s amazing to see where your own family fits into this group that I hardly knew anything about until a few years ago.

I spent a day at the beach in Simon’s Town with my aunt Catherine, cousins Greg and Carol, and Carol’s two daughters, Yusrah and Annika (someone please correct me if I’ve spelled their names wrong), who I think are also three and five. That side of the family had visited Canada occasionally when I was growing up, but I hadn’t seen any of them in a few years, so it was wonderful to catch up over fish and chips. Later we met up with Carol’s husband Nazeem and her son Mujaheed, who was only four the last time I met him (and is now nine). The kid actually remembered me – his first words to me were, “Auntie Kaitlin, you look different!” So cute. I also had a lovely lunch followed by a drive to Hout Bay with another cousin, Thelma. All in all it was a very successful visit, though I didn’t have time to see half the people I had wanted to see.

What with all the visiting and running around there wasn’t a lot of time to see Cape Town, but I saw enough to know that I will definitely visit again. Next time I’m around, I’ll make a point of blocking off at least a couple of weeks for South Africa. I did have an odd feeling while in Cape Town, though. My first impressions were that the city centre was so clean and organized and empty – it made me feel as though I were in North America again. I felt a little “homesick” for Nairobi, so I don’t know what it will be like when I’m actually back in North America. Of course, that’s just the shiny, tourist-friendly city centre. I know that other parts of the city aren’t so glossy and safe.

My travels have come to an end, for the time being. While my trip was fantastic, I must say that I’m thrilled to be back in Nairobi after about a month and a half. It is so nice to have a home base and a little stability again. But beyond that, I’ve missed the noise, the colour and the chaos. There’s just so much attitude, humour and swagger in Nairobi. There’s nowhere else quite like it.

the Power of Movements

This was the 11th women’s forum hosted by the Association for Women’s Rights in Development (AWID). It’s the first time that the event has been hosted in Africa, and had record attendance – over 2,200 participants came from all over the world! About 30% of these came from African countries and 11% from South Africa alone (partly because, as a means of encouraging participation, a certain number of free spots were reserved for South African participants). Though there were some men in attendance, the overwhelming majority of participants were women. And I have to tell you, the energy of the place was amazing. It was really inspiring to hear from and to meet so many women who are all working to achieve gender equality, whether this be in a feminist context or not.

Most of the women attending the conference came from an organizational perspective – they worked for NGOs, non-profits, funding organizations and the like. We were nine in our indigenous African women’s delegation: Lucy and me, one other woman from Kenya, one from Uganda, two from Tanzania and three from South Africa. We also met up with indigenous women from Latin America, who were here with the International Indigenous Women’s Forum (FIMI). I was finally able to meet a FIMI colleague from Nicaragua with whom I had had a long email correspondence, which was wonderful. It’s so different and so gratifying to meet someone in person after organizing logistics online together for so long!

The theme for the conference this year was “The Power of Movements” – a discussion both of the women’s rights movement and its direction and drawbacks, and of intersecting movements. What impressed me most about the conference was the effort that the organizers had put into consciously including groups which have traditionally been marginalized within “mainstream feminist” circles (i.e. Western, white, middle-class, straight, cisgender, able-bodied, etc.). There were LGBTI groups present, disabled women, indigenous women and sex workers. Though at this point in time the representation of minority groups was mostly superficial (for example, though there was an effort to reach out to disabled women, there were no sign language translators and none of the workshop information was available in Braille; and although there was an effort to reach out to queer and trans women, the language used in the main plenary sessions was still quite heterocentric and gender essentialist, second-wave feminist-style), at least it’s a step in the right direction.

I was very excited to meet women who are working in queer rights in Africa. I hadn’t seen any LGBTI organizations in Kenya, though I know they must exist. Such organizations are frequently driven underground for fear of persecution, as in many countries homosexuality is illegal and the stigma against it is still strong. In South Africa, the first country in Africa to legalize same-sex marriage, there is more in the way of visible LGBTI organizing, but that still doesn’t mean that there’s more acceptance, especially in rural areas. I was awed by the women who were working in countries which are so hostile to their presence, yet they persevere because they believe so strongly in equal rights for all people. They are not ashamed to fight for the right to love who they want, the right to be treated with dignity and respect, the right not to be beaten or killed simply for looking or dressing the “wrong” way, or for holding or (god forbid) kissing their partner in public. The right just to exist. One woman in particular, who was working for GALZ (Gays and Lesbian of Zimbabwe) really impressed me. I had no idea that such an organization existed. And I can’t imagine the bravery that it must take to work in such a difficult context.

There was an overwhelming variety of sessions and workshops to choose from, and I wasn’t able to attend all those I was interested in, but I did get to some cool ones. I went to the launch of the new edition of the Feminist Africa journal, a session on sex workers and feminism, another one on disability and sexuality, one on African feminism, and one on indigenous and non-indigenous cooperation. I think attending this conference has been very helpful to me in terms of realizing that in the future I would really like to work in an explicitly feminist and queer-positive environment; these things are important to me, and I would like to see them acknowledged in a work context. Although I remain passionate about indigenous rights and would like to continue to be involved in this field to a degree, I think there are other areas of work, particularly in women’s rights, which draw my attention more strongly. I intend to keep on communicating and possibly working with IIN and FIMI in some capacity, but I would love to expand my horizons a bit in the coming years.

Although I love the energy and diversity that large conferences bring, the number of pressing issues that this kind of gathering brings to light is terrifying! There’s just so much to address, so many different groups fighting for rights, equality, freedom, recognition – domestic workers, transwomen, artists, journalists, women from grassroots and indigenous communities, political prisoners, rape survivors – the list goes on and on. It gets to be too much when you see just how much work there is to do. But it’s comforting to know that although the world can be a huge and frightening place, at least there are others who are there to stand beside you, to pull you up when you fall and take up the chant when you grow horse, and to assure you that no, you’re not crazy for giving a damn.

"and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak"
-Audre Lorde

the journey

After a frustrating flight, during which our plane was delayed, we missed our connection and our luggage was misplaced, Sophia and I arrived at the Cape Town airport on Thursday afternoon to meet the rest of our delegation. Though it was a flight full of misadventures, it was an amazing one because it was Sophia's first time in an airplane. Her first time to peer down at the world below as if at a child's playthings, her first time to soar amongst the clouds. She was apprehensive about it (arriving at the airport two hours before our agreed meeting time!), but I think she enjoyed it. There were a few obstacles, language being the primary one, though we did muddle through with the few phrases between us, and a lot of gestures and laughter. Dress was another. As Sophia is always in traditional dress, of course she arrived on the day of the flight fully decked out in gorgeous beaded necklaces -- many of which had dangling metallic pieces. The poor woman was patted down every time she went through security. The other thing I hadn't realized when I was rushing about the airport in Johannesburg trying to make our hopeless connection was that Sophia had never used an escalator before. I try to be sensitive to these kinds of things, but this was one thing that, in my hurry, I never even considered. Can you imagine encountering an escalator for the first time as an adult, without anyone explaining it to you? They can be tricky enough at the best of times. It was only when I saw her stumble on the escalator at the convention centre and asked her about it then that I realized!

It was all very exciting, really, to be going through all of these things with someone experiencing them for the first time, and seeing all the amazing complex technologies and frustrating procedures that we live with and take for granted through fresh eyes. It was an adventure, and we made it to Cape Town safe and sound (though tired and chilly). Next stop.. the women's forum.

Morogoro

Morogoro is a beautiful town. About three hours’ drive West of Dar es Salaam, it lies at the base of the Uluguru mountain. The mountain itself is rich and green, and most of the produce in Morogoro comes from the many farms which are wrapped improbably around the mountain’s contours. I’ve been here for a week now, and I can say that the town is much bigger and livelier than I expected it to be. Here you can go to the disco any day of the week and dance the night away to Tanzania’s own bongo flava (a Swahili musical genre blending pop, hip hop and traditional melodies), or to lingala, which comes from Congo and is very popular all throughout East Africa. There’s even a hotel with a pool, where we spent a lazy Sunday afternoon swimming and chatting. It’s a small town, but people are very active and engaged in all sorts of activities. There’s a big Swahili school here, agriculture, livestock rearing and many little shops, cafes and bars.

While I’m here, I’m working with a small community-based organization called Parakuiyo Pastoralists Indigenous Community Development Organization. This organization is only two years old, and was formed in response to the marginalization of pastoralists in government policy and developmental projects in Tanzania. Their current program is a land rights project, which aims to inform pastoralists about their rights in regards to land use and ownership, and to help resolve land conflicts in a more constructive manner. There have been many conflicts in the region between pastorlists and agriculturalists competing for the same resources – conflicts in which people on both sides have lost their lives. Hopefully this project will help foster a better relationship both between pastoralists and the government and police force, and pastoralists and the farming communities with whom they sometimes clash. Since I’m here for such a short time I won’t have accomplished that much by the time I leave, but I’ve at least been helping to develop a project proposal on political participation and good governance, and a monitoring and evaluation system.

Another of Parakuiyo’s projects is a high school for pastoralist children. The school serves the entire Morogoro region, which occupies 72,939 square kilometers. Parakuiyo helped the community to engage in fundraising activities to build the school, and helped convince community members about the value of education. Maasai children are often kept home from school for a variety of reasons. The boys are frequently needed at home to take care of the livestock. Indeed, anyone traveling through Maasailand for any length of time can’t help but notice the many young boys watching cattle or sheep, staring warily at strangers passing through. The girls are often kept at home to help with domestic chores, like fetching water or firewood, particularly in areas where the environment is very degraded and these resources are scarce. Girls are also sometimes married off quite early, and forced to drop out of school. Sometimes parents simply can’t afford the tuition. Parakuyo secondary school is remarkable because attendance, the bane of many a school in pastoralist areas, is not an issue here. Through Parakuiyo’s efforts and the efforts of the headmaster, the community has really rallied around the school. Tuition is lowered for low-income families, and now it’s becoming the norm for children in these parts to attend the school. The fact that the community managed to fundraise the bulk of the funds for construction probably helps, as it’s a project that they can take pride in and feel that it belongs to them. The school only opened in January 2007, and already they have 158 students, 78 of whom are girls. They’re expecting at least 80 more students to enroll for the next year.

Though attendance and enthusiasm are high at Parakuyo, the school is desperately lacking in facilities. Though, like most secondary schools in Tanzania, it is a boarding school, none of the dormitories have been finished yet because of lack of funds. Students are forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor of rooms that are used for classes during the day. When we visited, the mattresses had been hung over the rafters, exposing the uneven concrete floor beneath. There is no kitchen, only a small shelter for cooking, and no storage area. There is no laboratory. There are only five teachers for the whole school, only one of whom is female, and none of whom are qualified to teach science. Transportation is also a problem, since the area is remote and the roads in bad condition, particularly during the rainy season. It had been raining on the day we visited the school, and considering how much trouble our taxi had getting into the village, and how muddy our additional half-hour walk was, I could just imagine what a nightmare it might be to bring in supplies or get a sick student to a medical centre.

In a way, it’s discouraging to think that as much as this community has struggled, and as many minds have been changed about the value of education, there are still so many challenges to overcome. There’s just no money for so many of the facilities that are desperately needed. But at least these kids have the opportunity to get a high school education – that’s something that many Maasai children can’t even dream of.

There are only three employees at Parakuiyo, and I’ve mostly been working with Jacob, the office secretary. He’s been very welcoming, helping me to get settled here and become familiar with the town. On Saturday, the two of us went on a fantastic five-hour hike on the mountain. It was really neat because the mountain is actually inhabited by farmers almost all the way to the peak, although from afar you can’t tell that anyone lives there at all. As we walked along, we passed all sorts of homes, some made of mud and sticks, some of brick, and fields and fields of produce of all sorts. Bananas were the most popular crop, but there were also cabbages, carrots, tomatoes, beets, and herbs – even lettuce. The path was a bit crazy at times, just a tiny narrow footpath over a steep incline. Inevitably, at one point I slipped off the path (the edge of the path was full of plants, but when I stepped onto a section that I thought was the path it was just a hole with plants covering it like an old-school trap), and ended up with half of my body hanging over some hapless farmer’s onion patch! I just got some scrapes, but of course when we came back down everyone was very apologetic about it, which was a little embarrassing.

We stopped at a house near the top, which had been built by German missionaries in 1911. Though it was in a gorgeous location overlooking the town, and I’m sure could be turned into quite a profitable tourist attraction or lodge, it had been severely neglected over the years. Vines were overtaking the outside and a tiny old man was living inside. I’m not sure if he was squatting or if he was renting the place or what. It was all a bit surreal. We bought some beautiful fresh bananas and carrots from some farmers who were preparing their wares for transportation to the town. On our way down we were passed by two of those same farmers, who were the vegetable transporters I suppose. They were both balancing enormous bags stuffed full of carrots on their heads. Those things had to weigh at least twenty pounds! They must really have amazing strength and balance to have brought those carrots on their heads all the way down those steep, twisting paths.

It’s going to be pretty sad to leave Morogoro in a couple of days – I’ve made some good connections here and can see myself returning in the future. But next time I’ll definitely have to beef up on my Swahili before venturing into the communities again! On Wednesday I return to Dar es Salaam, and then on Thursday I’ll be flying out to Cape Town. I’m traveling with a Maasai woman, Sophia. She’s being sponsored by Indigenous Information Network to attend the Power of Movements conference. I’m pretty sure it’s her first time flying, and she only speaks Maa and Swahili, so it might be quite an adventure. And it’ll be interesting to see how people react to her in South Africa, since she’s always in traditional dress. I hope that she doesn’t get too intimidated, but from what I’ve observed about her so far I think she’ll have a good laugh about it.

Dar

On Tuesday, George and I took the bus to Dar es Salaam, or Bongo as it's commonly known around these parts. Bongo means "brains" in Swahili; they call it this because you need brains to survive in this city. Or so they say. It can't be much worse than Nairobbery, right?

The bus ride was quite long -- about nine hours and we arrived in the city just as the sun was setting. Though I'm not crazy about long bus rides, this one had the benefit of fantastic scenery. Tanzania really is a beautiful place. It's filled with never-ending mountains and lush countryside dotted with little villages and towns.

Dar is quite a change from all that. It's a sprawling city, with suburbs spilling out in every direction. Our hotel is located in a ramshackle part of town, which seems to be predominantly Indian. Most of the architecture is from the 1930s, and doesn't appear to have been fixed up much since that time. The buildings' facades are crumbling with age, and blackened by pollution. This is just the old part of town, though -- the city centre is more modern, with its gleaming office buildings and modern hotels.

I've found that Dar's reputation as a sketchy, scary city is much overrated. Sure, there's a lot of hassle. Lots of aggressive hawkers and taxi drivers. Lots of pan handlers. Lots of people and traffic. But the hassle from people on the street isn't any worse than in Zanzibar, for example, and the traffic is nothing compared to Nairobi. My major beef with Dar is really the heat. Yes, Zanzibar was hot, but at least then you could escape to the waterfront or the top of a tall building for some ocean breeze. Here the air is trapped between buildings, and is heated from car exhaust and the reflection of office windows. There are beaches, but it takes at least an hour to get to them from the city centre. The beaches are truly beautiful, though. It's amazing that such tranquility and clear waters lie so close to such chaos.

Here I've mostly been working on school applications and making arrangements for my next steps. Soon I'll be heading to Morogoro, a town a few hours West of Dar, to work with one of IIN's partner organizations for a little while. Then it's off to Cape Town in mid-November. So there's lots to look forward to.

Arusha

To me, the most remarkable thing about Arusha (aside from the gorgeous mountain views) was the number of wedding parties roaming the town on weekends. And it's not just about the people in cars decorated with ribbons and flowers, and the huge groups of women dressed in loud, beautiful patterns -- the amazing thing is that every single wedding party has their own personal brass band which follows them everywhere. You'll see groups of cars passing by, one of which will be a pickup truck, the back filled with dancing, cheering guests, followed by another pickup truck bristling with musicians. They're playing old, beat-up looking instruments (I saw one trombone that was held together by elastic bands), and are slightly quavery and off-pitch, but that doesn't damped their spirits in the least. The brass instruments are joined by drums, and the cumulative effect is something like a high school marching band. But they're playing away like it's the best damn music in the world. I just love their exuberance.

The place I stayed in Arusha was a far cry from the luxurious hotels and camps I experienced over the previous couple of weeks while traveling with my parents. It was a very basic place, right in the middle of the city's central market. The view from my room's window was of rusted tin roofs and concrete walls topped with glistening broken glass, with beautiful Mount Meru looming in the background. In the morning, I was greeted by the sights and sounds of trade -- the men carving and polishing wooden furniture by the side of the road, the women whipping up fabulous creations on their old-fashioned sewing machines, the piles of jeans and rubber boots and pipes and dishes. The little cafes nearby sold thick, sweet chai and traditional dishes (lots of rice-based stuff like pilau, and lots of meat).

Aside from the bustle of hawkers and vendors, Arusha is a bit of a sleepy town. It's a nice place, to be sure, but not a lot going on. I had stayed for a few days and I think that was about the right amount of time. It's clear that Arusha's government is really trying hard to boost tourism in the area by capitalizing on its convenient location for the northern park route, and its safety for people attending conferences and such, but the city itself still has little draw. They would do well to bring more cultural attractions and nightlife to the town, I think.

The best part of Arusha was really just spending some time with Lesikar, who was our guide on the safari -- he was wonderful, keeping me company and showing me around. George also joined me at the end of my stay, which was fabulous -- I really missed him during my vacation, and he brought me some vital items from home as well! George also joined me in the next leg of my journey, to Dar es Salaam.