Did I Say 'Never Again?'

June 2007 (Tanzania)

Bismarck Rock in Mwanza



DID I SAY ‘NEVER AGAIN’?
It did not take me long to break my promise to myself that I will never climb a mountain again, or that I will never go on safari again..... One is so easily persuaded to do it just one more time.For those people interested in statistics, I had reached the midpoint of the African Continent between Cape Town and Cairo.

Arusha is just over the border from Kenya and a major town for tourism as well as the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, and one cannot but bump into people related to these two activities. The smart UN 4x4 cars are all over and there are many employed nationals from various countries of the world who are enjoying the opportunity to live in a town with all the modern conveniences and places of interest around them. So why rush the Tribunal? And of course, everyone wants to sell you a climb of Kilimanjaro or Mount Meru or a safari tour or similar excursion which will take all the money you have, off you. Arusha is also the headquarters of the East African Community where the attempt to re-launch the disbanded East African Community of 30 years ago, is being planned. Here the Arusha Declaration was signed when Julius Nyerere was in charge and Tanzania went Socialist 30 years ago. The building which was used for this event is now a rather limited museum. Arusha is also the mineral city of Tanzania because of the nearby Tanzanite mines where this unique gemstone in found. However, it is a bustling and relatively pleasant town to be stuck in, although everyone assures me that Moise, nearer Mount Kilimanjaro, is the better place to be. At the Information Centre I was intrigued by how efficiently people from the local areas had come together to advertise their villages and describe what they could offer to the tourist. All this in the name of 'Cultural and Eco Tourism'. So I managed to contact one of these Guides and John Henry soon had me booked up for a 4-day 3-night visit to his home and village. As I was the only client, it was arranged that I stay in his house. We traveled by daladala. This is the Tanzanian name I had to substitute for 'matatu' (in Zanzibar, it is podapoda). However, Arusha is a one-off town and even the daladalas are not called that there. I was told they are called 'ice'. It did not make sense, but I eventually found someone who could tell me where it came from: Hiace, the maker of the minivans used for people-transport.

And then we traveled by truck. In keeping with the ethic of village involvement (part of my fee went to help the local primary school), JH had engaged a local lad with a truck to drive us about for the first day. The fact that it was falling to pieces and really was not suited to the incredibly bad roads (4x4s would revolt!), did not phase the young man and we spent all day visiting and walking to places of interest in the area. We were only stuck in the mud once!JH's three small sons gave up their room in the typically local square house and I was assigned to sleep on their incredibly hard and bumpy bed. As in all of Africa, the cooking area is outside and JH, thinking that he has to be very careful of the mzungu stomach, had hired a porter/cook for the duration of my stay. Emanuel provided great meals and I ate in lonely style and the following day, when he took me up the little 'mountain' between the two famous peaks to see them from such an incredible viewpoint, he knew just how to pace me so that I did not get over-tired. This was such a contrast to the volcano-climb, that I realise what a real professional porter can do and my 'never again’ resolution died temporarily.

On top of this spiritual hill, one had superb views of both the highest mountains in Tanzania; ….. OK OK, Mount Kilimanjaro is the highest point in Africa if one wants to consider the altitude, as well as being the world's largest free-standing mountain... Mount Meru is simply the 4th highest in Africa and only takes 4 days to climb...but it is a very beautiful and challenging inactive volcanic crater. The thing that I really like about these two mountains is that they are on the equator, yet both have permanent snow/glaciers on them. The latter might not last very long if global warming goes on melting them at the rate it is at present.

But back to my little climb which I never expected to do: John Henry was not well, so only Emanuel took me up. He has climbed Kilimanjaro 10 times and Meru 12 times, so I knew I was in good hands when he set the most undemanding pace and I managed to huff and puff upwards without collapsing at the top. Guess what? There were dozens of local people up there! Granted they did go via a different, largely vehicle-bound route, but I felt a bit deflated after my heroic effort. There were groups of people all over the place. Large plastic shelters and tents were scattered between the bushes and the assembled pilgrims were all singing quietly, in a trance-like state or just sleeping off their three-day fast. The mountain is sacred and people go there for spiritual refreshing. We enjoyed a delicious lunch, but made sure to stay away from hungry eyes.

One day a long walk involved going through many farmed areas along the edge of a natural forest. It always seems such a waste of manpower to see the little reed shelters built on the edge of a cultivated area where children and adults (during school lessons) take up positions with noise-inducing implements to frighten away the monkeys, antelope and birds. This is one of the negative sides to the imposition of 'natural forest preservation'. I was told that, if an elephant becomes too aggressively greedy, the Wild-Life people will be summoned and may shoot it with the result that it will prevent this herd of elephants from destroying crops in that area for at least 7 years. Elephants do not forget. It was interesting to see fresh elephant droppings on the paths which we followed down to a gorge in the forest. We eventually reached a place where fresh and very sweet water emerged from the rocks. This is the local ‘it has never run dry’ 'emergency supply' during a drought.

Throughout these days, we talked and discussed all kinds of things. They showed me plants and told me about their food value/medicinal uses and I told them my usual stories:
Why the Passion fruit is called that (the flower represents the various elements in the story of Christ’s Passion)
How to catch a baboon (use a pumpkin with a small hole in it. Once its hand is full of the flesh, it will not let go even if you approach it)
How to stop nettle sting (it does not have to be a dock leaf. Any thick chlorophyll-filled leaf would do)
How to make nettle soup (it does not sting in the mouth!)
Lantana leaves are also good for malarial treatment (it is an exotic weed; an imported plant, so the locals have not learnt the trick of boiling the leaves for an anti-malaria tea)
Most of the mushrooms and fungus we encountered is edible (but I did not demonstrate and could not do any convincing there!)

Life was full of verbal exchanges…

Another sacred visit was to a very powerfully spiritual spring deep in the mountains. We followed elephant tracks through tropical forest much of the time and eventually looked down, from steep edges and thick foliage, upon a large and invitingly cool pond, the depth of which had never been established. I happily suggested cooling off in it, but both men were aghast at the mere suggestion. Not only because neither of them could swim to save me if necessary, but because of its sacred nature. So I was getting the message....

Next stop, further intrigues: The natural herbalist we visited was willing to do a diagnosis of JH's condition, but it was a Sunday and she told us she did not work on Sundays. But we could talk about remedies and JH was told to bring an empty bottle for the medicine the next day.

Then home to JH's modest house, with its banana-leaf-surrounded pit latrine with two holes. The structure is sensible and open to the elements, so no smells. By having two holes made in the pole and mud floor which covers the very large pit, waste can spread naturally and more easily. By now you must realise that JH is imbued with beliefs in spirits and the inexplicable. I have always had respect for people's beliefs and the power of prayer and really do believe that there are spirits whose existence we cannot explain. There is a long-held belief that spirits dwell in places like latrines. The last evening I went there in my usual trousers with pockets full of tissues, whistle, pencil, small Su-doku book and unusually (as I had been to the Bank to withdraw money with which to pay JH and another Tour Agent), my credit card wrapped in a small plastic bag secure next to the book. As I started to stretch my legs, I suddenly saw the plastic bag emerge from my pocket and do a swift side-swoop into the pit hole. No way was that natural or possible! An unknown force pulled it out of my pocket and into the pit. I rest my case. Poor JH was distraught as he knew there were benevolent spirits in the pit and this just confirmed it! The next morning his young son very kindly manufactured an ingenious plastic container on the end of a stick contraption and I, out of total fear that they will just not find it, stayed in my room. But they did! They presented me with a dry and intact credit card. That day the Bank sent a letter to my London address saying that they suspected fraud and that my withdrawal facility is being suspended. It took an awful lot of telephoning by Ingrid and me to convince them that I was just withdrawing money in an erratic way, depending on whether I was partaking of a special trip or not. And the spirits did not make any illegal withdrawals!

Huh! Another Special Trip had just been booked and paid for! Did I say never again to Safari Tours?

I am a South African and was brought up with wild life as part of the scene. My father often went on hunting trips and came home with all kinds of antelope which we then had to deal with; cutting pieces to dry for the South African delicacy (like jerky) called biltong, preparing venison joints, making game sausages, pickling and preserving and then scraping the skins to salt and dry in the sun. On the farms I used to see how pieces of skin were expertly cut into long narrow strips around and around a large cattle-skin and then the ends of these were tied to a vast loose stone and the subsequent 'riempies' (thongs) were hauled over a stout tree branch to stretch them whilst they dried. The stone was turned and turned as the riempies were stretched to the limit. When dry, they were ideal for cattle whips and animal ties of all kinds as well as for use in the making of traditional wooden furniture. My father had a 5-ft rhinoceros skin 'shambok' which I am glad to say was never used, but it was a threat to us kids in case we did not behave. And I make no apologies for these brutal implements which were used throughout the Colonial and other worlds. I know they are still in use just because the TV tells us so: ‘He was sentenced to 10 lashes….”

As we grew up, we went hunting for rabbits and meerkat (both pests on a farm) at night. This was/is a favourite occupation for young people before TV rooted them to settees. One would excitedly jump into a ‘bakkie’ (open van) and adjust the searchlight, prepare the guns and be ready for a bumpy chase over the veldt! Eventually bigger animals and day safaris came into our sights. Where my parents had retired by the South Coast of Natal, the property was large with many trees and the 'garden boy' would often come to my Dad and tell him; 'Baas, my breakfast is in the tree", and Dad would go out and shoot a monkey which was eating our mangoes or avocadoes or corn. Francis also went shooting 'vermin' and had a chance to be 'bloodied' during one of our visits to SA when he shot a large eland. Seeing snakes and a very great variety of birds was just part of daily life. There are many Animal Reserves all over the country and we often went for a day or two to see whatever animals it was famous for.

But the best was when one just came upon them unexpectedly. Once in the late 1950s two fellow university students and I hitched all day up the north coast of Natal to a place where recent industry and horrible mining of titanium out of the ancient sand dunes has changed nature forever. We slept on the railway station platform and next day met and old man. He was probably only about 40 years old, but to us three 18yr olds, that was ancient! He asked if we wanted to see some crocodiles.... We walked across to the dunes and climbed an enormous one. From the top, we looked down on an estuary where great numbers of crocodiles were sunbathing by its edges. I have been to many crocodile farms and Parks, but never ever seen such monsters! Just there for anyone to bump into. Our kind mentor then let us watch him as he speared sharks in the shallow waters of the sea. A young boy held a large fishing rod on the beach. The old man then took the end of the line, attached a spear to this and waded into the water. As a shark swam past his legs, he would spear it, the line would be detached and he would then return to the beach, take over the rod and play in the shark. Our incomparable 'Hemmingway experience' was concluded when he offered to take us back to Durban - in his little airplane!

Can one beat these kinds of experiences? Not easily... So I have been resolutely uninterested in going 'on Safari', which is what most visitors to East Africa, do. On the other hand, it was the start of the annual wildebeest migration in Serengeti. This phenomenon has been designated as one of the seven natural wonders of the world. When 1,600,000 wildebeest and countless thousands of other animals decide to travel north into the Kenyan Maasai Mara Reserve for a few months and then to return to the plains of Serengeti, you cannot imagine the sheer scale of such an operation. It has to be seen. I was hooked!

Four of us had signed up for a 5-day 4-night safari. Two Austrian men (one of whom I had met in Uganda) and a delightful Japanese girl. We set off with our driver-guide and cook/tent-erector in a 4x4. The roads to the park and main roads generally in Tanzania are immaculately tarred and it is an incredible pleasure to ride on good roads after 15 months of … You get the picture….

The first two nights were spent at a campsite next to Lake Manyara (which I knew nothing about) and within the first two-hour game drive, I saw more numbers and more varieties of animals than I had ever seen in my life!! How the arrogant fall! There were no tree-climbing lions in view, but I suppose we were not important enough for them to try and amuse us.

Ngorogoro Crater was much more welcoming with endless herds of the usual and a lazing lion so close that I thought I was watching an MGM film credit starting. However, I think I have fallen in love with hippos; just such incredible hulks of blubber which make me feel slim for a change! And the Crater is one of those wonders of nature which leaves one in awe. It is the largest Caldera (extinct volcanic crater) in the world. The 'horizon' all around is endlessly flat, yet in the far distance are the edges of the crater, giving it a 'second horizon'. The Maasai had once shared this rich pastureland with the animals and their cattle. The latter have been removed and a Maasai tourist-village been built outside the crater where one has to pay to observe 'true tribal life'. Notwithstanding my skepticism, I have to give the Maasai their due. They are very good salespeople and you see these beautifully tall and slim men all over Tanzania and Kenya draped in their plaid (tartan) red blankets, covered in all kinds of bead adornments and trying to get your last shilling from you. The tartans are recent; a Scottish company produced the blankets in Manchester and they were sold to the Maasai less than 50 years ago. But a good salesman knows the value of a gimmick. What amused me about them is that they have had the daring to 'invade' Zanzibar. In this Muslim city, thousands of kilometers away and with no historical contact, the Maasai are seen all over the place and the many tourist shops are full of Maasai bead-work, paintings and blankets. What is also amusing is the fact that some stocky/fat local men are wearing a blanket and pretending to be a Maasai. Anything for a living!

Incidentally, something you no doubt know but which I only recently realised, is that the existence of Tanzania's fabulous, incredibly large, wild life parks is due to the humble tsetse fly. Because it attacks cattle and humans get sleeping sickness from it, the local pastoralist inhabitants could not live there. Thus these vast areas were essentially left to natural wildlife. Another fact that was new to me: With so many thousands of horse-like Zebra all over the place, why have they never been domesticated to take loads or riders? Their backbone is not strong enough. Clever work-evaders!

From our campsite on the rim of the crater where we were welcomed by an elephant and two buffaloes (they might have thought otherwise), we set off for Serengeti. It is justifiably rated as one of the seven natural wonders of the world: endless plains of animal-filled vistas...but does one really want to watch a leopard doing its posing on a nearby dead tree trunk in the company of 21 other vehicles? I really did count 22 of us ‘noisy animals’ parked higgledy-piggledy on that occasion. Apart from such delights, the main reason for being in this vast area was the wildebeest.

You know you are approaching them when flies enter your vehicle and start being a real nuisance. This is all part of the symbiotic dependency of different species. The wildebeest and their hangers-on like zebra migrate thousands of kilometers to the north and west every year when the short grass which is good for young wildebeest (thousands born every day during a two-week birthing spree), is depleted and the rains have moved northwards. This gives the grass a chance to be renewed by the small beetles, flies and various rodents which break down the dung and fertilise the grass. The largest migration in the world then enters Kenya's Maasai Mara Park at the same time as the expensively-hiked safari troops depart from Nairobi with cameras at the ready. After a suitable show of muscle, the wildebeest go south again to restart their performance for the following year's tourists. Magic!

I was really in awe, despite my initial thoughts of 'so what?’. To be in the midst of it and to see the horizon suddenly become a black mass of movement: walking, skipping, prancing, grunting, gathering....just remember the scene in The Lion King and you can begin to get an idea of what I am talking about... We stopped on a ford across the main river where we could see enormous crocodiles lying replete in the sun...only to be waiting and ready for the next year's feast... And that night in our campsite, the air was filled with flies and the grunting of migrating wildebeest.

Having said that, my most memorable impression in these parks, when there were no tourists in other vehicles around and our engine was switched off, was the pure silence. Heaven!

One thing I will never say 'never again' to is a ride on a train. We left Serengeti to exit on the western side so that a local matatu could take us to Mwanza on Lake Victoria from where a train goes to Dar es Salaam. Or so the theory goes... My companions caught the thrice-weekly boat on Lake Victoria that evening, to cross towards Uganda, and I stayed on in Mwanza for a few days until the train schedule allowed for an exit. Arriving early one morning with my ticket, I was told that there is a delay and it will only leave the next day. Having already lost out on half the journey beyond Dodola because of 'work on the line', it did not seem to make much difference to delay for yet another 24 hours. I returned to the hotel and had breakfast.

Mwanza is not a bad town to be stranded in and I enjoyed the incredible rock formations amongst which roads and buildings have been erected. There are enormous granite boulders all over which are often imaginatively incorporated into gardens or buildings and they also form scenic islands in the lake. I am delighted to note that German Imperialism is not obliterated in this country where the League of Nations Mandate passed the colony known as German East Africa over to Britain after WW1. A nearby rock island is still called Bismarck Rock. If one was to pay an interior decorator or landscape architect, one could not improve on these visual delights.

The scheduled 24-hour train ride was only 27 hours long but I was sorry to be late in Tabora where I had hoped to jump onto a bicycle taxi to go and see the house where Livingstone had lived and which is now a museum. We were waiting to connect with the train from Kigoma on Lake Tanganyika on the western loop of the railway line. Instead, I walked in the dark through parts of town, had a G&T in the plush colonial (ex-railway) Orion Tabora Hotel which is redolent of the past and where young men in suits woo well-turned-out ladies. Then I followed the tree-lined avenue back to the train station and enjoyed banter and freshly cooked food with the numerous food sellers squatting by their charcoal fires and recycled coffee tin lamps.

My 2nd-class (no first class any more anyway) carriage was a bit crowded for such a long journey. We were only five in a six-berth compartment, but three ladies were enormous as only Africa ladies can be, one young girl was lithe and happily spent all her time sleeping on a top bunk bed. Amongst the large heap of bags, parcels and suitcases which could not go under the seats, played an active toddler and girl of 5. There was also a three-week-old baby who seemed to take up more space than any of us. So I huddled in a corner or hung out of the window in the passage until it was time to climb onto the other top bunk to sleep. I was proud of myself, being twice the age of any of the others, but at least I could get away from the chaos below.

During the next morning I became aware of all the small stops along the line which have rows upon rows of vast corrugated iron sheds. Some of them could be seen to have thousands of sacks of grain, whilst others, totally empty and ghost-like, were waiting for the supplies given by the affluent West to save a few more lives when drought hits the area. Not that the latter has happened or is expected. But it is good business for the locals to be building these sheds and, when the food is released, to make money from its selling. One forgets that local prices are depressed as a result and even more people become hungry. I must admit to ignorance. I always associated the USAID slogans all over the place with kind donations to Poor Africa (Ok I am cynical but there are also poor people in London or New York or wherever-a-photographer-can-get-a-good-shot), but I only recently learnt that it stood for United States Agency for International Development.

After the train ride, it was good to get off in Dodola, but very soon I wished that the train had not been forced to end there. What a soulless place! Broad streets with no character. The Tanzanian Govt. had decided in their wisdom to place their capital city in the middle of the country. Dodola was chosen, but as also happened in Brasilia, one cannot easily give a brand new 'designer-built’ place a soul. So although it is nominally the capital, most things are done from Dar. Even the hotel I finally tracked down (most were full for a Conference) was not up to the usual standard in my price range. There were three beds in the room, but the shared ablution facilities were not worth using. The Asian hairdresser did a good cutting job though and I was not handled by giggling girls trying to feel my hair, as usual. The early-morning bus had to put up with a smelly Hilda, but in hot and crowded conditions, I doubt that anyone was aware.

We arrived in Dar es Salaam late that day.

Dar is the type of town which one thinks has been there for ages, although it is not so long ago (1860s) that it was created as a port in favour over Bagamoyo, the old port town to its north. And having the rail-head start here made all the difference.

Most of the living takes place far from the centre of town and one needs one of the many daladalas to get there. I saw the vast market area from a daladala as I rode out to check on the train which I eventually hoped to take to Malawi. This station is far from the centre of town and has no connection with the service I had taken from the north. I was surprised not to feel boxed-in by traffic. So far every African city I have stayed in is generally grid-locked or at least full of bumper-to-bumper vehicles. Here the ‘rush hour’ was orderly and busses moved swiftly from their designated stopping points. On a late Saturday afternoon, near the cathedral by the sea, there was an almighty noise. I had been watching a newly married couple emerge through its doors and go though all the usual activity associated with this ceremony. But others couples in other parts of town had also been married. Cars with bride and groom following a noisy brass band were followed in their turn by hooting cars of supporters (it sounded like the end of a football match!). And every couple married that afternoon had similar noisy supporters. It seems that it is compulsory to go along that stretch of road after your wedding.

The call to prayer from Mosques and the many Hindi temples were all seemingly subdued in Dar and I never thought “oh dear, there starts the noise”. Similarly in Zanzibar, the call is short and soft…one can go back to sleep with no problem.

I have never known a city with such foul water in its taps! Drinking it must be deadly because it looks so dirty, although there is no evidence of typhoid-ridden sufferers anywhere to be seen. But perhaps it is full of good organic matter and not all the chemicals we have in our Western taps. I did not offer to try it. If you ask for a Coca Cola anywhere in Tanzania, they look blankly at you and you have to repeat and point. But if you ask for a ‘soda’, they instantly bring a coke.

Walking as usual in the town centre, I was aware of the fact that the buildings are all relatively new or modern and the streets are wide and tree-lined. Most Embassies crowd around the main Parliamentary/Governmental/High Court buildings and State House. In the grounds of State House there are a few 'wild animals' and after having seen them so freely roaming in their natural environment, this seemed so pointless. A great hulk of a building completely dominates these low-level buildings. One would expect these six floors to be full of ministerial offices, but sadly, it is only a car parking garage to cope with all the must-have cars of officials.


I am fascinated to see how important the car is to the psyche of the Tanzanians. In the National Museum in Dar there are five cars relating to prominent people/offices on display. In the ‘House of Wonders Museum’ in Zanzibar is a nondescript Austin Princess. The notice says; ‘This car was used by the British resident before the Zanzibar Revolution, 1964’. No-one could throw light on what was meant by ‘The British resident’ although I subsequently read references to the British Government representative. In the Palace Museum, also in Stone Town, is an ordinary light blue Zephyr. It was the ‘Official presidential car used by the first President of the Revolutionary Council 1964-1972’. And on the adjacent wall hangs a framed Kanga (the colourful cotton wraps Swahili women wind around their bodies) with a picture of the car in the middle of it. As with all kangas, an elaborate system of printed sayings accompanies whatever pattern is depicted. This one translates as; Thank You For The Car Of The President.

This National Museum in the above area is very good. The memorial to those innocent visitors to the American Embassy, who died during the bombing of 14 October 1999, is simple and moving. And I learnt a fact that fascinates me: The Dugong, that human-like mammal from the Indian Ocean, is the only mammal in the world apart from humans, to enfold its young between its front flippers, for breast-feeding. The museum is primarily known for its ‘Cradle of Mankind’ exhibits. Dr. Louis Leakey and his wife Mary were responsible for uncovering many sites used by prehistoric man which confirmed the earliest existence of mankind in this part of the world. Their son Richard continued the work and he retired to a lovely house outside Lamu where the fishermen would call out “Dr. Richard!” and he would wave in reply. In the museum one can also view plaster casts of the earliest footprints of upright man found in the Laetoli Gorge near Ngorogoro dated 3.6 million years ago. ‘Lucy’ in Ethiopia lived about 3.2 million years ago. Food for thought.

Dar's fish market is also worth a visit. It is a very lively area close to the rather soulless formal streets just described. I have never seen so many different varieties of fish! Coming from the tropical waters of the Indian Ocean, the colours and shapes are very bright and varied.

What delighted me very much in the streets of Dar was to see so many newspaper sellers. And they have so many different versions! There are the usual stalls, but, what is common in Africa, is to see young boys walk about trying to sell you a paper from a tall cardboard-backed arrangement held in the one hand. If they think you might be interested in a particular issue, it is deftly extracted from the pile and thrust under your nose. I was intrigued though to see so many in Tanzania. One seller I spoke to in Dar told me that there are 10 Kiswahili dailies, 4 English dailies and 5 weekly English newspapers. And one really does see people reading! Not a common sight in most places in Africa.

The streets of Dar suddenly reminded me of the most disliked-by-me tree. I am back in the tropics where, what I dubbed as the ‘car-wash-tree’ in West Africa, can be found in proliferation. A more meaningless tree does not exist, I have decided. It is a very tall pole which has large leaves drooping off its trunk. No birds nest in it and it does not provide shade, fruit or flowers. It is just there. Like one of those brightly-coloured rotating plastic brushes between which one has a car washed. At last I have now found out that it actually comes from Ashok in India! Can they take it back please? Polyalthia longifolia. Says it all.

When one mentions Zanzibar and images of spices and pristine white beaches are evoked, it sounds fabulous and why should one not go? I very nearly did not because of my arrogant attitude. I have been to Lamu twice, which many people told me was 'much better' but of a similar Muslim architecture/way of life, so 'never again' seemed reasonable. However, the magic of Zanzibar unconsciously drew me.
First of all I had been delayed in meeting up with Judi in Malawi, so we had decided to meet in Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar is just a few hours across the water and I might as well wait there for her. Then it was the realisation that there would be a Film Festival in Stone Town, the main city on the island. Never having been to one, it seemed like a good excuse to book into a hotel for 10 days and just indulge.

Dar does not invite a long stay and I caught the slow ferry (3 hours) to Zanzibar Island. The fast ferry dashes over the waters in 11/2 hours, but one needs to slow down and adjust one's pace and the slower trip appealed.

Once on the island (and I never saw any of it except the Stone Town for 12 days), I was sucked into its magic.

I never returned to complete my visit to the rest of Tanzania. Never again? You bet!! I shall be back!!

Toilets I Have Known

All my life!

TOILETS I HAVE KNOWN


Yes, an absurd topic for discussion, but as they say; "even the Queen needs one".

Talking of which, I remember the great excitement in 1959 when the Queen Mother visited the Copper Belt in what was then Northern Rhodesia. She was due to see the women's project in which I was involved, teaching women who had come straight 'out of the bush' to live in rows of western houses with their husbands who had started to work as miners. For example, they had to be shown bread and how to use it. As well as flush toilets. We had to prepare for the visit and there was always the possibility that the QM might be called short (there are endless pseudonyms for that bodily function in our society). Our outside hut was scrupulously scrubbed and whitewashed and then a frantic call around amongst the white workers' wives brought forth a wonderful Victorian silver-backed set of hairbrushes! Mission complete! But she never went near it...

Thousands of ordinary people have used the Queen's toilets though. I am referring to those vast 20,000-guest garden parties and the large numbers of visitors to Buckingham Palace during the summer opening. When Buckingham Palace was opened a year sooner than planned after the fire in Windsor Castle in 1992, it was because the Queen had to fund the reconstruction of the damaged parts of Windsor Castle. During the first few years, the portacabin taps and loo handles for these hoards of gawpers were 'gold'. Now they are bog-standard portacabin rented 'chrome'. Even the Queen has to economise.

My earliest memory of independently using a ‘toilet’ was during the war when my father, being a possible German agent, was only allowed to do guarding duties in SA. I was on the verandah and Dad’s metal helmet was lying about. Turned upside down, it was a very convenient receptacle!

I left SA in 1962, when the language of Afrikaans was getting its pride established. Known as Die Wonder van Afrikaans (The Wonder of Afrikaans) there were annual fests to celebrate it and of course, later, the compulsory teaching through that medium which led to the student riots in Soweto and the start of the end of Apartheid. But when I left SA, I still spoke in the accepted vernacular and the language had not become 'smart'. Thus, when I go back there today, 45 years later, I use the word 'kleinhuisie' which means 'small house'. My younger Afrikaans-speaking friends crack up with laughter at such an old-fashioned word! Of course, to them it is 'toilet'. Anyway, what we had was the efficient system of night-soil-by-bucket-removal. In other words, an open wagon with large foul-smelling empty buckets and drawn by oxen, plied the roads of our village. The back flap of this outside building was lifted, the full bucket removed and an empty one inserted. I never found out where the buckets were emptied. The same system has been used for centuries in urban areas and probably still is in parts of the world. Just think of the endless rows upon rows of back-to-back houses in Industrial England with their narrow soil-removal lanes. But it can sometimes go wrong when the bucket is not removed in time... I had hired a car and was driving up the west coast of SA a few years ago before it was accepted that dark-skinned people had equal rights. Many would stand on the outskirts of towns and wait for a vehicle with room to take them further. I used to pick up several of these people, always believing that their gratitude would protect me. To me it was natural to help and obviously not charge money to a fellow human being. My parents and friends were horrified in Apartheid SA. "You could be killed!" was the usual cry. But on this particular occasion I had as usual driven right into the 'banned' area to drop them off and then needed to 'go to the toilet' (we were speaking Afrikaans, so I no doubt said 'kleinhuisie'). With humble apologies because the night-men had not been to this over-crowded slum, I was pointed to a small building where the bucket was definitely overflowing and there was no seat to sit on. Not a happy situation, but when one is desperate, anything can do, as I have learnt throughout my life.

My South African upbringing was long ago enough for me to remember what life was like before the concept and luxury of indoor toilets was an accepted part of architecture and plumbing. Yes, we had running water and a copper burner above the bath in which dried corn cobs were burnt to produce warm water, but otherwise it was a potty under the bed and a walk down the garden to the outside kazie (another of the myriad words for that building) which backed onto a road. Note how I am using many of the euphemisms associated with this subject!

Ashamed to admit it, but I also invented a container for urine when I was a frightened child at school and could not contain myself. I sat in the back of the class. We had wooden school benches with seats which could be lifted for book storage… It saved me from listening to the cries of fellow-students; ‘We know where you’re going!’

Undoubtedly as smelly as the aforementioned kleinhuisies are the garderobes built into the outside walls of medieval castles where the waste products from the gaps in the thick walls dropped straight into the moat below. No wonder they hung all their smart clothes nearby so that the foul uric acid air could kill off any bugs the garments might have picked up. One of the most effective ways of entering a castle or escaping from it, used to be through the use of these non-defensive apertures. The thought alone calls for pinched noses!

When we were studying the history of the City of London, our lecturer used to take great delight in showing us where the first ever public toilets in the time of Queen Matilda in the 12th century, were built. They overhung the river Thames and there was an open row of planks with 80 holes. But sharing a toilet was always part of our history until the 20th century brought in a new prudery. In the Yorkshire Dales the garden of a friend in a remote and isolated cottage sported a stone shed which still had the double-hole seat from its previous use intact. It never occurred to me until recently, but it was either for the joy of sharing company and a chat or, as I realised here in Africa with its pit latrines, to spread the waste more evenly. I prefer the former reason!

In Ghana, when staying in a village, I regularly had to use the communal waste latrines. Normal liquid was flushed down the open sewers from the washrooms which were scrupulously cleaned every day, but the need for defecation was a social occasion. 'Would you like to join me?' my friend would ask. Off we'd go to where a woman would sell you a piece of newspaper. Children went free, but only got a scrap of paper. The latrines were in open reed cubicles and one walked past squatting ladies (strict separation of the sexes was adhered to) until a vacant space was found. A large woven basket in each cubicle received the paper after use.

The use of paper of whatever quality is a sore point: Nowhere in poor or Muslim countries do public places supply any kind of paper. Thus my daily checklist before setting out of my bedroom, is always; ‘Do I have enough toilet paper for the day?’ It is anathema in any case for many of these people who are brought up with strict rules of cleanliness and hygiene. I think there is an element of this in the widespread custom of FGM (female genital mutilation) although I have not read about it. Otherwise, if you are lucky, there is a means of obtaining water for washing, available. This can be from the sophisticated tap-with-nozzle at seat level to the bucket/jug of water inside the space and all examples downwards from there. Of course one is never expected to dispose of used paper in pit-latrines or any kind of non-flushing as well as flushing-but-inefficient/blocked systems.

The latter system of collecting the paper is universal in countries where there is not adequate drainage and the pit below can quickly be filled or the drainage system is not sophisticated enough to cope with anything unnatural. Many a toilet is thus blocked and leads to very uncomfortable usage by others. And one can judge the sophistication or foreign-visitor-user status of a toilet by whether there is a notice for people to please put paper in the basket of plastic bucket provided, or not. And I remember a dear friend from a former Soviet Satellite State who used to visit me in London and would make a point of not flushing her used paper. Old habits die hard. This waste separation was interesting to me when I stayed in the house of a Muslim family in the water restricted town of Marsabit in Kenya. They had built their house themselves and the indoor toilet was strictly liquid only. Outside is a separate pit-toilet for other waste products.

On the rooftop of the Saharan town of Mopti in Mali, there was nothing but a mud surround and the mattress provided for my comfort. In case it ever rained, there was a small hole through the mud surround and my host told me emphatically that I must not go down the rickety ladder at night, but must use the area by the hole for a pee. The next morning there was no trace of liquid as it had all dried up in the heat.

The best toilet of all is of course the countryside. However, in over-populated Africa, every stop in the remotest of places soon becomes a site in which numerous children suddenly appear from ‘nowhere’. But if one can avoid them or make clear one’s intentions, it is such a natural place to be. And although I usually carry paper with me, if I need them, there are often large leaves around, as long as one knows how to identify a nettle. I fondly believe that I am helping to fertilise the land. I have read that, in China, before the people lost their peasant way of living, there were (maybe still are) small structures where they invite you to enter and also thank you for providing them with fertilizer.

During treks in Africa, whenever I have been on camp-sites, the facilities are inevitably dire and one longs for the open countryside! Sadly, too many trekkers mean that facilities have to be provided; and who is there to monitor it? Mind you, at the very well-organised eco-tourism trek I once did in Ethiopia, there was a self-checking scheme so that, if the local person, who cared for the campsite, did not provide buckets of water and loo paper, one could deduct a certain percentage from the camping fee for that site. Immaculate!

My children and I belonged to a wonderful organization called Forest School Camps in which children are allowed to live in remote places without running water or electricity for a few days/weeks. Everything is done under canvas and if you forget your bread or socks outside the tent at night it is inevitably eaten by the sheep or soaking wet. Thus children soon learn to care for their possessions! Of course, there has to be some sort of hygiene facilities and the beloved ‘lat’ is a source of endless stories and celebrated in song. The ‘latrine’ is a hole behind some Hessian walls and paper is cleverly stored under a waterproof cover. You are encouraged to use the trowel with which to cover your contribution and there is a water-bucket system and soap outside. Children learn to value their conveniences at home very quickly! But they also learn to trek in the countryside with a trowel.

The West is obsessed with ‘toilet training’ and the over-use of nappies (diapers). It is a pleasure to see African or Oriental children allowed the freedom to roam without pants in the warmth of their countries. They soon learn where to go and the sphincter muscles come into use just as language skills develop naturally too. Many a Westerner has been psychologically traumatized by the toileting demands placed by anxious parents. I also shudder at the waste and landfill problems produced by disposable nappies… But that is another subject.

Luxury on the other scale can always be guaranteed to come from America. I remember reading in a magazine how Jackie Onassis even has hot water in her toilets! Shock horror! The Americans call a toilet a bathroom though. A few years ago I was staying in a lovely private house in Philadelphia where I had the guest room which was naturally en suite. Imagine my surprise and pleasure to sit down and find that the seat is softly upholstered! One could ride up and down to great delight on its bounciness. Now that is real luxury! However, if you visit Hampton Court Palace, you can see the indoor cabinet used by King William 111 in the early 17th century. The wooden seat with a hole is covered by a round upholstered red velvet cushion. But there is no flushing water! The contents of these Royal deposits would also of course be inspected by the Groom of the Chamber and one sees so well how he was utilized in the play/film about the ‘Madness’ of George 111 (beginning 19th century). The daily contents/contribution had to be inspected and reported upon.

In Addis Ababa, the only working ATM machine is within the Sheraton Hotel. This is one of the best hotels in the world but it overlooks some of the worst of the poor areas of the city (open drains serve them). As a prosperous white-skin, I could easily walk in and use the ATM machine. The great joy on these trips was to go to the Ladies (and I was told the Gents was the same) and indulge in a seat which is intact, toilet paper which is soft, soap, towels, mirrors and other gold fittings. However, the feeling of contentment came from just knowing that the plumbing worked!!!

Similarly, exotic marble and gilt Rest Rooms or Ladies Powder Rooms in Harrods Department Store in London were for years a handy bolt hole, even if one was not buying anything. And then, about 15 years ago, disaster struck! The English use the term 'to spend a penny' and here Harrods was putting a price on it! All of a Pound Sterling! Last I heard it is now 2 Pounds. But, as you depart, you receive a squirt of the perfume being promoted that day.

Similar disaster struck the tourist industry when the once-free Public Conveniences next to Westminster Abbey suddenly began to charge 50 pence each. When your group has reached the stage in the morning when they need to go before the gruelingly informative tour of the Abbey and then the rush to catch the Changing of the Guard, you do not need to be inconvenienced like that. Protests and petitions were the order of the day. I left England before the issue was resolved.

Thinking of the words, why does the English language not have an equivalent version for 'en suite'? Is it part of our notorious prudishness to pretend that the fact that a loo is included cannot be mentioned? Just like the Americans pretend that a bathroom does not mean a toilet facility? Even in the smallest and most modest of hotels in which I have been staying here in Africa, the term en suite is still used. Or, to be fair, the term 'with shower’ is also used and that automatically implies that there is a toilet attached.

The word ‘loo’ comes from the French term Regardez de lieu! In the narrow, crowded streets of Medieval Europe, with no piped water, the overnight chamber pot would be emptied out of the window onto the cobbled street below where the contents would hopefully be flushed down to the river by the rain. But people were warned of the imminent downpour…

In London’s King’s Road, tourists are shown the house in which the 18th century inventor, Thomas Crapper used to live. He was not the first to use water, but he did invent the flushing toilet, hence the not-quite-so-polite term we often use to indicate what we want to do. Water has always been a means of flushing and one can see the remains of sophisticated methods all over the ancient world. The rows of ablution facilities in the Roman remains of the Fort at Housesteads on Hadrian’s Wall, which was built to keep the unruly Caledonians out of England, are well-preserved.

My first visit to India was relatively recent. I arrived late in Mumbai and was willing to take whatever hotel my ‘guide’ offered me. In the light of the next morning I left the confines of the hotel to find myself stepping over many bodies of sleeping homeless people. Expected. But the memory of the stench so often associated after that with India as a whole, and the care with which one had to dodge the human turds, was not so happy.

Sadly, most sophisticated African porcelain toilets are not what they were like when they were initially unpacked. With their chronic inability to maintain anything, the African system is to just allow items to deteriorate. Therefore and inevitably the seats are missing or broken and the cistern has its top damaged or is non-existent. This often means that the innards of the tank are also damaged. Fortunately I understand how a cistern works, and many a times have had to delve into it to pull the necessary catch. Just remember that this is clean tap water in there! In the hot weather, it is also a very good place to keep your tin or bottle of beer cool. If only the profession of plumbing was an honorable one! One could make a fortune!

The Zanzibar Film Festival films were mainly shown in a grand museum known as ‘The House of Wonders’. This very imposing 1883 Sultan’s Ceremonial Palace on the seafront of Stone Town was the first on the island to have electricity, an elevator and piped water. The latter two do not exist any more and I had a lot of exercise climbing to the top floor where the films were shown. The ground floor ablutions, which were elegantly a mixture of squat and sitting facilities, were totally waterless. Fortunately large plastic buckets of water with smaller ones to use as scoops were supplied in the lobby. Generally, throughout the Muslim world where water is always in short supply or has to be bought, there is usually a container and scoop for the necessary purification. Non-Muslim communities are not quite so generous with water.

During the 19th century, the great British Empire, which derived its wealth from exploiting its vast areas of occupation throughout the world (‘the Sun Never Set on the British Empire’, they used to say), meant that people flocked to London. Not dissimilar to the millions who now enter Africa’s large cities where the lure of ‘Roads Paved with Gold’ still holds sway. But only the lure is different. Today it is for televisions and cars… In 1801 London was the first city in the world to have a million inhabitants. But there was no piped water and one can imagine the incredible stench and filth. By the middle of the century the situation was so bad that the Ministry of Sanitation finally had to do something about the spread of disease amongst other things and Joseph Bazalgette was appointed to design an underground sewerage system which involved vast tunnels to remove the waste. At the same time the London Underground train system was being built and the lowest point in London, on the side of the river Thames, was embanked. Thus the river there is a third of its natural width, which has resulted in ferocious currents which move up and down with the tides. All the waste was pumped into elaborate cast-iron pumping stations down river to the east of London where it was treated. A more sophisticated means is used today, but the sewers are still in good use and it is said that the water you drink in London has been though a human body at least seven times.

In Ethiopia especially, the men seemed to have no modesty about turning their backs wherever they were to relieve themselves. Well, it is a cultural thing and one just gets used to it. I seldom saw women squat though. I was told that, in Ethiopia, there is a certain community (no, I will use the non-PC word the modern Anthropologists and NGO workers want to ban: tribe. After all, you belong to a tribe, whether it is German, Japanese or Swiss) tribe in which women are banned and severely punished if they urinate between sun-up and sun-down. Because of the lack of piped water, most budget hotels in Ethiopia still have the delightful custom of supplying brightly coloured plastic chamber pots under each bed.

I was cycling in Fort Portal in Uganda with my Guide when I felt the need to ‘go’. Actually, in Uganda they call it ‘short call’. We were passing a thick banana grove and I suggested to him that I go in there. He was horrified. How could I possibly go into somebody’s property! He was right of course and I just had to twist my legs a bit more. A man would have had to tie a knot in it.

In Nairobi, the current Govt. is very concerned with the city’s image. The public lavatories which the Colonials had built, had been completely vandalized and were now being rehabilitated and are looked after by attendants. In the streets are proud notices stating; “Urinating here is unethical and prohibited”. But how they manage to stay healthy in overcrowded Kibera, the largest slum in Africa and only three kilometers away, is a wonder.

For many years I did Market Research interviewing throughout England. One always approached a run down Council Estate with trepidation. Inevitably, the stairs, even of a modest two-story building, were very smelly to say the least. Michela Wrong, in her book ‘In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz’, which is about Mobutu of Zaire, tells how she had to regularly climb the stairs of a 20-story building in Kinshasa. It had had no electricity for a long time. The stairs were used for you know what. Of course, the same very often applies to the ideal conditions provided by elevators.

Lome in Togo will always be associated in my mind with the lovely broad beach across the boulevard from my hotel. Teams of boys played football and wonderfully organized teams of fishermen hauled in their heavy fish-filled nets. The beach dropped suddenly to where the waves crashed against a two-meter dip in the sand. In the late afternoon, many people would be seen going to this drop in the beach and I soon found out why. It is used as a communal public defecation toilet… The smell was strong and this was the reason for the lack of tourists in their luxury Hotels across the road from availing themselves of this superb beach. Similarly, but more distressing for the tourist industry versus the need to continue their age-old customs, is the incredibly clear seawater and white coral sand beaches of Zanzibar which are used as places to dump. But of course, the need is always here and has to be solved. And I do not think that the East African habit of using a plastic bag as a container which is then slung onto a rubbish heap is the answer either.

A brave and dedicated man is Richard Chiswell, who has created a charity called the British Toilet Association (BSA). He has fought relentlessly against the local British Authorities who have neglected or closed most of their public conveniences. One way of trying to stop the inevitable ‘decline’ is to have an annual ‘Loo of the Year Award’. This is held in glittering premises and is attended by the celebrities one usually finds at charity dos. Prizes are awarded for the best, cleanest, most disabled-friendly, best women’s, best men’s, best shop, best Hotel and so on. The elaborate certificates are proudly displayed in the winning premises. Richard and his patient wife inspect hundreds of such places of ease each month and they leave voting forms behind for the public on which to write their verdict about that particular site.

Now I have used another word for it. And that reminds me of the common usage in most homes like loo or bog or toilet. It is only the politically correct or maybe pretentious, who try to use the ‘correct’ (?) word. On occasions I am one of them. I was visiting the new home of a friend of mine and as we were chatting outside, I asked her four-year-old son to please show me the lavatory. He proudly marched me to the back garden and pointed out their apple tree. Alliteration for a boy who had never heard that word.

When I set off on this trip I had recently had a massive bout of Botox injections. No, not to my face where I believe that the lines and bumps tell a story and show that you have lived, but to my bladder. 'What a waste', some people might say! Having had OAB (Over Active Bladder) all my life, the scientific experiment was to find out if those over-active nerves in the bladder lining which tell my brain that it needs to evacuate all the time, can be calmed down. Magic! It worked and I could control the emptying of my bladder. Except that this meant I had no idea when my bladder was full. I was trained to use a self-administered catheter at whenever seemed the appropriate time. The Botox-effect eventually wore out, but I fondly remember, when traveling through the African Sahel in my voluminous Arab robes, that I could move away from the bus passengers at whatever smelly stop they were using and stand quite nonchalantly whilst quickly inserting a catheter and doing the deed as though nothing but a passing camel was of interest.

Throughout the Middle and Far East and in most of Africa, people grow up with squat toilets. They have a great advantage over us Western spoilt sitters. We never exercise our leg muscles in the same way. Now that I have been using squat toilets for months, it is good to know that I can get up without the previous grunting and grabbing at anything that could haul me into an upright position which I used to have to do!

I defy anyone to deny that they have not contemplated or done a widdle or a piddle or a pee in the sea!

Finally, if ever there is a heartfelt plea, it is to men who want to have a slash and do not lift the seat. PLEASE!

Thousands of Hills and Memories

April/May 2007 (Rwanda/DRC)

Rebuilding Rwanda


THOUSANDS OF HILLS AND MEMORIES

The 2001 national flag for Rwanda consists of three colours. The top half with a bright yellow sun in the right corner, is light blue and signifies peace and tranquility, the two lower quarters are yellow (wealth) and green (agriculture, productivity and prosperity). The old 1962 Independence flag had red signifying the blood shed for this freedom. This was deemed inappropriate for the current state of the nation.
If any country is instantly recognised for something, it is Rwanda: Genocide. The latter word is a twentieth century invention just as genetics, is. And if you go to the museum in Kigali, you see examples of the twentieth century's most famous contributions to define these words: The Namibian (German South West Africa) Hereros, The Turkish Albanians, Paul Pot's Cambodia, Hitler's Holocaust, Bosnia's latest ethnic cleansing...and there are others I do not wish to remember. Enough is enough. The Cri de Coeur at the genocide museums and in printed articles/books is NEVER AGAIN. I do not agree. I am cynical enough to know that mankind does not change and that such atrocities can very well happen again within our lifetime. My cry is LEST WE FORGET.
So, what does one do in Rwanda, one of the world's smaller nations, where one can reach all borders within a few hours from the central capital, Kigali?
First of all, you cross the border.
I had left Kabale in south-west Uganda in a matatu bound for Kigali. We were at the scruffy border within half an hour. The inevitable money-changers besiege one and after doing the deal and as I walked through the no-man's land between the two countries, I spent my remaining Ugandan small change on some bananas from the many hawkers who take up position on this piece of land. I needed a container and pulled out the plastic bag normally kept for just such a purchase or for wet and dirty clothes. Back in the matatu the lady sitting next to me, who does the trip every day as she takes orders from Kigali merchants and then ferries vast boxes of soap or tins of easily available goods from Kampala, to them, despite the border taxes imposed, turned to me; "You must hide that bag" she said. I remembered then that I had heard that plastic bags are banned in Rwanda. What bliss! I have never seen such a clean African country. Not only are there no plastic bags all over the place, but the streets are clean and there is no other obvious litter. If you need a sturdy brown-paper bag, you have to pay for it.
It is not only the streets that are clean; traditionally the Rwandans are great gardeners and in front of virtually every house is some kind of garden and flowers in bloom. In areas where the local authority is in charge, the gardens are tended during the last Saturday of every month. It is known as Community Day when all local citizens are obliged to do community work. On the other hand, there are also other groups who can often be seen digging or clearing ditches etc. These are prisoners from the overflowing prisons. In Rwanda it is very undignified to show the calf of a leg (tourists in shorts are positively frowned upon), so the prison authorities have designed bright pink 'pajamas' for the prisoners to wear and the indignity is furthered by having the bottom half of the trousers cut off. Gangs of these pink prisoners, with maybe one guard to every 30 men, are a common sight on the road.
Kigali is a sprawling city on many hills. And why not? Rwanda is known as the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’. This is most famously illustrated in the name of the Hotel we all associate with this country; the Hotel des Mille Collines. It is estimated that there are actually about half a million hills in Rwanda. I found it incredibly frustrating to walk about in the countryside as the sun kept being in the wrong position! It was as though hills popped up and down like pistons and you were spinning around all the time!
I had intended to take an official tour of the city, but the early morning tour I had planned was not in demand and was cancelled. So I decided to hire a cycle taxi for the day. As it turned out, this was a much better deal. Licensed cycle taxis are all obliged to have luminous vests with their registration number displayed there as well as on the bike and the two helmets they have to carry. My driver presented me with the obligatory helmet and we were off to 'do' Kigali. What bliss to just suggest somewhere or to dawdle whenever we wanted to! He had never been to the newly opened Genocide Memorial Museum, so could share with me the pain and revelation. At the parliament buildings I started wandering around and a kind MP showed me the council chamber and explained the workings of debate there. He then showed me the works being done with EU funding: all the scars of bombing 13 years ago were finally being cleared away, but on the high walls, where mortars had struck, the damage was being repaired and then brightly painted to show what had happened. It was like some modern piece of art. I saw it again on other buildings and it reminded me of the time I was in Sarajevo and Mostar. There, the places where bombs killed someone in the street or on the pavement are painted red. My driver got into the spirit of things and even took me to the Ministry of Statistics because he thought they might be able to answer some of my questions. They 'needed time to research' but I was satisfied: the population before the 1994 genocide was 8million. Nearly 1million were slaughtered within 100days. This was the most effective if not largest world genocide to date. Within a year about 1million had returned from exile. Today the population is nearly 9million. Rwanda has one of the highest birthrates in the world, is highly overpopulated and just about every woman you see has a baby or is pregnant. With no natural resources and surrounded by four countries which all have refugee problems, there is potentially an explosive situation. As usual in Africa, everyone thinks education is essential, but the jobs will not be there....
Mentioning these statistics to expats or NGO workers on other occasions, the general feeling is that the present president, Paul Kagame, who was democratically elected under the new constitution, may be in office for another ten years. He has done a wonderful job of making this country such a peaceful and happy place. Nowhere else in Africa have I felt so safe and walked in the dark without any sense of apprehension. The people are inevitably extremely friendly and helpful to this non-French-speaker. As Kagame does not speak French and he realises that English is an important language, more and more English is being taught and used officially.
BUT, and it is a big 'but' with all kinds of connotations; Kagame is part of the Tutsi minority who are regarded as arrogant (my discussions on these lines were only with mzungus as I did not dare to broach the subject with any of the locals). The majority of the population is Hutu and is less well educated and they were the people who planned the genocide. Resentment festers.... It sounds so wonderful: no one is ever allowed to say the T or H words. All people are Rwandans and I could certainly not type these comments in that country. A Polish nun I spoke to, whispered about the two sets of people and told me that even if she mentioned the T or H words in Poland, she might be overheard and not be allowed back into the country. Another expat told me that there are stories of people 'disappearing' because of opposition. Others are leaving.... In neighbouring DRC or Burundi people openly say they are T or H and happily live with it. A priest, who has been in the country for over 25 years, told me that he was sure it will disintegrate once again within the next ten years... So the very happy time I spent in what I superficially think of as a safe and kind place, could be an illusion.
As a treat, I offered to pay for my driver's cinema ticket if he took me there and back that night. It was about the Coast Guard in the Bering Straits and I wondered what this land-locked man must think of the cold and the sea and the power of the waves. But our lack of language forbade such discussion. The next day my driver took me south of Kigali to visit two of the better-known genocide memorial sites. It was fortunate that I was in Rwanda in April because the main slaughter, planned for months before and with lists of names and addresses being distributed to the killers (mainly the army and people known as the interahamwe), started on 7th April 1994 and continued for 100 days. The country remembers the people who were killed for the first week in April and they then continue to remember the survivors for 100 days. This was the time it took to kill nearly 1million people.

Every memorial site, whether next to or in a church or school, whether in the centre of town or on the side of the road, was bedecked with purple bunting, the colour of the jacaranda tree flowers that are in full bloom. Endless bunches of flowers and wreaths, encased in clear polythene, were still to be seen on these sites on the day I left Rwanda; 13th May. But the bunting had been universally removed overnight on 30th April, so that one was suddenly unable to see where the sites are. A strange sensation when I was so used to spotting the numerous sites as I passed in a vehicle or on a bike. This shows how the people are doing as told. Not as unpleasantly as in Singapore, where I found an unemotional people doing as told a few years ago, but they are nevertheless obeying dictats which come from above. Just like it is forbidden to ride bicycles on the tar roads in towns...
There is no need to describe the horrors of what one sees. In one place, 60,000 inhabitants, assembled in school buildings and with support from the church authorities, were killed within 4 days; in another, it took 3 hours to kill 4,000. Even the smells are still there; the clothes covered in dried blood; the skulls and bones; the 'repairs' to buildings where the walls were broken into and are now purple-painted memorial shapes; the part of a mass grave being newly cemented where yet more bones have been found and are now interred; the knowledge that priests of the RC church took part in the killings after offering shelter to their own congregations… One of the most understated notices over a mass grave I have ever seen, simply states Site of French Volleyball Pitch. When the French soldiers entered the South West of the country to keep ‘peace’ after the slaughter, the soldiers created this recreation pitch. It beggars belief. I saw enough during this 'genocide tour' of the country, yet know that one has to witness some of it just to remind oneself. I have seen quite a few of the Nazi genocide sites (and always found the small East German ones without the hoards of tourists more moving) and I know one has to accept that this is now part of the tourist experience in Rwanda. Yes, it is macabre, but it does make one think of what humanity is capable of and what it is about.
It was established that if all the perpetrators held in prison after the slaughter were to be tried in the conventional courts, it would take 100 years to clear the backlog. Thus the traditional village courts of Gacaca where introduced. People were trained to be judges and every village has a court session outside in the open once a week. All shops, Banks and markets are closed and hundreds of people gather to listen to the cases against local imprisoned people. The prison sentences are now more lenient and the earlier ones of 30 years are drastically cut. Perhaps everyone has reached saturation point. I did not wish to intrude at these very personal trials, but one day I did walk close by and quietly stood at the back. A woman was giving evidence and she was obviously highly distressed. After all these years the wounds are still very raw. It has been established that 99.9% of children witnessed violence; that 87.5% of children saw dead bodies or parts of bodies; that.... the statistics are there....

The more ‘important’ perpetrators and ex-government officials responsible for the genocide are being tried at the International Court of Human Rights in Arusha, in Tanzania. Here, the contrast is stark: Trials take place in high-tech modern, air-conditioned buildings with endless security requirements. In four courts there are daily trials which take place before eminently qualified International lawyers and specially-trained Judges who represent many of the UN countries. There is constant video-screening from six cameras in each Court. The official language is French, but numerous translators do ten-minute stints and visitors in the bullet-proof glassed off areas may sit on comfortable seats and listen to the translation on earphones. The number of officials representing the accused and the Court of Human Rights fill the very elegant and comfortable furniture. The accused is in his ‘dock’ and supplied with the latest technology. He invariably wears a smart suit and looks well-fed and prosperous. It is difficult to think of these men I later saw in the courts in Arusha as the perpetrators of such a heinous crime as genocide. That most of their victims were personally killed with machetes just adds to the image of blood-crazed murderers. Millions of dollars have been spent on these trials in Arusha and they are laughably extended for months as minions argue about pieces of paper and incomprehensible technicalities. I was speechless with disgust. But, for all these experts keeping the trials going well into 2010, it is a good place to be seconded: the weather is superb; one is only a few miles from mounts Kilimanjaro and Meru and numerous Game Parks or a few hours’ flying away from the great Rift Valley Lakes, Nairobi, Mombasa, Dar es Salaam or Zanzibar…. Back in Rwanda, the locals like the raped women now giving evidence against their former neighbours and friends, inevitably ended up with babies and both with AIDS. They did not receive the superb medical treatment their rapists-in-luxury-prisons in Arusha did. And most of them have not even heard of ‘counseling’ or ‘compensation’.

One of the joys of this kind of travel is that I am exposed to all kinds of literature. You take what you can get. I had not read Dickens for years, but ‘Hard Times’ would remind me that poverty is the same in other countries and ‘The Tale of Two Cities’ describes the horror of similar killings in France. While in Rwanda, my main reading matter was ' Shake Hands with the Devil' by Lt. Gen. Romeo Dallaire who was in charge of the small UN peacekeeping force during this time. It is a very moving book and surely must be read by anybody involved in peacekeeping or trying to 'do good' in unknown areas. The world has much to learn about being involved in other peoples’ cultures. And to act decisively when necessary. Another book was the re-reading of Conrad’s ‘Heart of Darkness’. Later, when I read Michela Wrong’s book “In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz”, which is about the 30-year reign of Mobutu in adjacent Zaire as he called the renamed DRC, I could better understand the horrors of the constantly-shifting refugee camps over these adjacent borders. Mankind does not change.
Not all was doom and gloom. There is a wonderful cultural museum in Butare which used to be the Belgian administrative town and where a local student who volunteered as a guide, extended hospitality and took me all over the vast and largest University in Rwanda. The old Kings' palaces in Nyabisindu (formerly Nyanza) are certainly worth a visit. A traditional palace with a round rush roof has been created next to the 1931 Art Deco Palace the colonials thought more appropriate. Later in the 1950s another palace was built and this is today used as a cultural center and art gallery and as the national school for dance. I had been walking all day with a VSO Educational Officer from the UK and as we approached the latter building, children who had gathered for dancing lessons came together and spontaneously hit the drums and started dancing for us.

Lake Kivu on the western border is a tranquil and very beautiful lake where I spent time to just relax and enjoy the views. When the sun sets and it colours the clouds above the lake blood-red, that is reflected in the water and one has a magical view of a pink lake. There, at the harbour of Gisenji, I could watch the dugout fishing canoes set off as dusk fell. These pirogues were lashed together like catamarans, but each dugout was at least 20m apart and lashed front and aft by sets of two eucalyptus poles so that fishermen could crawl to each boat if necessary. Each boat had two to six paddlers and as they set off towards the middle of the lake, they sang in unison. The most haunting of sounds…. What intrigued me though was the fact that every boat has a very long pole or two lashed to both the front and the back of the dugout. Because it is so long, it bends under its own weight and, as the boats move, these poles dip up and down and the whole setup is like a giant lobster with waving tentacles. I could not speak the language and they could not explain. As each set of three boats gracefully passed, the men spied me on a hillside and they would call out and greet the mzungu from across the water.

Once I was sheltering from a downpour. The large corrugated iron roof covered a cemented area and women were sitting on empty sacks with piles of coffee beans in front of them. Each pile, which they had dried at home and were now cleaning and sorting, was from their own trees. They would be for sale at the adjacent coffee factory. I decided to try and sort them myself. It is a decidedly tricky operation and I constantly needed to refer to the owner when I wasn’t sure if a blemished bean was OK or not. Just think of it: millions upon millions of beans are sorted in this way before they are sold and then exported on to us in the Western world. In Ethiopia, where primary school education is not provided or compulsory, children are also involved in this sorting, just as they were employed by their families to herd the cattle and goats. It is not exploitation, just part of the culture. In the book ‘An Ordinary Man’ by the manager of the Hotel des Mille Collines, he talks about the great honour it was for him as a small boy to do tasks for his mother and that it was never considered a chore nor exploitation. We in the West like to think that our values have to be exported to all cultures.

Some of the many mountainous roads were a pleasure to travel on because of the distant views or the dense forests one went through. In the south I traveled through the Nyungwe Forest, famous for its orchids and also for being the dividing point between West and North Africa. It is here that you travel on the ridge where the catchment areas of the two major rivers of Africa separate: The Congo to the west and the Nile to the north. The countryside is very overpopulated a therefore every spare bit of land is cultivated with bananas, maize, sweet potatoes, what they call 'Irish potatoes' (ordinary potatoes to you and me), sorghum, millet, beans beans beans (for drying and in full growth at present), lentils, rice, small green egg-plants, tomatoes, greens of all kinds and so on. The Rwandan cuisine is very much vegetable-based and the 'national' dish is pieces of goats' meat on a skewer (brochette) or meat stew which is eaten with plates piled high with vegetables, chips, spaghetti and rice. Eating joints are generally buffet-style and one can pile one’s plate a high as possible. It is fascinating to see the results! But containers of food get cold, so a hot 'soup' is poured over the lot. And all this is grown on the hillsides of ‘the thousand hills’. As Liz said, the agricultural scientists claim that no planting can be done on land that is at an angle of more than 60%. In Africa, they have not read these books...

One day I noticed smoky fires coming from the densely cultivated terraces where people were working. It was explained that the fires were deliberately made to produce smoke in order to keep the mosquitoes and various bugs away from the toiling farmers. Ingenious! But then someone else told me it is not true…they are only burning rubbish. I quote this as an example of how easy it is to decide what one wants to believe when traveling about. If one story is better than the other or suits one’s prejudices, that is told and all other facts to the contrary are ignored. Always take what I say with a pinch of salt! I like the mosquito story!
Near the end of my stay I walked for miles on little-used roads near the northern lakes. Views of these wonderfully shaped and deep expanses of water, usually dotted with islands, were worth the effort. I was offered occasional lifts in trucks and, to get me to a town before it got too dark, I hired a bicycle taxi. The enthusiastic young bike-owner had never had such an experience and for the 18 kilometers that we sped down hills or he furiously peddled up hills, and as the roads filled with people going home, he called out something to the effect of "mind out, here I come with a mzungu on my bike!". It was hilarious and I was fully occupied with waving at the crowds who called out "mzungu, mzungu!" and children running alongside to try and touch my hands.
My 18-day stay in Rwanda was one of my happiest experiences and I am so privileged to have seen the country and to have met some of its people. As an addition, I must record the most challenging and ultimately most memorable two days of this whole trip so far: A visit to the DRC (formerly Zaire) while I was in Rwanda.

4th/5th May 2007 (Democratic Republic of the Congo)



The Lava Lake




A millionth of the DRC

It used to be called Zaire, but today the Democratic Republic of the Congo is still the same place; It is one of the largest and most impenetrable and ungovernable of countries in Africa. But I did not wish to try and negotiate the roads and forests. I just wanted to see the town of Goma and a volcano.

Goma is a town across the border from Gisenyi where I was staying in Rwanda. It is most famous in the eyes of the world as the place where millions fled across the border during the 1994 Genocide and where there are still refugee centers, especially as there was a counter-movement of refugees during the time of the overthrow of Mobutu, the man who created the name Zaire and systematically bled it of all its wealth over 30 years. During the 1994 aftermath, cholera killed off thousands and the NGOs and Aid agencies fell over each other in disarray….

In January 2002 the borders were once again opened to a flow of refugees into Gisenyi. But this time it was not politically created. The nearby volcano, called Nyiragongo, had split its southern side and lava flowed through this fissure towards the town… In 1977, it had been just as ferocious, but it was more unexpected and over 5,000 people lost their lives as the town was engulfed in molten lava. This time, the lava flowed underground after a few kilometers, but then it suddenly emerged over ground once again and parts of the airport and 15% of the city was consumed. 120,000 people were made homeless. The lava went into Lake Kivu and caused a new piece of land to be created. The fact that there is a lot of methane gas in the lake, posed a great fear of a mighty explosion, but the lava stopped and cooled down before anything happened. It was the most destructive effusive eruption in modern history. One can see the volcano from various places along the shores of Lake Kivu and, when it is dark, there is a magical glow above the top, which can be seen from long distances away.

Today the town of Goma is slowly re-emerging where people are building houses on top of the black, very hard and broken-up lava surface. It is up to 2 m high. The places where the 1977 lava came to rest are still very bare with only brave weeds and grasses beginning to grow. So it will be a long time before the black surface of Goma is fully functional. But the town thrives and there are very luxurious houses and hotels near the beach and on the newly created peninsula, which reflect the relative prosperity of the area. One can question the source of such wealth, and having read Michela Wrong’s book ‘In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz’ about Mobutu and his corrupt reign, one can understand the proliferation of luxury houses. I once saw a BBC film about the mining of colombite lantalite. The unfortunate ‘miners’ (for which read ‘slaves’) are being exploited to an alarming degree and it is quite a scandal. But the middlemen in Goma, who then sell off this Colta, are getting very rich… After all, we all need to have a mobile telephone these days, don’t we? And colta is an essential ingredient…

All over town are rusting notice boards, which have a painted message on them. They are divided into four colour squares and each square tells the citizens to be aware: if a green flag is flying above the signpost, the volcano is dormant. If a yellow flag flies, it is active but not too dangerous. Finally, a red flag means they must listen to the radio messages and be ready to flee… The tatty yellow flags have been in place for some time, although there is a constant rumble of activity.

How people live and walk on the very hard and sharply rugged pieces of lava is admirable. Only on the football pitch has it been ground down to a fine black powder.

With the necessary visa, climbing permit, hired sleeping bag, food, water, porter with tent and armed guard, I set off to spend a night on the crater rim.

The going was definitely very hard. The climb to the top (3,470meters) took me 5 hours (fit people do it in 4!) and I used the excuse of getting my breath back to admire the ever-changing vegetation: From savannah to tropical (wild dahlias) to montane (enormous pink ground orchids) to high altitude giant lobelias and tree heathers and finally to the bare and steep remnants of lava at the cone. This last bit needed about 30 minutes of climbing and there are vandalized remains of metal huts just before the final climb. Recent rebel activity meant that even in such remote places, where essential hut shelters are provided, the rebels couldn’t resist destroying things. My guides wanted me to camp there, but I insisted on sleeping on the rim. Just as well, because we had hardly reached the top when they exclaimed, ‘Look, Monique!’ Well, at least that was what I thought. I had this image of an attractive French lass who had just caught up with us. But far down, I saw a whole group of soldiers trekking to the shelters. They are part of the UN peacekeeping force and are fondly called MONUC for Mission d’Observation de Nations Unies en Congo. These men were part of the very highly respected Indian contingent that are very well-disciplined and keep to themselves, whereas the South Africans who were there before, were totally out of control and liked to drink and enjoy the ladies of the town…. It reminded me of the hard time had by the UN in Rwanda during the genocide when a small contingent of ‘soldiers’ were worse than useless and the undisciplined Belgians were murdered as revenge for their past arrogance. Coming into view was a group of about 24 men. The Colonel and Major soon joined us, while down below, the men were preparing the camp. As I saw the following day, the best of the huts was closed in on one side to give adequate shelter for these two officers and the rest of the men had to make do with a small bit of shelter and otherwise sleep and cook in the open in the soft rain that fell that night.

By this time I had had the most wonderful view of the molten lava below! I lay and balanced over the hard lava edge and was transported. It is a sight never to be forgotten! A vast (250m down) semi-permanent black lava lake (2km wide) was being pushed about by forces from below. Red cracks appeared and spread across the heaving mass, just to be merged and broken up again into different patterns. Meanwhile, at the rim of the circle, the molten lava was smashed against the edges like waves on a rock, thus spewing great geysers of red into the air. It is certainly magical and worth every hard breath one takes to get there. My guides were also pleased for me, because a misty cloud often obscures the crater. This happened a bit later after more soldiers had arrived and many photos were taken. The last soldiers, who had had to finish setting up camp, were unfortunate and saw nothing! The Colonel kindly offered to provide us with supper. “As you know, there is always lots of food with the army.” And the two lads had no difficulty agreeing to walk down to the camp and back in the dark and on the ferociously hard and jagged lava.

My 2-man tent was erected with difficulty as only pieces of black lava rocks on this barren ledge could be used for fixings. Clouds came over and the dark set in. The boys went down to collect the food and returned later with boiled eggs, rice, chips, beans, chapattis and lime pickle. The feast was laid out and the porter sat inside with me while the guard sat on the entrance. I was happily eating my rice when I noticed the chapatti I had placed next to me, slowly moving into the corner of the tent! How can this phenomenon occur on such a lifeless place? All was soon revealed. We had a visitor! If you go to a London Underground station and observe the tracks, you will soon see small brown/black mice, which have adapted to conditions underground, scurrying about and collecting crumbs dropped by the humans. Similarly, mountain mice must have learnt that humans sometimes sleep and eat on the rim… My porter was most upset and a hilarious chase ensured with him trying to catch the mouse, me insisting that it must be saved and allowed to exit the tent and the bowls of food doing a noisy, emptying jig as the porter flailed about.

After our interrupted meal, I insisted that I was happy to sleep alone. However, the porter insisted that he stay with me and promptly rolled into a ball in a corner. The guard went down to join his colleagues and no doubt eat more Indian food. Both of them had ravenously eaten anything I produced during the day and I later realised that they had brought nothing to eat themselves although I had been assured that I was not to feed them. I lay reading by torchlight in my warm sleeping bag on top of my own Sahara sleeping bag, which was essential for some softness. But how could I sleep with him next to me at this cold height with no cover whatsoever? So I pulled my bag from under me and threw it over him. He hid his head under it and I never heard a sound from him all night!

Having a dodgy bladder means frequent trips out of the tent. For once I was pleased about this as it allowed me to have the chance to see the different moods of the crater throughout the night. In the pitch black, I would crawl on the hard lava to the edge. But the misty, reflected red cloud never lifted and the sound was a continuous, distant roar like waves on the rocks. It had been the 4th May, what would have been Francis’s 28th birthday. All was well with the world.

Early in the morning we descended to the soldiers’ camp and were promptly stopped to have breakfast. I was escorted to the hut where the two officers were still in bed, drinking cups of tea and being given freshly cooked chapattis. The Colonels’ batman brought him his warm shaving water and then laid out his clothes. What amused me most though was the fact that the Col. slept in a camp bed lined with delicate pink sheets and a pillowcase. As he later said to me as we moved down the hill in tandem; “I worked hard to get to this position and therefore must show the men what to strive for.”

If you ever want a truly unforgettable experience, I would recommend this climb!

Sadly, as I trawled the internet to get a picture for you, I read the latest news about the volcano. On July 6th 2007 (two months after my climb) a 33yr old Hong Kong Chinese tourist slipped and fell into the crater. She survived on a ledge, but rescuers could not get to her and she died later. My Indian Peacekeepers have been given the task of trying to retrieve the body.

Is it Possible to be Happy All The Time?

April/May 2007 (UGANDA)



Lake Bunyoni near Kabale



IS IT POSSIBLE TO BE HAPPY ALL THE TIME?


It is an intangible fact that one can judge a country pretty quickly without being able to say why or wherefore. It is just a 'feeling' one gets. Uganda immediately left me with that kind of feel-good sensation and it persisted even after saying goodbye in Kampala to Davey and Ben. It was a happy time spent with them. One soon learnt to ride on the death-defying Kampala motorbike taxis and I was glad for the 'practice' this allowed. After such rides, anything on two wheels was a doddle. I moved on to Kabale in the south west near the Rwanda border, to stay with Ben's mother.

Liz is a delight to know and she made me, a stranger, totally welcome and invited me to stay as long as I liked. Which worked out very well as I could visit Rwanda, go to the north-western parks and go on a canoeing/trekking trip without having to take my big sucsac along. So far on this trip it has been a pleasure to be able to dig deep into my possessions for comfort and familiarity, but the contents of my big bag has really not been essential and I have proved that I can travel very lightly if I made the effort ('for a short time', my conscience reminds me). And of course, I have not had the emergency which needed the piles of medicines I scrupulously carry with me. By the way, not to be too pedantic about this, most of the antibiotics are out of date, the plasters stuck or melted through the heat, the tubes and phials of creams gooey and watery..... One day I shall need them all, I have to assure myself.

Despite this warm welcome from a mzungu and the luxury of staying in a comfortable house with Liz, the feeling of ease which Uganda emanates remained. English is the official language, so that that also helped to make the contact with people more relaxed. They were friendly and did not constantly harass one for money or goods. And when the wonderful Kabale bicycle taxis tried to get my business and I told them that I was given legs for walking, they would greet me as 'legs!' when I went past. One took these taxis very often though as they are cheap and the town is very elongated. Early one morning when I left to catch a bus to Kampala at the bus station on the other side of town, the bicycle taxi was quite happy to put my large rucsac on his handlebars as well as me on the back rack with small rucsac and bags of fruit and books. Quite a weight!
Kabale has the usual quota of aid workers and NGOs. We occasionally met for a drink or meal. Conversations were interspersed with acronyms and I was lost! Liz's colleagues were also working for VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) and one became very aware of the need for these workers to be properly briefed and trained for their two-year stint. It is accepted that it needs at least 6 months in a country before beginning to do something positive. An example in reverse: A Chinese girl, who teaches IT skills, had never left her country before going to Canada as an immigrant some years ago. She talks about her surprise and confusion when she went to the toilet in the airplane and found this strange white ‘seat’ facing her! Eventually, in desperation, she climbed upon it and squatted. Now she is used to our Western ways… I heard too many stories of well-meaning volunteers who thought they were doing ‘good’ by coming over for a short stint of volunteering. It generally just upsets the system and confuses the recipients. Later, when I had a conversation with a local woman and she had my confidence, she confirmed to me that many of these volunteers are really not very welcome and the locals would be better off doing things their own way. To prove a point, I have met two groups of local women (Kenya and Tanzania) who had organised themselves to look after orphans and support them with their own funds. It seemed the obvious thing to do to them and they did not want to go to an NGO to have to go through all the bureaucracy and hassle and accountability it involved,despite there being money available. .Liz introduced me to Warren who worked with her for a few hours a week as a volunteer. If and when the funding for the project came through, he might be offered a permanent job. He also worked part-time for Edirisa (see below) and also lectured in 'tourist guiding' at a college and the local university. Warren was enthusiastic to learn all he could from me about Guiding. I had been sceptical about the quality of guiding instruction the local college was giving when I visited them and Warren then told me that he lectured there as well as at the local university. Anyway, the outcome was that he asked me to give a lecture to students from both organisations. It was hard work!

When the combined classes finally came together one morning (I had stressed to him that Guides are punctual to a fault and as the tourists are driven by their watches, the students must make an effort to show me they understood the principle of this) only 20 minutes late, I really found it difficult to give them any understanding of what the subject is all about. They sat immobile and I could not get a reaction. In the end I took them all outside and continued there with practical work. The place was in uproar and students totally bemused. When I tried to persuade a student to 'steal' my mobile phone, he was horrified by the idea of doing such a thing. I finally thrust it in his hand and told him to run off a bit. This was just my usual exercise in trying to make Guides aware of what they have to do when a client is robbed. But my play-acting fell on deaf ears. All they want is notes and silence. I was once told that if the students question the teacher or in any way try to have a discussion, the student may be blacklisted by the teacher and fail exams. Teaching throughout Africa still has a long way to go.

Before I went to Rwanda, Warren wanted to 'show me off' to his family and district. He suggested that I accompany him to his home village one day because he needed to ‘inspect’ the roof of his father’s new house. Liz had 'lent' him money to put a new corrugated iron roof on his father's house and this had to be approved. Only once before, a mzungu had been in this remote area where Warren was the first person ever to go to university. It would be a 6-hour walk there and then a 6-hour walk back, I was told. Of course I suggested that if I pay for a taxi, it would be easier… I am beginning to understand the African mentality! On the basis of that, I bought all kinds of presents for his father and his 7 wives and 37 children and also invited two backpackers I had met to come along. We set off into the hills where mzungus never go. The road was newly built, but out in the countryside there was no traffic and when we stopped in the village, it was fascinating to see all the male elders sitting in the sun in a half-moon around the chief. This was a weekly meeting for the District and they were discussing honey collection inter alia. Beehives belong to individuals, but where they are placed in trees, has to be agreed. The countryside is spectacular but intensely farmed as it is all over in these fertile parts. Warren had arranged for us to attend the local primary school where the end-of-term prize giving celebrations were taking place. This way he could show off his mzungu friends, impress on the children that he was the first…. etc etc…

On arrival we created sufficient stir. Most children had never seen a mzungu and we allowed them to touch our skins and hair. At least they had been forewarned and were not afraid of us. Very often, when a small child sees me for the first time, it starts to cry because the kids are taught that, if they are naughty, the mzungu will eat them!


The man-eating story as told to me by Richard, my respected Guide:

Whenever I go to places where Mzungus have never/seldom been, the small children all run away or hide behind their moms' skirts and fearfully peek out at me. I try to sit down and stretch out my hands with a smile. It can take a bit of patience to win their confidence... So I have been trying to find out quite why they are so scared of 'white-skins'. It goes back to a relatively short time ago: Traditionally, the Pastoralists of these parts rate their cattle as their most prized possessions. One asks 'How are your cattle?' not 'How are your wives?' A time-honoured practice is to shoot an arrow into the main vein in the neck of their cattle to gather blood which is then mixed with milk for a very nutritious meal. During the Second World War, many Africans were co-opted into the army and were active fighters throughout East Africa, Egypt, Italy and Burma. But the medics needed blood for the wounded and all soldiers became blood donors... Today mothers still tell the little ones if they are naughty;" If you do not behave, the mzungu will eat you". I gave the above explanation to an ex-pat who has lived in Africa all her life. She doubted that it is true. Once again, I like the story and recount it despite the unscientifically proven source!

We met the head teacher in his office. He was resplendent in his university gown and mortarboard. Weeks later I watched a procession of students from the Kabale College march through the streets. They followed a banner and brass band and were also all dressed in their graduation gowns and wearing their mortarboards. This is a real status symbol.

We sat in to listen to every class sing the national anthem, then a song which often referred to Aids/HIV followed by a traditional dance. Fortunately I could hastily find ‘prizes’ for the best of different categories. After a long speech by Warren, I was asked to address the school. What to say? I could only think of the beauty of their hilly surroundings; of the abundant foliage and rich soil; of the fresh, chemical-free food they ate; of the wonderful weather and freedom to roam that they have. So I told them of the crowded streets and houses in London; of the polluted air and chemical/old food we eat; of the cold weather and need for lots of clothes; and of my children’s school where there was insufficient space and the girls had to play on the roof. Maybe one day, when they have achieved the Western Ideal, they may look back and remember that life was not bad during the ‘poverty years’. By the way, Uganda has never had a history of famine. The volcanic soil is far too fertile and, being on the equator, there are two seasons for crops.

We continued to Warren’s family compound where they were all out in force to greet us. Women and children clustered around and were very pleased to shake hands. The wives had been cooking all day and a table was laid with many different traditional dishes. What a feast! We were served and the women retired but the grandfather and uncle joined us. During the meal, Warren’s father showed us the uncle’s left hand. It is missing a thumb and small finger. Years ago, when he was poaching gorillas and held a spear in his left hand, a gorilla had bitten into the hand and walked off with the two missing digits. Today they respect the nearby National Park and talk about conserving the gorillas.

A thoroughly pleasant day was had by all and Warren was happy. His visit with the mzungus will be remembered for many years.
I saw much of this way of life while staying with Liz who was in the process of starting up an anti-corruption organisation. Liz is the consummate professional. Her nails are always immaculately painted, her smart clothes are crisply ironed linen and she has the experience and diplomacy of a saint. Her vast knowledge of how to do things like apply for funding or make lists for the Donors of where/how money will be spent is impressive. She knew just how to draw up all the spreadsheets required etc. But her strength was in how she handled the people working with her. TIA, so one does not expect perfection. People whose second language is English and who have not been brought up in a Western Culture, find office work very difficult.

Ugandans are notoriously unable to do mathematics. If I bought something for 6000 shillings and paid with a 10000 shilling note, the calculator would have to come out to assess the amount of change I needed. One of my 'tests' of a nation's mathematical skills is reflected in Su-doku. I play this game whenever I am on bus. It generally gets my neighbours interested and I then try to explain the theory behind it. My Dutch friend, who is married to an Ethiopian, is an avid book reader, but her husband never reads. However, you can seldom get him away from his puzzle books! Whereas the Ethiopians seemed to catch on pretty quickly, I am yet to find a Ugandan who has had more that a baffled interest in it. No one I showed it to could understand the principle of the puzzle. Which reminds me of my prejudiced, non-pc conclusion: Races/tribes do have different aptitudes.


Am I prejudiced? Yes! But Liz knows that her staff will have to take over and her endless patience and skill in trying to get them to understand, is awesome! I certainly do not have that skill and find it easier to just do the job myself. Not Liz! She survives the most trying of jobs and is always cheerful.
I also saw the same skills being applied by Miha, a Slovene who runs an organisation called Edirisa, which tries to help the locals and to integrate visitors so that they can understand the communities and learn from them whilst the locals earn money from these projects. One such a course is 'Learn From Africa' in which visitors spend two weeks living with the locals and every day doing and learning something like weaving, dancing, basket making, teaching in the primary school, cooking local food and so on. The last three days are spent on a canoeing/trekking expedition which is open to visitors. This is what I later joined. However, when I enquired about it at the center’s headquarters, I asked the man behind Reception, who had been there throughout the project, who is a member of staff and who attends all meetings, to tell me about it. He said something that I could not understand and I asked him to write it down. He wrote 'Live for Africa'. In other words, he had never been able to grasp the name of the project everyone was involved in. I quote this only as an example of the frustrations people have to go through in a developing country. I freely admit that I do not have the patience, but thank goodness for people like Liz who believe that they will/can make a difference.

MISCELLANEOUS FACT: Out of the $100billion of Aid Money spent in the Developing World, only 30% reaches the needy. Not all of it goes into administration. The Global Fund has had a very good example in Uganda where a Doctor connected with it, mysteriously started building a massive Conference Complex on the shores of Lake Bunyoni. He died suddenly and the half-built structure is an eyesore in this very beautiful area. His widow does not know where he got the money from.... Not that there isn’t corruption in the west either. It is just more subtle.
Uganda has been a delight and there is nothing I have seen or done to change my opinion of this welcoming country. I am constantly happy and carefree and share the positive attitude, which Davey also reflected in his enthusiasm.

Because it was a protectorate and not a colony, there was never the large landowning expatriate sector to create tensions between them and the locals. Although 33 languages are spoken and there is an active history of infighting and warfare with various groups insisting on power, it is calm on the whole. (Those people receiving international media coverage will not believe me when they yell ’Lord’s Resistance Army’ at me!) English is the official language, so one is understood most of the time. The country has survived the horrible years of Amin and Obote (more people slaughtered by the latter), and although I am not so naïve as to say that there will not be problems, as is the case in all of Africa, the current climate is ready to welcome visitors. I was with Davey and Ben in Kampala during the anti-Govt. march in April when 3 people were killed. The Govt. had said that a piece of Protected Natural Forest could be given to an Asian-owned company for sugar planting. This just reflected the corruption in higher circles, which is endemic in most of Africa. The good thing was that there was enough public concern for the crowds to feel free to protest and save a bit of heritage. One Asian was killed and the police brought out teargas. Reminds me of protests I have witnessed or read about in London… except that Tony Blair would not listen to the majority of people when they protested against the Iraq war…. At least the forest sell-off plans were scrapped as a result. On the whole the Asians have been welcomed back to Uganda after the time of their expulsion and in most places, they run the shops and successful businesses.

The recent riots placed a question mark over the forthcoming Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) in November, but the country has been declared safe and enough has been put in place to ensure the comfort of the Queen. Once again, I have been witnessing preparations for an international event; streets being cleared, trees and flowers being planted, buildings being painted and general excitement all over. In the Queen Elizabeth National Park, a special apartment next to the luxury lodge already there, is being built for the Royals for when they visit to relax for a day or so. And no doubt the over 2m long forest cobra, which was trapped in the pit latrine being built, would have been removed by then. I saw it when it was being fed mice rather than being killed outright as would have been the case before the importance of environmental and conservational issues were imbedded into the people’s psyche. Africans have a great fear of snakes and automatically kill them when possible. Co-incidentally, the newspapers and radio were full of the opinions of readers and listeners after a recent incident in which a frightened (?) soldier, confronted by a large python, emptied the magazine of his riffle into the harmless reptile. Conservationists, animal–lovers, National Park employees, anti-waste vocalist (all that expensive armament!) and others were having great fun.

After a while in Kabale, I popped over to nearby Rwanda/DRC, which is detailed in another chapter.

My return to Uganda after 18 days in Rwanda and the DRC was quite memorable. On the way to the western Rwanda/Uganda border, my matatu broke down and I hitched a lift in a 4x4 vehicle with two Rwandan ladies in the back. Sitting in the best seat in front, was quite a luxury. The one lady is married to a French EU Diplomat and the cousins were researching good Hotels for a proposed visit by friends from France. I was happy to accompany them, as it meant that I saw places I would have had to pass by without my own transport. Also, because I had a Guide Book, I could suggest places they had not heard of. A very happy day seeing spectacular scenery and beautiful hotel settings was spent in their company. Our route was along the northern lakes and at the foothills of the Ruwenzori Mountains where I went to see the gorillas in 2002. Twice we were held up for over an hour by road works. The fascinating thing was to watch the Chinese men in charge. Nothing like the old colonial supervisor; these men got stuck in and gave orders in Kirwanda. Complicated works were completed and the patiently waiting vehicles moved on.

However, all these delays meant that I arrived at the Rwanda/Uganda border just as it was closing at 6pm. It was 7pm Uganda time and I had said to Liz that I would be back in Kabale that night. My motorcycle taxi said that the road past Kisoro to Kabale through the hills was OK.

“Is it tarred?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it far?”
“No.”
“How far?”
“About 80km.”
“It is dusty,” chipped in another cycle rider.
“So it is not tarred?”
“Yes.”
“OK, how long will it take?”
“Two hours.”

We negotiated a price. I had enough money on me to either pay him or stay overnight in a hotel in Kisoro. The former seemed a viable option and it meant I would be ‘home’ to catch the washerwoman the next day.

We arrived in Kabale 4 hours later. It was probably the scariest ride of my life! Yes, the road was dusty all the way with deep ruts and potholes and corrugations. It was pitch black and the cycle had minimum power or light. I had my rucsac on my back and the driver balanced my volcano-climbing gear in front. At one stage he was so scared that he had to stop and vomit. At other times I told him to stop so that I could get feeling back into my legs, stretch my aching back or walk up a hill, which the struggling cycle could not quite manage. There were no vehicles going in our direction, but quite a few trucks were coming to the end of their journey from Kampala to the Congo. They blinded us and we had to stop or flounder in the soft sand on the side of the road. The incredible dust (the other cyclist was right!) choked and blinded one and lay in the windless road so that one could not follow it. We rode blindly. And all the time we were either going up steep hills or down steep hills with precipitous sides. I remembered! Of course: this was the spectacular road we had traversed in 2002! It is 1000m up and 1000m down. The roads then were in the same terrible state and we did it during a clear day with everyone determined never to do it again, so we hired an airplane to take us back to Entebbe. And I remembered the spectacular views of Lake Bunyoni thousands of meters below. I had promised myself that I would return one day to investigate this amazing lake. But not like this in the dark!

On the way up the pass, before it got too dark, I recognized the little school tucked into the hillside that we had passed on our incredible descent. The kids had seen the 16 mad mzungus on bikes from afar. They raced out of their classes and ran to the roadside to cheer us on. However, teaching being what it is throughout much of Africa, the enraged teachers had followed the kids with long whips and got stuck into them! How dare they run out of class! This attitude to teaching is still very prevalent and a teacher can leave a classroom knowing that the children will sit quietly and ‘study’ without disruption. What a wonderful opportunity for teaching was lost that day!

Now I was back on this road in the dark and traveling ‘blind’! We lost the way twice and I just kept reassuring myself that I would be able to tell a story the next day. That is, if I did not break my back in the mean time! Then I remembered my one and only fall off a motorbike. Jeremy and I were in Capadocia in Turkey and we had hired a small bike to take us to the various underground cities and Byzantine churches hewn out of the rock. Jeremy was in the driving seat. I was heavier than Jeremy for a start and also had a rucsac on my back, so when our small bike skidded whilst struggling up a ground road, we came off and lay in the grit. All we could do was burst out into laughter. I constantly reminded myself of this.

With jelly legs and virtually unable to stand, we arrived in Kabale. The driver agreed that he could not return home that night. I was covered in fine dust and it had seeped through everything. Thank goodness for Liz’s hot shower!

The morning after I had been on the bike-ride I read a quotation in Lt. Gen. Romeo Dallaire’s book, ‘Shake Hands with the Devil’: ‘A man who is afraid of death does not have the courage to live.' I hope that my fears of that night were not of death, but just how to survive the next minute.

Once again, Liz spoilt me and made me so welcome that I stayed in Uganda for far longer than originally intended. But it was time for me to move on and continue being a good tourist. I wanted to explore a bit more of Uganda. Liz was as full of advice and with good books to read as always. I could leave my main bag with her. This time I left for the western Rwenzori Mountains and game parks in that area to the north-west of Uganda.

On the way to Fort Portal, I spent the night next to Kibale Forest (in a comfortable Banda, I hasten to assure you!) so that I could do a three-hour Swamp Walk early the next morning. With the help of a pair of Wellington boots and two guides to direct my gaze, we did see the endemic birds and primates for which it is famous. But leaving the area was a bit of a problem and after a few hours’ patient sitting by the side of the road, I hitched a lift on a large truck delivering crates of beer to all the little stalls and villages along the road. This was magical because, not only could one observe the life of the people from so high up (only one empty crate would be exchanged for a full one by a local ‘entrepreneur‘, or the driver and his mates would stop for a drink or meal wherever there was a gathering of people, or they would stock up with cheap fruit and vegetables to no doubt sell off in Kampala) but I could slowly move through the forest and, while ducking to avoid branches, see the ancient trees from a different angle. The view from up high is quite different!

It is difficult to give an adequate version of the sheer beauty of this part of the country. I stayed in Fort Portal for a few days. It is an attractive hilly town with superb view of the Rwenzories. Richard, the owner of the local Tour Company, booked me into a hostel where American the owner was using profits to sustain an orphanage. It has no restaurant and is quite far from town, so, as the only customer, I was allocated my own cook. John set to with gusto and I carried a table and chair onto the lawn overlooking the mountains and setting sun. In the silence of this glorious setting, the food arrived. Mzungus are so famous for having delicate stomachs, that the locals are fearful of offending these organs in case of disaster... Soup was out of a packet. The sauce with the meat was from a ready-made mixture and the coffee was instant granules. Having traveled for 14 months in Africa, reveling in the natural, fresh food constantly available, my body reacted to all this western factory-produced artificially flavoured 'food'. That night the MSG (Monosodium Glutamate) kept me awake for hours and I learnt what it is like to be an insomniac! I asked John to give me 'real' food in future.

Still in Fort Portal, I cycled in the area one day with a Guide. We saw historic caves and walked around crater lakes as they nestle amongst round hills. There are hundreds of these crater lakes along the fault line of the Western Rift Valley and the looming bulk of the Rwenzori Mountains to the west of it is the highest massif in Africa. Sadly, here the third highest peak in Africa is also rapidly losing its glacier as the world warms up.

For three days I was incredibly fortunate to have Richard as my guide. I had booked the three days and hoped for other paying customers, but as it was the off-season, no one turned up to share expenses. Richard decided to take me himself. We spoke the same language. Thanks to Idi Amin who had an aversion to education and did not pay the teachers, Richard had to give up teaching and therefore eventually started his own business. He could see the potential for tourism. We had a good time exploring much more than the usual tour would include. But I saw enough elephants (they nearly made us late for the game viewing launch on the Kazinga Channel as they would not get off the road), hippos, buffalo and crocodiles to last for a long time. This is what the Queen will see in November when she visits the Queen Elizabeth National Park.

We visited a cave complex with millions of bats. I had never been so close to so many bats before. Unusually for them, fish eagles come to the caves for their meals. But so was another long forest cobra. It was disturbed by us as it was about to have its supper and we watched it gently retreat into one of the many fissures in the cave. Apparently there are also pythons that live off the bats, but I did not see them. However, in the north of Zanzibar I did see a python with an incredibly full stomach. It had been fed three cane rats in the small concrete enclosure where it was part of the attraction for the sea turtle aquarium. I wanted to pick it up and set it free like its Ugandan relation!

Another visit was to a defunct copper mine. Once thousands of people worked there and then the price of copper slumped. Now the Govt. is negotiating for renewed mining concessions and the lovely valley will once again be devoid of green. The slag heaps are going to be re-processed with modern technology and a smart tar road has already been built. We could go inside and see the workings, which have been kept safe for years. It will provide work for thousands, so how can one justify anxiety about pollution and spoilt rivers?

We were up early one morning to get fish samples from Lake Edward and once again, children were fearful of the mzungu.

The salt Crater Lake is fascinating. One descends to the enclosed lake where the edges are intricately divided into square pans by earth walkways. The salty water in the pans is of different colours, depending on the strength of salt/natural chemicals. Here salt mining has been going on for at least a 1000 years and one watches the women scrape salt from the bottom of their family-inherited pans and wash it to produce white salt, which is much prized. It is hard work and people stand in the salt water all day. Fortunately they can use plastic buckets in which to collect and clean the salt. This has made the process very much less time consuming. During the wet season, no work can be done and in the past, during this time, men would carry the precious commodity, wrapped in banana leaves against the rain, on their heads for days. They would walk thus for the hundreds of miles to Kampala. Richard's grandfather was such a salt-worker.

This trip was full of places like that to see and of course the advantage was that I had a vehicle at my disposal.

There, I have been a good tourist!

When leaving this area, I decided to take whatever transport I could get, to follow an obscure road back to Kabale. I chatted to a man next to me in the matatu and he tried to get me somewhere to stay in a small village as it was getting dark. No luck, so he said I should go with him to where he lives. The usual overcrowded car-ride later and we arrived at his Technical School. By the way, a car will not leave unless it has four people in front (the driver sits on one person’s lap) and six passengers on the back seat. The incredibly run-down and overcrowded Technical School teaches students for two years in the skills of brick making, car maintenance, carpentry and general building skills. The over 100 students live in very close proximity to each other in bunk beds, they eat their vegetable meals standing or sitting on the grass outside under the trees and there is one solar panel which supplies enough light for two classrooms every evening so that they can study. The school cannot afford to have electricity connected. My friend took me to his house, which he shared with a student teacher who cooked us a wholesome meal. His wife is also a teacher in another part of the country and they commute regularly to see each other. Their 7 children are all doing well in education/jobs and it was a pleasure to be staying in this modest but happy environment. The students know that they will have good jobs once they are qualified. With minimal facilities because the government has withdrawn funding (practical skills are not fashionable) the teachers are producing productive citizens. Once again my prejudices come out. There are apparently 20,000 CBOs (Community Based Organisations) in Uganda. But where are they or the NGOs who are willing to fund such undertakings instead of ‘gender issues’ or suchlike? If only plumbing was taught! One could make a fortune in this country if one just knew how to change a washer or connect a pipe without it leaking at the joint. Once a building has been completed, there is no maintenance procedure installed and it is incredibly sad to see how quickly a place can deteriorate for want of a screw.

After my return to Kabale and the inevitable clean-up and good food coming from Liz's hospitality, I set off for the three-day canoe/trekking trip around Lake Bunyoni.
This little outing is what eco/cultural tourism is all about and I am fully in favour of it as the local people benefit from direct contact/payment. It is good to see similar projects evolve all over Africa.

I joined the 'Learn From Africa' people who had been staying in the lakeside villages. In total a group of 16 set off with food and tents in dugout canoes. We quickly learnt how to maneuver our mode-of-transport-for-the-next-few-days with the help of our confident and strong guides/porters. We spent the day paddling in these incredibly skillfully dug-out tree trunks and visited 6 of the 29 islands on the lake. Each island presented a different experience:
ex leper colony and now a secondary school (boarding and canoe-commuting pupils),
luxury lodges for a fresh passion fruit drink,
island ideal for swimming,
all-fruit lunch on the island lived on by original Scottish doctor of leper hospital,
natural forest and bird life sanctuary.
We paddled close to the little island with one tree where pregnant unmarried women were left to die within living memory (how come, I innocently ask, are men who impregnated them never punished? -- weeks later I visited a famous waterfall where similarly unfortunate girls were bound and then pushed overboard to drown).

On the first night we set up tents in a compound (OK, I had nothing to do with it and our porters did all the hard work). Although the owner of the house only had the one building, his yard outside is called a compound. The local ladies provided us with a feast of traditional dishes. The next day, we paddled over to the western shore and had a hard day of climbing and walking. But the view of the Rwandan border-lands and ‘my’ volcano in the DRC in the distance was worth the huffing and puffing. We met the Batwa people who are better known as Pygmies. As happened with the Australian Aborigines, these small people were forced out of their natural habitats in forests where they lived in harmony with nature. Today they lead precarious lives amongst the local agriculturalists and do not have land or forest with animals to live off. Alcoholism is a problem. Miha has tried to encourage them to do their traditional dances for tourists, but they just imitate the locals and do not have much will to do anything. Thankfully, internationally, conservationists are changing attitudes and allowing a certain amount of 'buffer zones' between intense agricultural/pastoral development and National Parks. But this movement has been slow in being implemented throughout Africa and in the mean time, people are loosing their traditions. On top of the highest hill in the area (did I say 'never again'?) we had a superb lunch of mzungu-type food...tuna, sardines, olives, cheese… That night, at another compound on another island, we were very happy with the very simple two-dish traditional meal we were given. Our last day ended in a spectacular luncheon at one of those luxury lodges on an island where money really can buy you peace and exclusivity.

As a footnote to the Batwa-visit:
In 1952 in South Africa, we celebrated the 300th anniversary of the arrival of the Dutch representative Jan van Riebeek to start a refueling settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. The white man had landed... Cape Town went over-the-top to celebrate and my mother and we three older kids went there for a treat during the summer holiday. Two days' driving just to arrive was normal! One of the many innovative exhibitions amongst the vast array of ‘the great and the good’ was of a sandy enclosure in which crude shelters had been built by bushmen (now called Koi) and a bushman family was installed for all to gape at. A standing tap for water had been laid on and I remember the awe with which they regaled this 'stick' and asked the whites to give it to them when they returned to their desert dwellings.

And whilst on this theme, a story my mother used to tell and which I quote when people discuss the racial issues of SA: My mother, born in 1907, was brought up in the South Western Cape where only Hottentots were native to the land and where Malay slaves were imported to work on the vineyards. Miscegenation was rife and most old Cape families have a bit of coloured blood in them. Mom trained as a teacher and in 1933, decided to move to Natal on the East Coast to continue her teaching there. It was usual in those days to travel by the Union Castle Line around the coast of South Africa. When she stepped off the Liner in Durban, she saw a black man for the first time in her life.
All good things come to and end and I left Kabale and the hospitality of Liz to have a few days in Kampala, staying with her son, Ben.
This time I decided to get to know the town a bit better and hired a motorcycle taxi for the Saturday. Most impressive was the Royal Tombs. The last few kings are buried there and their wives or their female descendants still keep watch and maintain the site on a monthly moon-related rota basis. This complex with huts surrounding the main, vast straw-roofed hut, where the kings are buried and the graves are hidden by incredibly large bark-cloths, is the equivalent of Westminster Abbey, I was proudly informed. The Queen is due to visit in November and there is great excitement. She will be able to sit in the sacred part beyond a buffer-mat. During the 19th century, Queen Victoria sent the king a present. As she and Albert used to sit opposite each other doing their 'boxes', she must have had an image of the local king doing the same. So she sent a little table and two bent-wood chairs. What she was not told, was that the king had 900 wives!The other touristy site I enjoyed in Kampala was the Baha'i Temple. This is a smallish religion which became well-known at the time of the suicide of Dr. David Kelly, the man who was accused, some time after the Iraq invasion, by the British Govt. of leaking secrets about WMDs. Kelly was a member of the Baha'i movement and as such, did not believe in a heaven or hell, but just a state of being. It is regarded as one of the major 9 religions of the world and originates in Persia (Iran). Every Continent has only one Temple and the African one is in Kampala. Set on a calm hillside with tree-shaded lawns around it, it is a haven of calm and peace. One can just go there to relax and enjoy the quiet and views of Kampala. Inside the 1950s building with its tall dome, there is no ostentatious decoration and you can browse through all the major religious books like the Koran or Bible. Sunday gatherings are quiet and unstructured and I am reminded of the Quakers (not the 'Friends' church in Kisumu though!).Throughout Kampala there are still activities going on to beautify and repair the city for the forthcoming CHOGM event in November. When I was last in Kampala nearly two months before, the town was in disarray after the organised protest against the President/Government for planning to give away a part of a National Forest to an Asian-owned sugar company. One Asian and two protesters were killed and there was a real possibility that CHOGM would be cancelled. All now is sweetness and light and the deal has been signed and CHOGM goes ahead. What the protest proved so efficiently, was that a demonstration could be organised through email and SMS in no time. No wonder the Ethiopian Govt. banned SMS on mobile telephones after the last anti-Govt. election demonstrations in which many were killed. Now, years later, those demonstrators and Opposition leaders have finally been sentenced by the Ethiopian Courts: Guilty. My cynicism about the state of 'democracy' in Ethiopia waxes.The first day of me being a good tourist in Kampala, was a memorable one for Uganda. For the first time in most citizens' lives, they were able to ride on a train. An old track had been re-instated and with new rolling stock, was open to take football fans to the National Mandela Stadium. The times 'Mandela' is used in Africa to name all and every kind of building, road or structure is quite impressive. This afternoon there was an important match against Nigeria in the Africa Cup series. Ben and friends had left early to experience this ride and make sure that they were in their seats on time. I spent the touristy afternoon with my cycle taxi calling in at various places where crowds were gathered to see the latest score. Near the end of the match, as we were nearing home on one of the typically bumpy murran roads of Kampala, with the last score still 1-all, the streets suddenly erupted with cheering people, whistles, hooting and general celebration to let everyone know that the final score had been changed to 2-1 in Uganda's favour. Ben and friends arrived back in the early morning and could stagger to bed after a bowl of onion soup which I had made and left for them. One really does enjoy being a housewife and doing some cooking for a change.
The following day (3rd June) was 'Uganda Martyrs Day' which is celebrated annually throughout the world. In the 19th century, when converted Christians (Protestant and Catholic) did not want to renounce their new religion, the king had them tied in bundles of twigs and put on a giant pyre where they were roasted to death. Over the years, the site, a few kilometers outside Kampala, has become very important and there are buildings to commemorate the event. Pilgrims come from all over and many walk for days to be there on the day. The Archbishop of Canterbury has been to the site and their representative cathedral. Pope John Paul 11 also visited the Catholic cathedral and their martyrs were canonised. Seems a bit unfair to me.... My cycle taxi and I arrived near the site as the throngs of thousands became a mass of people. Cycles were banned and we had to walk to the area. After trying to get close to the buildings for 2 hours, I decided to go back to Kampala. We had circled the masses and mingled and gotten lost and generally enjoyed the atmosphere of incredible singing and speeches over loudspeakers from the President and others. I have respect for people who have such strong faith to warrant such discomfort for so long.The following morning (and thanks to my faithful cycle-taxi driver who willingly carried me and all my stuff on his bike) I was at the bus stop for Nairobi. In the shaded area where people sat around waiting for the bus to arrive, I noticed two young men bent over the feet of some of the women passengers. Each lad had a large, flat wicker basket filled with all kinds of bottles, cotton wool and nail varnishes. To me this is enterprise at its best. You have a captive cliental who are only too pleased to freshen up and have a funky colour and pattern painted on their toenails whilst waiting for the bus. I requested the service (without the paint) and could thus use up my last remaining Ugandan coins. What a joy to have my nails expertly cut and toes superbly cleaned and buffed! And full marks to the lads for spotting a gap in the market.I have always maintained that happiness is not an emotion one has to strive for. It smacks too much of wide smiles and Disney World-like activities which are as false as can be. My word for the ultimate emotion to aim for is contentment. But that is not a catchy phrase.
I remain happy and am content.