Hilda in Africa

RANDOM THOUGHTS and IMPRESSIONS of AFRICA so far

2008-06-01T05:21:00.000-07:00

March 2008

After nearly two years of travel in Africa, it is time to reflect. I do not expect anyone to be interested, but for me these scribblings justify the journey….

During a short break in the UK, one of the most frequently asked questions was; "Did you see lots of animals?", and my reply had to be "No, apart from in the Game Parks. They eat them all". I visited my daughter in the Lake District: We sat in the sun outside her house and, apart from the sheep and cattle coming to drink in the nearby trough and the pheasants and partridges noisily running around getting ready to be shot at any day, we watched the various tits and woodpeckers munch from their nearby feeders, enjoyed the gamboling of four red squirrels a few feet away, watched the rabbits dash for cover to avoid the ever-watchful buzzards and kites and remembered to clear out the indoor mouse traps every day. Much of England remains!

It is reassuring to know that I have no fixed route and that I can therefore enjoy the journey as it happens. A book I once read said; “Travel with nowhere to go. That way you will be part of your journey and not a victim of it”. Try getting directions in Africa! You are confronted with the politest of people who certainly set out to be courteous and helpful. The fact that they do not know where you want to be directed to is not off-putting in the least. A vague hand wave my occur at best. I found generally that one asks three people and hopes that the two who agree may be right. But a little further on one is wise to repeat the action and then perhaps find oneself returning from whence one came…

The lack of a camera has not been a problem. A camera soon defines one as a tourist and I really have not needed one. If I want to remember something strongly enough to take a photo, I just look harder and try to leave an imprint on my mind. These days the internet is so full of magnificent photographs anyway, so that the most desired photos can only be of people one encounters. OK, I am a lousy snapper!

I know that many a friend and acquaintance thinks that ‘Hilda has gone Native’ because I ride on local transport and am not afraid to eat/live with the locals. It is really just a misunderstanding of what my trip is about. When in Rome …. In ‘Emma’s War’, the book about an English girl who marries a Southern Sudanese warlord, she tries to ‘go native’ when with him, but still maintains her Western dress and is frequently seen in Nairobi and London circles in the latest must-have fashion. One reads about many great cultural-difference-marriages which do not last, but where there is generally a similar educational background, the difference in skin-colour does not impede.

Within its vast space with endless tribes/languages and customs, the variety offered is so staggering that it is presumptuous to expect to understand and know any aspect very well. So whatever conclusions I come to are based on my incredibly small contacts. I am not an anthropologist and not an adventurer or intrepid traveler in the true sense. Of course I am not a tourist as I define it: Somebody with limited time and a budget to ease the adventure. Nor am I a backpacker as these tend to be young people either constantly on the move or caught in a community where they offer mutual support to each other. As an old lady, I am a bit of a shock to a ‘whiteskin’ (abroni in Ghana, farengi in Ethiopia, mzungu in East Africa) who is willing to eat their food on the side of the road and does not expect favors in overcrowded vehicles. Nor am I a revered member of the UN, an NGO, Peacekeeper, Medical or Religious Organization who gives their time so generously to relieve or uplift the plight of the locals.

Yes, I will always be an outsider, but I hope one who is willing to observe, absorb and leave a positive memory with those I encounter.

It is a great privilege to live with families whenever possible. I find it fascinating to just sit and take note of the way the women keep their households together. No matter what economic level a woman lives in, she is endlessly busy. In my society it is dusting, polishing or bed-making. Here, in the poorer communities, where there is no furniture to care for or cutlery to wash, time is taken up with pounding and planting; in a middle-class household, it is often doing ‘good works’ for the church or community; in affluent homes, it is working flat-out to pay for the nanny….. We need to fill that vacuum. Men seem far more capable of enjoying social contact without attendant children demanding attention. So what’s new?! Just my conviction that there is such a fundamental difference between the sexes that it cannot, indeed need not, be manipulated. Why can we not enjoy the fact that, in nature, the nurturing role is given to females? This does not exclude education, but acceptance provides stability. Women yield tremendous power in their homes, but just because it is not overt, it need not be regarded as ’oppressed’. Female circumcision amongst the Dogon women is revered as much as male circumcision. There too a first wife is chosen for social reasons by the parents and subsequent wives for pleasure/support. It is accepted and each has a status. In western society we are more and more unwilling to accept that one can work towards a stable family relationship (obviously not in every case where the mutual aims are not respected). Instead we exercise those compromising /problem-solving capabilities in the workplace. Would you dare to scream or slam a door at your boss?

I observed five female school and university students in a very traditional Muslim house in Mauritania. Three were wearing their milufas over jeans, one just a headscarf to show a bit of modesty as she was only 15 years old but happy to soon start covering up and the last, a glamorously dressed and made up student was happy to conform with traditional dress when she returned to her family in the Atlas Mountains. These girls were very educated and full of confidence. Similarly, in Mali it was totally accepted that the women had bare breasts. Erogenous zones move: In Mali it is the thighs, in the West we constantly change (lately to buttocks, but in the 19th century it was ankles). Shock horror when Janet Jackson reveals a nipple, yet virtually anybody can access bare nipples on the pornography internet sites. And in the UK we have the Page3 bare-breasted girls. What saddens me though is to watch western visitors to the African beaches, who are oblivious to the local customs, flaunting their bikini-clad bodies away from the accepted tourist beaches, in front of fishermen and boat-builders. So what am I trying to say? Just that we must not interfere with other cultures because we believe that our values are the best/only ones.

The equivalent of the ‘red tent’ exists in many African tribal traditions. Women who are regarded as ‘unclean’ during their menstruation are gathered in a separate hut where they stay until they are once again ‘clean’. How super! For a hardworking woman to have a few days’ break and to gather with other women to gossip away the day is a real joy.

Shopping in Africa too is a joy. Every market has a wide variety of goods on offer and one moves from one ‘specialist’ to another. Yes, it is time-consuming by western standards, but the joy of interaction and knowing that everyone is part of a vast, functioning economic system, leads to understanding. Just to see the acres of the ‘empty-container’ market on Saturdays in Lome (Togo) was a joy. In this poor country, nothing is wasted and one goes there to select one’s empty plastic bottles, cans or tins. Then they are in turn turned into a useful object…my favourite being the little Nescafe tins which become wick-lamps and look so effective in their hundreds at night when food stalls appear. By the way, if you ask for coffee in West Africa, you are given Nescafe. If you ask for Nescafe in Ethiopia, they look at you blankly: It cannot be had: real coffee is all they know!

Markets in some villages may only be once a month. One can be driving along a road and suddenly be aware of a vast tide of people laden with goods making their way to the local village. Later in the day they will be returning in droves once again, presumably satisfied with their day’s effort. One of the most striking aspects of markets today, though, is the vast array of Chinese-made goods. Plastic containers are the obvious items which have revolutionized the economy. To be able to collect water in a plastic can rather than balance a heavy clay pot on the head, must be wonderful! But anything you can think of has a made-in-China stamp. The downside of all this is that traditional skills are lost and traditional materials no longer produced.

Africans have are incredibly resourceful and it is a pleasure to see how they can solve problems with the minimum of materials available. I asked for a boiled egg in my hotel. Never mind that the cook did not understand what ‘soft-boiled' meant. He had never come across an egg-cup. When the egg arrived, it was comfortably balanced on a thick slice of cucumber which had been hollowed out….

In the past, waste was organic and goats were good cleaner-uppers. Today the amount of plastic detritus covering all of Africa is frightening. Rwanda being the exception of course! Plastic bottles, bags, and bowls litter everywhere. When a South African couple living in a village in Zanzibar organized a day of ‘clean-up’ with suitable entertainment and speeches and new litter bins, they hoped that the message got through. The next week there was not a bin in sight. ‘They got dirty’, was the reason for their removal, they were told.

Throughout my travels, the shop clothes’ models which are used to show off the latest fashion or just display what is on sale or the latest batch of second-hand clothes, are Caucasian. I once did a double-take in Nairobi when I saw an African doll (mannequin as we used to call it), but one gets used to the anomaly, and as someone said to me, there is still the wish to be 'Western' through ones clothes, so these old 1950s and 1960s sharp-nosed dolls from Europe, no doubt imported in bulk, are the way all clothes shops display their wares.

The second-hand stalls to be found in every town and city (often vast area of specialist markets), is a subtle indictment of our western values. When charity-shop clothes first appeared (Oxfam and the Salvation Army are the major suppliers), people were reluctant to buy them because they thought the clothes could only be those of dead people. Surely no one would throw away perfectly sound clothes? Slowly perceptions changed and buyers began to realize that these were indeed good clothes (better quality than the Chinese ones) and then it became a status symbol to buy clothes with creases from the shipping bales to prove that they were genuine charity-clothes. Now middlemen make vast fortunes out of this trade and sellers specialize in men’s’ or children’s’ etc clothes. Local cloth producing factories and clothes’ manufacturers employing thousands of tailors/seamstresses have been forced to close.

One day a local asked me about the way volunteers generally leave behind their worn out or still very serviceable clothes. I explained that they were probably going back to a cold climate and didn’t need them any more. ‘Also’, I said, ‘they probably have another six pairs of jeans in their cupboard at home’. This was met with disbelief!

Volunteers on the whole do much to leave the impression that we are all coming out to ‘do our bit’ and it is often difficult to persuade locals that these people are only a very small portion of our total population. And that some of us do not have unlimited money… and that we also have poor people and beggars on our streets…

Naturally the western media are always full of the problems of AIDS/HIV. Sadly I have been totally unaware of it and am obviously living in a bubble. Yes, I have been to Orphanages and been told that there are kids with AIDS, but as an outsider not speaking their language, it has passed me by. But there is a very vigorous awareness-making system through advertising and bill-boards in most countries. Except in Muslin ones. The minute I had left the Burkina Faso border and entered Togo, I saw a big poster in the Immigration office. Since then one is used to seeing the little red bow all over the place. But the stigma persists in a land where one’s male-ness is of paramount importance and where it is still necessary for men’s status to produce as many children as possible. In Ghana I saw a large anti-AIDS poster with a slightly skewed message: DON’T’S HAVE SEX it proclaimed. In some countries the hotels offer free condoms from under the counter or in the rooms. And in South Africa, they are in free dispensers outside health clinics and in toilets. I was once in Eldoret in Kenya when wanting to wash some clothes. Not having a plug in my wash basin, I used a condom from a box of 100 and it proved a most effective plug!

I often marvel at the way Africans can dress so superbly well and always look immaculate for church or school. They may have to iron clothes with a charcoal –burning iron on the bed, but they make the effort. The elaborate clothes worn in West Africa are always clean and the women there are constantly washing, much more than I can say for east Africa, although this is a terrible generalization. The one country where one instinctively knew that the person only had the one garment in which they lived and slept and maybe washed it once a year (according to our guide at the time), is Ethiopia where poverty is visible. There have been many social occasions when I really did feel ashamed of my casual dress and sandals.

I was caught short to reflect on our perception of unknown places when I looked at a set of six large murals around a hotel swimming-pool in Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. The artist depicted scenes which showed people relaxing in various ways. One was of people on the beach, sunbathing. As the artist had obviously never seen the sea, he painted the waves as coming along the beach at right angles from one side to the other, rather than from the endless expanse of water.

Climatic and cultural differences determine the building style of a people. What has been very obvious to me though, is the generally incomplete or neglected state of so many homesteads. In some societies a hut or a house is burnt down or vacated after a death, but generally it is poverty or the lack of ostentation as I know it, that determines the poverty-stricken look so prevalent in Africa. Often houses started with cement blocks are left unfinished and then the goats seeking shade or weeds soon leave crumbling edifices. But it is only western sensibilities that are offended! I have been told that the same principle which one sees applied in Italy or Greece, applies here too: If a house is completed, taxes have to be paid. Another reason is also that the owner may be living abroad and sends money for building works when it is available.

Traditional ways of preparing food die hard. In cities with multi-story flats, special rules have to apply because the endless pounding of cassava or other foods disturb neighbours and threaten the fabric of the building. So special kitchen areas are provided on the ground floor.

African’s chronic inability to do maintenance and repairs to any kind of infrastructure is a real block to progress. Keeping a vehicle on the road is ingenious, but doing maintenance of the fabric or preventing a breakdown through servicing, is anathema. Putting plumbing in place is often part of new building; maintaining that operation is unheard of. And of course, there is not always constant piped water because of vandalism or other problems with infrastructure. Similarly one gets used to knowing that electricity supplies are never to be relied upon.

But one cannot escape the fact that Africans do not have western expectations of repair and maintenance. Once a thing is built or installed, it is never looked at again. I tried to teach my cleaning woman in the Addis Ababa hotel that walls and surfaces above the ground also need to be kept clean. But to no avail! People are generally brought up in unpainted houses/huts where the cooking fire keeps surfaces black, so no need to try and keep things ‘clean’. Floors and yards are kept immaculately swept, however. The argument that poverty prevents maintenance is often not valid. When men sit around because they do not have work, they could easily make an effort to repair things which do not need money. But they don’t. Aid agencies like to say they are listless because they are hungry, but I have yet to see that proven.

Education is as ever, a very problematic subject. Schools are difficult to control where the teachers themselves are badly educated and receive poor salaries. Often they need to do another job to keep alive and thus the children never know whether a teacher will be in or not. It is said that everyone wants to go to school, but it is not always possible and not only financial considerations, but social ones have to be considered. If the goats and cattle need tending, the ‘herd has to be there. And if the teaching is poor or just rote learning, this is not conductive to an enquiring mind being opened. Students will happily sing along a times-table to impress you, but ask a question, and they clamp up. I was told that if pupils challenge a teacher or ask questions, they can be failed for subordination.

Remnants of colonialist teaching remains in some countries where schools often assemble before lessons and the children then sing the national anthem whilst the flag is raised.

Paul Theroux, during his return to Africa after over 40 years, hopefully returns to the school in Malawi where he taught as a Peace Corp Volunteer. He remembered the immaculate lawns and sturdy, painted buildings. Before he arrived, he contacted the school and offered to deliver a lecture to the assembled students, but was ignored. When he finally drove up to the school, all he saw was groups of dispirited youths, crumbling buildings, overgrown lawns and simply no interest in him as a ‘world-famous’ author. No one had heard of him and no one wanted to know. Ouch!

Time is not important and many people do not know how to read it or cannot be concerned with dividing the day by the clock. In Ethiopia and along the Swahili coast, time is sensibly told with sunrise in mind. One o’clock is six o’clock our time. I spent 44 hours on a small fishing boat in the Zanzibarian Archipelago. The three fishermen worked together like a choreographed ballet. They just knew when to stop the engine, when to cook food, when to sleep, when the moon would rise for the actual fishing. Each man had his own task and carried it out with silent efficiency. For two nights I timed them and, despite there being no watch on the boat, they instinctively knew what to do when.

After months of travel by road, one does not query them. You just know you are in for a bumpy ride. The wonderful exception to this which reminded me of the endless tarred and vehicle-less roads in the remoter parts of South Africa, are the tourist roads in Tanzania which lead up to the major National Parks. Otherwise it is murram, a red clay-like soil which does not disintegrate into mud or sand and compacts very well into a hard surface but which eventually forms ‘designer-built’ potholes and fissures which demand very careful driving. Much worse are tarred roads which have deteriorated since Independence with no maintenance in sight. Those tyre-ripping potholes are really a test of any driver and I call them Slalom Roads. One has to drive to avoid the holes not the poles.

What is very reassuring is the fact that, in the more traditionally-built-up areas, the sense of community and loyalty to the extended family is reflected in the buildings and their proximity to each other. There would usually be some kind of compound around and within which various members live and share, whether they are traditional mud or reed huts or modern square concrete buildings. I receive much sympathy when I say that I only have a daughter and do not live with her. Within a compound a complex set of relationships may exist, but as they are all called ‘mother’, ‘brother’ or ‘daughter’ etc., they are without the cultural relationships of western society. In Kiswahili there is no distinction between ‘him’ and ‘her’ and I often tried to correct someone before I realized that I was as much a him as a her to them. The extended family and care for the community is constantly re-enforced; ‘What is mine is yours”. When I have paid someone for a service and enquire the next day about what the rest of the money will be used for, it has inevitably been spent or shared with the brother or friend who expects it. My exhortations of ‘If you do not keep and save some you will never be able to buy a bicycle/pay for school fees/start a business…’ fall on deaf ears. One can call it ‘the poverty trap’ or one can say that the idea of provision for tomorrow is not very strong or one can just admire their caring and sharing nature... One can admire the interdependence or reflect that that is why no-one gets to start a business (thinking of the early days in the USA when immigrants did so well or why the Indians are so resented here where they build up successful businesses amongst the Africans who have the same opportunities…).

Maybe I am too much in my dotage, but, when I recently told someone that my profession is 'old lady' he replied "old is gold". Respect for old age is still very strong, although one has to acknowledge that urban Africans are no longer so traditional. Their parents have provincial roots, but they do not.

On principle I do not give alms to beggars. It may seem mean, but this is often in an area where tourists are exploited or where the local religion demands that those more fortunate should give something. What I have been doing is to try and help individuals where I think it will make a difference to their lives. Things like opening a Bank account for a future vehicle, giving an unsolicited loan to start a business, depositing money for studies, taking on all-expenses paid journeys of discovery, membership of the British Council, contributing to a real and visual project (I still want to give an old car to a technical school for mechanical practice...) are the things that catch my imagination and where I am happy to join the thousands of well-wishers who have been aiding Africa for so many years. Conscience solved?

Often food like sugar, oil, salt is bought in very small quantities in plastic bags. Thus you buy enough salt for the evening meal only. It is not only because there is not enough money for larger quantities, but also because there is no storage space in over-crowded huts where everyone sleeps around the fire or on mats close to each other.

Traditionally cooking is done outside over a portable charcoal brazier and there is no definitive place for anything. I always like the idea of a shared container of food so that everyone can eat as much as they need and nothing is wasted though large portions. Scrupulously cleaned right hands are used and you dip into the platter/pot/bowl nearest to you. If someone wants to show respect or generosity, they may move a choice morsel into your area. All this is so practical in a water-short country where people are often nomadic and therefore do not carry too many utensils with them. When I am often given separate plates of food which I cannot finish, even if I insist on eating it for breakfast, I am told ‘it will spoil’ and it is then wasted. Being in a hot country with no refrigerator, means that everything gets eaten that day. The result is superbly fresh and healthy food. No chemicals or preservatives. And yes, there must be hungry people in Africa….but not as many as the media seems to make us think. I look at the soup kitchens in the streets of London and wonder…..

For those not able to prepare food, there are endless roadside establishments which offer a wide variety of freshly (on the spot) cooked foodstuffs and of course one is constantly bumping into food sellers who dispatch anything you can imagine, out of containers on their heads. Or you can order a take-away; the plate is covered in a plastic bag, food dished onto that and then the plate removed. Hey Presto! Often, whenever a vehicle stops, the passengers are besieged by such sellers and you can always be assured of having a drink, snack or meal passed through the window before your vehicle moves on. Where tables are supplied by the roadside, there is generally a bowl and jug of water for hand washing. Every eating establishment has a tap or container with tap where one can wash hands before and after eating. You might need to go to another stallholder to buy a drink to have with your meal, but this is accepted.

If one wants to have a ‘take away’ drink of the locally mixed fruit juices or cola extracts, the correct quantity is measured into a plastic bag and if you are lucky, you get a straw with it! …An instant drink-in-a-container!

In Dogon Country, where people lived isolated lives for many hundreds of years before being ‘discovered’, I was surprised at how quickly a recently-killed chicken was turned into a very tasty strew. When I asked to know how it was done, I became aware of the ‘secret ingredient’ which everyone uses: Maggi bouillon stock cubes…However, as it boasts meat extract, it is very difficult for vegetarians to sometimes eat a veg. stew. I have been told that most veg. sauces have a meat base.

Food is everywhere: Small plots of cultivated maize, cassava, beans, and pumpkins…fruit trees or wild spinach; In the Atlas Mountains the rare round Argon fruits are collected by goatherds for that superb cooking oil. Herbs and spices and bushes of the little very strong chilies abound. Nothing is ever wasted or not used for something. Goats inhabit all built-up places and were, with chickens, the traditional cleaner-uppers. Now they have had to learn to avoid plastic. In dry areas, vast herds of cattle are carefully husbanded and in more built-up areas, cows are kept in sheds adjacent to or near habitation. This is called zero grazing and is just a very traditional method of ‘battery farming’. Owners go out and cut tall Napier grass or similar for the cow who provides milk and never grazes. This way the animals do not need a cow-herd or spoil the small grazing spaces. I always have to laugh at the small squat goats of West Africa (not the ones which give milk which are used in appealing photos to your conscience for Xmas gifts) and, in Zanzibar, at the incredibly long-legged chickens which seem to float above the grass.

Rice-growing is surprisingly common in Africa. Or at least I am surprised because I always associate it with the paddies of the Far East/India. In West Africa they called them rice swamps and in East Africa I have heard them referred to as rice farms or fields. On Pemba Island, I had a good look at the hard work that goes into preparing the small water-flooded fields which are owned by families. The sprouted seeds were being planted in muddy ‘nurseries’ and will be panted in water in neat rows when they are long. But what is time-consuming to see is that the women who are harvesting the rice have a small knife in the hand and each ear of grain is cut individually. By the time the whole process outside the hut of drying and winnowing has been done, the cost in human work-hours is tremendous. However the amount of large 110kg sacks of rice being loaded on the Liemba cargo ship on its weekly journey up and down Lake Tanganyika, which had been cultivated around its shores, astounded me. Africa can be very productive.

Somehow, without planning it, I have been very fortunate with the weather and fruits of the season. How could I have planned it any better to see the wildebeest migration? Pure luck! Similarly with the fruits in season (Bananas are always available). In the hills in Togo I had been living in Mango Heaven where the sides of the road were yellow with dropped fruit and one just bent down, consumed a fruit and repeated the action endlessly. In Kabale it was Passion Fruit Heaven. Liz and I always made sure we had a supply of freshly-made juice in the refrigerator and because I was on a course of antibiotics for bronchitis, I needed to eat natural yogurt and this was a wonderful excuse to have one of my favourite foods: yogurt with passion fruit. After that came Tanzania and I fell into Avocado pear Heaven! During my 'cultural tour' near Arusha, we walked all over the place and every path had trees laden with lemons and the ground was strewn with avos. The locals simply did not gather these fruits and they were too far from the main road to make gathering and selling a profitable option. I returned laden with fruit and all the lemons I needed to go with them. During our safari, my little group enjoyed these fruits with me. The cook did not think it a worthy food to dish up. Although bananas are always available, Zanzibar with its very large variety of exotic fruits was tops for that particular Heaven. Of the 30 varieties to choose from, most are used in cooking, although I did manage to sample quite a few types from very long to tiny small-bite-size as well as ones with a small black pip. The giant wild bananas one finds in the indigenous forests and which are not edible to us, are popular with monkeys who litter the floor below with their marble-sized pips.

Just as food and its consummation adapts to the climate and culture in which it is consumed, Religion does the same.

Black Africa is still very dual in its beliefs. Although Christianity has an extremely strong influence on most people and their lives are often dominated by singing, hymns and studying the Bible, they are also very influenced by their traditional beliefs and customs.

On the beach in Nouakchott I saw a woman appease the spirits with incantations, throwing leaves into the sea and then opening two cartons of white milk to solemnly pour these into the oncoming waves. White is part of the libation used to pacify the spirits and once, in Lome, when a devote Christian Guide and I had been to a sacred waterfall and we saw white cloths, white candles and white bananas which had been used for some or other ritual by the fall, he was amazed. As a 37-year old Christian he could not accept this ‘backward’ religion. I explained that there are all kinds of religions and that Christianity is not the one and only. Later that night he came to me in quite a state of unrest because I had caused him to rethink his own beliefs.

I do not like to think that I take people’s belief away from them, but when one travels through the world, one simply has to accept that there are many versions of GOD and that they will all give succour of some kind or another. I loved the way the Friends (Quaker) Church in Kenya has adapted. That very calm and quiet 17th century discipline is, like other Evangelical Churches throughout Africa, incredibly noisy with rousing speeches, loud music, singing and dancing in the aisles. Charles Fox should be spinning in his grave, but he was a man of his time and no doubt would approve of their efforts to keep the congregation happy.

As much as I enjoy the comfort of my western upbringing, after so many months in Africa, it is interesting to see how my standards have evolved. I always think of Albert Schweitzer in this regard. When he was successfully establishing an African hospital in Gabon at Lambarene in the 1950s, he recognised that he needed to relax the very strict western standards of cleanliness that he was trained to uphold. Visitors were shocked to see people on the floors, families feeding their sick ones in the wards, general 'mayhem' around. Yet he was successful and became famous for his pioneering work. And he maintained his western standards through his violin-playing. The two can go together. In Addis Ababa, however, I saw another version of an African Hospital. This was the famous Fistula Hospital where women, who have been damaged through childbirth and, with subsequent bladder and bowel incontinence, have been ostracized by their families and communities. Here they arrive in a smelly, physical and mental state of despair and non-existent self-esteem. They are put in warm baths for the first time in their lives, then into a ward with beds with mattresses and clean sheets. Having always slept in crowded dark rooms in the dark in their day clothes with maybe a communal dirty blanket for warmth, this was an unimaginable experience for them! And then, not to smell any more and to feel whole and to have confidence through the other patients; to have learnt to read and write and skills to help earn a living and then finally to go back to their village in a new dress; this is so different from the usual hospital situation that one can but admire the work done there. By the way, it is deservedly recognised as the best hospital in Africa and is totally funded by voluntary donations. So here we have the two situations and I am accepting of them both. I can happily walk in dirty, uneven streets, accept the many stalls selling everything you can ever imagine for sale, be frustrated by the lack of 'service' in restaurants yet not think twice about it, and then be pleased if I ever find a clean toilet in a 'luxury' hotel. And I can now identify what is 'normal' and what is 'poverty-stricken'. I think this is often difficult for first-time visitors to Africa. And let me assure you the latter is not nearly as bad as I saw in India! Poor Africa really has an identity crisis which the 'charities' often milk for their own do-gooding reassurance. My usual cynicism comes through!
It was very illuminating to read a book which was written in 1962. ‘The People of the Sea’ by David Thompson. The author was in search of local legends about seals and visited remote fishing communities on the coast where he saw and stayed in thick mud huts with local plant-material roofs. There were no windows and animals slept on the one side while the cooking fire was in the centre. People wore essential clothes made from local skins or roughly made woolen cloth. They used knives, lamps and carried water for miles. Food was limited and monotonous. Mythical or real stories were told around the fire at night and these were the ones which the author was collecting. He traveled extensively for a number of years there before life was changed forever: in Ireland and Scotland. So, can Africa also change? Of course it can, but it has to come from within. Subsistence farming in remote areas does not encourage expensive houses and facilities. Strong communal family ties hold together communities which will fall apart if there are no children to follow in the daily lifestyle. Yet when the African mentality, which will not gladly sit at a factory belt for 8 hours or will give a job to a competent worker rather than an unskilled relative, is taken into consideration, the change will inevitably be very slow. Beware the foreigner who imposes other demands! When we put our hands up in horror at the low wages paid, I remember the rubber gatherers on Pemba Island who have the rest of the day at their disposal for working on their own farms (shambas) after a 3-hour paid working day.

When I think of my privileged upbringing in South Africa with Western values, what did I, as a 15-year old reading my text-books, know or understand about ‘The Horrors, The Horrors’ of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness? Similarly, how could a student living in a mud hut with no running water or electricity, doing the same exams, understand the niceties of Austen’s late-18th century marriage-making in English Society? In the 1970s, I was ‘sad’ to see how the SA Universities had had to ‘lower their standards’ to be able to help the large numbers of ‘black’ students being admitted to them. But it is necessary to accept that the old standards of Western Education as imposed on ‘black’ Universities like Fort Hare (SA) and Makerere (Uganda) Universities, were unrealistic. One has to accept that different standards/values apply in a different world. A backpacker I chatted to told me that when she was recently traveling through SA, because of security, the most difficult place to get entrance to was the University in Durban. By the way, for those not familiar with the SA history relating to Apartheid, even in the 1950s, I mixed and studied with Indian and African students. I doubt that that was the case in the south of the United States of America.

I cannot but think of The International Trial in The Hague of Charles Taylor (Liberia/Sierra Leone) as a bit of an elaborate farce. The Prosecution staff is large (I met one of the many lawyers in Sierra Leone who told me a bit about it) and Charles Taylor is happily milking the system whilst complaining that his Defense allowance of 500,000 US$ a month is not enough. Who are the suckers? I suspect we are....The Rwandan Genocide trials in Arusha also make me squirm at the waste of public funding where Western Civilized rules are being applied to an African problem. Sometimes we apply our rules and sometimes we say ‘do it your way’. How confusing is that? Probably the best ‘easy read’ book about Rwanda, is “We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families” by ….. He also comes to the conclusion that the Western way of dealing with the aftermath is totally wrong and contrary to African ways. Is it just the West now wanting to get in on the act to assuage its own guilt for not having prevented the bloodbath? Sam Kiley, in a TV film called Genocide’s Children (Channel 4 Nov. 9th 2007), warned that Rwandan exiles are being reared for a new genocide. (Sad to have my own feelings confirmed). Are we aware? Are we capable of positive action?

One luxury good which is still much sought-after is a car. West Africa is very well-placed to be supplied with our cast-offs. In Sierra Leone there is a traditional arrangement with Belgium for secondhand cars to be delivered in the docks. So the cars there are known as ‘Belgians’. Togo, a poor country, has a vastly sophisticated container port outside Lome where containers of second-hand cars are loaded onto trucks and then driven through the corridor of this elongated country to Burkina Faso, Mali, Chad, Niger, and Mauritania. Quite sensibly, there is no point in importing new vehicles to these countries with their bad roads.

Post Offices are no longer as important to travelers as they used to be. When I was back-packing nearly 50 years ago, one’s only affordable contact with family and friends was thorough letters and cards. In places like Tangiers, one constantly came upon hopeful people outside the PO waiting for the promised cheque which they would assure their hotel manager or landlord, ‘was in the post’. No excuses like that today. Western Union does the job and instant cell ‘phone and internet access keeps one in daily contact. So the African Post Office has minimal services. Postmen are unheard of and one collects post from a set of sealed boxes adjacent to the PO. There have been times when I managed to locate a PO in remote areas where the person in charge does not have the correct denomination stamp or change. In Ethiopia it is impossible to send a parcel from anywhere except Addis itself. This has no doubt also to do with their incredibly convoluted security system where all parcels have to be minutely inspected and described.

Africa has gone through a phenomenal communications change over the past few years. The mobile telephone network has made it possible for people to be in touch as never before. Not only does it mean that medical emergencies in remote places can be dealt with swiftly, but small-scale banking is making it possible for everyone to be in charge of their finances without having to go to a Bank. They can talk endlessly and thus keep up those essential family/community ties; they can organize demonstrations or pass news very quickly; they are totally unaware of mobile-manners and would loudly chat in the most public or intrusive places. All this and much more makes me wonder why things have not improved…. But Lateral Thinking is the answer to many African problems and one can but hope that the use of this kind of technology will speed up essential changes. There are innumerable street-side booths where one can make telephone calls. The competition is great amongst the Providers and one of their advertising gimmicks is to paint your booth for free in their colours. But that service is already getting less popular as more and more mobile (cell) ‘phones are sold. Technology and prices have already moved on to such an extent that just about everyone has a cell phone. Or the booths offer the services of both, depending on the network you wish to contact. It is actually cheaper to use a mobile connection than a land line. I am constantly asked for my telephone number and there is a sense of surprise that I do not walk around with a 'phone. The new trash in Africa is changing too. Included with the myriads of plastic bags and bottles, there are little strips of plasticated paper littering the roads: These are the used voucher strips with pin numbers for cell phones. It has been difficult to find out what people call them. They look at me in astonishment when they realize that I am asking for a name for the thing! I’ve heard them called ‘short cut’ but otherwise it is just the name of the manufacturer or simply ‘2000 voucher’ or whatever is the denomination one wants to buy. In a continent where the concept of saving for the future is anathema, there is no hefty telephone bill to look at the end of the month! Cynically, I am moved to repeat what I mentioned in Ethiopia. There, because of the very draconian hold on the people, txt-ing on cell phones is impossible/illegal. A few years ago they were used to great effect to start a demonstration against the dubious results of an election. The subsequent riots and brutality with deaths and imprisonment was blamed on this easy way of getting a crowd to gather.

TIA: You are returning to your Hotel after supper. It is dark and the sandy path is edged with bushes; ideal for an urgent pee. As you squat, a man walks down the road towards you and says “hallo”. You reply in embarrassment and jump up to rejoin the road. He follows up your greeting with sentences in his own language and you begin to explain that you do not understand. Then he passes you, still happily chatting on his mobile ‘phone…

Thank goodness there is a changing perception about giving Aid. Recently, CARE, a humanitarian group, turned down $46,000,000 worth of food aid from the USA, saying that it is sold by charities to finance anti-poverty programs but this results in low-priced crops being dumped on local markets and small-scale growers then cannot compete. Dumping cheap crops undermines local agriculture. This is different from emergency food aid for famine or drought. The other side of this trade too is that shipping companies get lucrative contracts to transport grain over 4 to 5 months and 2/3 of the money spent by the Govt. on food aid goes into packaging and shipping. The EU has replaced food aid with cash to make sure that help gets to poor countries more quickly.
Back in Zanzibar (direct flight now with Ethiopian Air) and I stayed in my little hotel which is much used by resting Volunteers. The same old story of corruption and mis-management and inefficiency by not only the locals, but the good people who come here to ‘leave a mark’ I suspect. In England I was reading again about how you can invest in Africa, but it is with the proviso; ‘African Funds are only for the most gung-ho of investors, who can afford to take a long term view and risk substantial losses’ (Sunday Telegraph Oct. 28 2007). It does not encourage me to even try to invest my own money while I am here when locals see one and immediately stick out a hand for money. I persist in loving the place nevertheless. And my opinionated remarks can rile and activate your conscience. Come and see!

To come to the end of my cynicism, let me just quote a recent Oxfam Report: War in Africa has cost the continent at least 280billiion US$ in 15 years- as much as the amount given in international aid over the same period... 38% of the world’s armed conflicts are being fought in Africa. And what I was very disheartened to learn is that about 95% of AK 47s in Africa came from the West. The joys and frustrations of living in Africa!

STARS!!!

2008-02-05T16:07:00.000-08:00

JANUARY 2008

MALAWI AND ZIMBABWE

PHOTO?

We give ‘stars’ to people who do well in tests or places which are rated for a myriad of reasons. When John Simpson’s report about Zimbabwe was being aired on BBC World on my Hotel TV, it was suddenly blanked out and I was later told that it was not so much the Government which was objecting, but the Hotel being discrete because it is patronized by Mugabe-supporters. Do they deserve stars for being ‘good boys’? Or does Simpson deserve a star for ferreting out all the most disagreeable bits about the country he could find?

I was in a rush to get to South Africa due to time-shortages, so cut out Malawi (which I had often visited in the past, although the last time was in 1967) and flew from the spread-out capital city of Lilongwe to Harare, the equally modern and busy capital of Zimbabwe. Lilongwe had begun to prepare me for the many ‘westernised’ shops and eating outlets I would be seeing from now onwards. The busy streets of traffic and wide boulevards of both cities were quite a culture-shock.

As this was essentially the end of my trek, I decided to indulge in Harare’s best and famous Hotel: Meikles. It has a 5-star rating and for me, having started the New Year after sleeping on sacks of hard cassava in a dhow, it was as though the place had 10 stars! It was the chocolates on the pillow that did it….

Simpson probably stayed at Meikles, but did he mention it? With its excellent service and large spread of food in the remaining open restaurants one can just as well be in any luxury Hotel anywhere in the world. Did he go shopping in the mostly open and functioning shops where the stocks might be low (except for electronic dealers who had very active businesses) but where well-dressed people nevertheless browsed and bought? Did he witness the long queues of patrons day and night at the multi-screen cinemas? Looking for an Internet Café was like bumping into bookshops on the Charing Cross Road. Everywhere! Just like the fruit and other item sellers who have reappeared on the streets after their horrific removal a few years ago. People are friendly and resigned to doing slow but passable trade. At the bus-stations the busses and mini taxis were doing a busy trade and the streets were not overcrowded, but sufficiently busy to need their traffic-light controls. I had to double-take on seeing clean cars with only one driver and no passenger! Most of my African journey thus far has been in countries where a vehicle did not move until it was fully occupied and more. No doubt I missed Simpson’s photos of the very large but orderly queues at the Banks. It was the end of the month when salaries are paid in, new ZW$20,000,000 notes had been printed and it still takes a long time to count out the large stacks of money everyone has to carry about. I mention this because it is often annoying when only one side of an argument is shown to the world. The same kind of media coverage was done during the Apartheid years in SA and yet acceptable lives went on for very many people. The media only focuses on what is bad or unpalatable and this will make it more difficult for a country to recover once a new regime takes over.

Today the world thinks that Zimbabwe is not worth visiting. Yet my very short and limited visit there was filled with hospitality and good cheer. I walked the inner streets of Harare without fear and spoke to whomever I could. ‘Things are not as bad as a few months ago’ was the usual reaction to enquiries.

But I am not complacently denying what the outside world says. Of course things are in an unacceptable state. All I want is to ask tourists to return and see for themselves; to experience the great hospitality and friendliness of the people; to put their money into the hands of those who are suffering as a result of the lack of business; to defiantly show a politically corrupt nation that ordinary people matter and will survive long after they are overthrown.

An example of the corruption I speak of: The Manager of the Hotel Club took a fancy to me when I used his internet facilities and invited me for coffee early one evening. Delicious snacks were presented to me and the two men sitting around a low table with all the latest magazines. I chatted to the men and we did a bit of lighthearted bantering which continued when a very attractive and well-dressed lady appeared, introduced herself to me as Sharon and greeted them with kisses. I returned to a book and realized that this was a pre-arranged meeting. Talk was political. Sharon had been to a Political Rally that day and reported to the men. Then they discussed the need to motivate the youth of the country before the election. At 7.30pm I decided to leave them to it and as I left, Sharon good-naturedly called out to me, ‘By the way, Hilda, my surname is Mugabe”.

The next morning I was having breakfast in the Club Dining Room when the Manager came in. I asked him about the meeting and he said that the three had been there until nearly midnight. The two men are MPs and Sharon is the niece of Robert Mugabe. She wants to be a politician and the men wanted funds from her family connections with which to ‘bribe/motivate’ young people to vote for them. Trillions of ZW$ were discussed, I was told. What’s new?!

On the Sunday of my stay, I went to the Anglican Cathedral for the 11am service, hoping to meet the Acting Bishop and his wife (friends of a friend). They were there but understandably pre-occupied. The previous week a judge had solved a very divisive problem by deciding that the Acting Bishop and the dismissed incumbent Bishop were to share the Cathedral for their respective services. The latter is a traditionalist and strongly disagrees with the Archbishop of Canterbury who accepts homosexuality. He was sitting at the altar and the left side of the aisle was filled with his followers who started to sing loudly for nearly ½ hour. They were being ‘whipped-up’ and I would not say that any of the songs and chanting had anything to do with the Anglican service. Interestingly, some members of the Mothers’ Union in their blue and white ‘uniforms’ were supporting one side and others were supporting the other side. Eventually the Acting Bishop left where he was sitting in the back row with his wife and went forward to address his congregation on the right side. An argument arose between the two men, service papers were twice grabbed from the Acting Bishop’s hands and flung across the altar steps and voices were raised. Two policemen walked to the front of the nave and accompanied the two Bishops to the vestry. About an hour later I passed the Church Hall where a traditional Sunday Mass was being conducted. A temporary solution to an intractable problem.

By this time I had had enough and walked out with a retired ex-teacher called Heather who had been filling me in on the ecclesiastical row. We were the only white-skinned people there. Heather took me around the quiet cloister which in previous times was a repository of memorials for all the eminent white Rhodesians/Zimbabweans of the last century. Today all the hundreds of plaques have been removed (unless physically impossible) and a great part of history is lost. Heather, though, was like a Tourist Guide and despite the sadly empty spots, she could tell me where everyone had been commemorated and what they were famous for. She had also known virtually everyone thus lost to identity. A small pin on a bench where a few hundred brass plates had told a story, reflects where her brother, who died as a pilot in WW11, was commemorated.

Heather is one of those forgotten pensioners whose monthly Zimbabwean pension can ‘buy a loaf of bread’. Fortunately an organization called SOAP (Save our Old Age Pensioners) comes around twice a week and hands out food and other essentials. I was being patronizing, but as I had far too many boxes of antibiotics, bandages, envelopes and pencils etc, I invited her to my room to take these items to them. She knows Meikles well, but had never been to the rooms. Her life-style put her in awe of the endless, warm, strongly-flowing water, (“I will not flush the toilet to save water”), the great variety of unguents, soaps, writing materials, rolls of soft toilet paper, multi-screen TV, iced water, uninterrupted electricity and so on. The cleaning staff was passing the room and very generously gave her handfuls of soap, shampoo and toilet paper. I liked the way the black staff were happy to give to a white woman in need, although, at other times, I was frequently accosted by members of staff who wanted to tell me about how harsh conditions were and beg for money (I suspect it is a nice little earner). We made up two large bags of goodies and I accompanied her to her bicycle. Only then, when I saw her cardboard-box-covered bike, did I realize that her financial situation had turned Heather into a ‘bag-lady’ and I wondered whether any of those items will reach SOAP.

The overseas newspapers write of shortages, but nowhere did I see hungry people like I did in Ethiopia and when I went to a bakery shop late in the afternoon, I was told that there was no more bread that day, but plenty of buns, cakes, doughnuts, cupcakes, Madeira cakes and so on. OK, I am prejudiced and should be tied down… Just visit yourselves!

After four days in Harare and an 8-hour luxury (only people on seats allowed) bus-ride away, I was collected to stay on the ranch of friends. Once again I am prejudiced because my hosts are life-long Zimbabweans who know and understand the country very well. Despite having experienced all of the troubles reported through the international media, they have survived, live in harmony with squatters on their land and are being productive. Another 5-star place from which to celebrate the end of my trek! Five days later and we were over the border and in South Africa.

The Africanisation of this more-American-than-America country is also going at a pace, although one cannot see it when driving along wide tarred roads with thousands of cars bumper to bumper for hours. However, electricity blackouts have hit with a vengeance and it has given rise to many jokes. Perhaps you would like to hear this one?

Q: What is the difference between the Titanic and South Africa?

A: At least the Titanic had all lights blazing as it went down.

END OF BLOG ENTRIES UNTIL I GO TO SUDAN/EGYPT IN APRIL/MAY

MOZAMBIQUE January 2008

2008-01-19T13:26:00.001-08:00

N.B. We are waiting for photos...

PHOTO ; PHOTO AT END OF CHAPTER?

Removing trees from track.

Having a beer at Lake Niassa

I’m…….GET ME OUT OF HERE!

When I was recently in England, the programme ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!’ was on TV and , although I can never see myself eating live worms as some of the contestants have had to do, I know the feeling of ‘This-is-not-quite-where-I-want-to-be……’

The only way to drag myself out of Zanzibar (one night turned into nearly three weeks), was to book a flight to Mtwara near the southern border of Tanzania.

Thus 2007 ended very successfully when I stayed in a hut/house built by an Australian lady who wants to settle in a remote village near the border with Mozambique. Conditions were basic but the gentleman and his woman who looked after me were superb hosts. He used to be a Benedictine Priest and still plays the small, rickety (give it a push and pull to get the keys unstuck while playing) organ in the vast nearby RC church. Despite these Christian beliefs, the first thing he did for me after I entered the hut was to push a piece of millet stalk into the thatch above the door to ‘keep out bad spirits’.

I bought the food and his lady cooked…a very successful arrangement! Patricia had left her bicycle (21 gears!!!...never before seen in Africa!) for my use and it was wonderful to just explore the nearby villages and tracks.

A few days before Christmas, we went to the church and I saw the local man who arranges the Nativity display every year, finish it off by sowing millet seeds on the sand in front of the beautifully carved figures. A few days later, this was a thick carpet of ‘grass’ two inches long!

2 x PHOTOS? From James’s camera….

The Christmas Eve service eventually started when the generator got going. In the heat of the evening about 600 people crowded into the church and there was inspired singing, prayers and endless scenes I was too far away to see…although the three wise men were a very active and laugh-inducing trio as they played to the audience up and down the aisles. Just as the host was being offered and queues forming, the generator packed up and the church erupted into frightened screams in the dark. Chaos prevailed and I never saw if that part of the service was ever concluded after two heat-filled hours.

In my hut I often listened to the BBC World Service which was covering the Kenyan Elections before and after Polling Day with discussion, good humour and optimism. The only discordant note was to hear from someone that some of the Asian community has closed their businesses and gone across the border for a few days. No doubt they had returned, thinking all was well before the troubles started.

After the pleasant break in my ‘own’ home, I returned to Mtwara and met Alex, a young post-grad Brit, at the bus/truck-stop early the next morning. He was going south to meet up with his sister and proved to be delightful company. We were both intending to cross the river Rovuma which is the border between Tanzania and Mozambique. Despite the driver trying to persuade us to pay double so that we could depart, we refused and eventually, four hours later, he managed to fill the truck with enough passengers to justify the trip. Standing in the hot sun in a jam-packed pick-up truck for many hours of very bumpy roads is neither a good start to a trip nor a good ending to 2007. It was the 29th December and we hired a dugout canoe to pole us across the river. 40 minutes later, having fought strong currents, sandbanks, islands and hippos, our exhausted polers got us across and a tractor took us the 4km to the Immigration/Customs buildings. This was a small village with no facilities and no transport that day.

Alex and I slept on the concrete in a half-built house and were up at 5am, hoping that someone would be departing. All that happened was that a South African man in a 4x4 arrived at 6am, intending to catch the last car ferry going north for a week (neap tide makes the river too shallow). There was a chain with ‘STOP’ hanging from it across the road and no sign of officials, so we dropped it for him so that he could go and warn the ferry that he needed their service and then return to do his paperwork. The second he crossed the chain, the place was alive with Police and Immigration officials in their neatly-ironed shirts….

The outcome of all the fuss was that our passports were demanded (we refused so Alex was hand-cuffed) and bribes expected. We refused again and they gave up on us for being the usual penniless backpackers and because the car-owner was a much better bet for something. He resignedly paid up and we never saw him again, so maybe the ferry was still there… Incidentally, the Immigration blokes were totally out of touch with the ferry despite there being a telephone number the car-owner had been given. It just had nothing to do with them….Thus our introduction to Mozambique.

Late that afternoon Alex and I managed to get a lift on a truck and when we arrived in our village by the sea, managed to arrange a dhow for early the next morning. At 3.30am we left our hotel without food and walked the 1km through waist-deep water to get to our dhow. I was to become very adept at carrying my full and small rucsacs on my head in the next few days….

In the afternoon the wind became so strong that the small boat had to turn back to the last port of call. By this time I was the unofficial bailer-out and it had become a full-time job! We waded through the usual 1/2km of waist-high water (the tides go out for ever) and then walked about 3km to the nearest village where we managed to find a tin of condensed milk and a packet of biscuits. As the only food for the last day of 2007 it was not quite the way we had envisaged celebrating that night. Alex’s sister is a chef in a luxury Lodge further down the coast and he had intended to be there by then. But in Moz. one can never plan anything…

We slept on the boat…Alex at an angle as it settled into the mud at low tide and I constantly adjusting to the very uncomfortable sacks of hard dried cassava pieces below me. The skipper had said that we would be leaving at 3am, but by then the boat was totally stranded in the mud of low tide, Alex’s shoes had been stolen from the dhow during the night and we had to trek with our luggage deeper into the sea to another dhow which left at 5am.

Thus was started 2008.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Apart from the sun/wind-burn one suffered, it was good to follow the coast in a southerly direction. Later in the day we landed at a village where a visiting family who had come to the seaside for the first day of the year holiday, promised us a lift towards the Lodge that afternoon. I swam and Alex brought out his kite-board to the amazement of the locals who had never seen such a thing! The wind was strong and the kite and strings ended up in two palm trees. All very exciting for the locals although a bit worrying for Alex. Order was restored and we bought a full tank of petrol for our corpulent host and his corpulent wife and all their children and grandchildren.

Squashed into the car we set off and it was soon obvious that our host may have made a lot of money, but did not know how to drive…When we were stuck in the sand, he and his wife sat inside, revving the engine, whilst we all tried to push and pull. Starting in gear had not been learnt…. Ultimately I counted 30 souls around the car as passers-by helped out. The engine eventually started and the pushers then demanded money from Alex. He was not in a good mood with Moz. by then!

We arrived at the Lodge and Alex was happy to be staying with his sister. I had to pay too many US$ per night and, as there was no lift out the next day, the two nights there cost me the equivalent of two weeks’ of my backpacking budget. My precious Dollars saved for Zimbabwe had to be spent which lead to endless financial problems later on. Thus my mood about Moz. was also not a happy one….

In fairness, the Lodge was ‘luxury’ and not the most expensive of the selection along the coast/nearby islands. But I do question the eco-friendly nature of these places. I have visited some others and eaten in some of their restaurants but never considered affording a night. In this particular one, the large mosquito tents under thatch roofs were attractive, although I found it annoying to have to zip oneself in and out all the time. At night anybody who wanted to (and there were always night-watchmen walking about), can look into the tents, so no privacy. The shared eco-loos were a bit of a way from the tents, and for someone who needs to get up in the middle of the night, that really is not ‘luxury’. The little paraffin lamps are certainly not effective enough to allow for bedside reading. Alex’s sister is a very good cook and her food is beautifully presented. When one knows that it is all cooked in a kitchen with no electricity and small lamps only over charcoal fires, it is a miracle! A pity that the lack of variety means one is generally given sea-food and rice for most meals. But the young English staff members were lovely and it was a pleasure to chat to them. I managed to do some book-swaps and taught the kids how to play Robbery Rummy. However, one does not have the option of refusing to pay $41 for the local school books etc. and all outside activities are heavily charged for. Just the 4-hour lift to Pemba (customers were being taken to the airport) cost me $65 whereas the trip in a local truck would have been about $5 at most. But I enjoyed the relaxing atmosphere, swam naked straight from my tent and snoozed happily in my hammock in the afternoon.

Alex is a marvel and speaks Portuguese. It was only when I was finally on my own that the reality of my isolation struck! I am hopeless at languages and was totally lost in a country where everyone speaks Portuguese. Having walked for hours in the heat and humidity of Pemba (the Commonwealth War Graves are interesting as the deaths of many British and South African WW1 soldiers who died in 1918 are meticulously recorded and their graves attended whilst there are only memorials which state that 41 Africans and 21 Indians also died), I decided to consult my map. Needless to say, I was too tired to be alert and my small rucsac was stolen from next to me. Big disaster in many ways, but fortunately neither a passport nor credit card disappeared. However, after trying with hand-signals for two hours to get the police to give me a statement for Insurance purposes (I was constantly pushed to the back of the queue and only later did I realize it was because I did not have money for a bribe), I gave up on getting such niceties. Moz. began to be a not-so-friendly-place… How soon prejudices evolve when one cannot sit down to a decent conversation! The Mozambiqueans are perfectly friendly but far more reserved than other African nations so far. It was a pleasure not to be hassled continuously and to be regarded as ‘ordinary’ human beings instead of beings needing extra attention.

I spent two nights on the Ilha de Mocambique, a small island of 7000 inhabitants, 3.5km from the mainland. It is reached via a single-lane bridge. This was once an important trading island and the original capital city of Mozambique before Lorenzo Marques (Maputo today) took over at the end of the 19th century.. Today it is a rather neglected town of crumbling Portuguese buildings and an active reed-hut fishing community. The whole is a UNESCO World Heritage Site which will begin to be tidied up in February and its delightful charm lost forever, I suspect. Local lads acted as Guides for two afternoons and otherwise I enjoyed exploring the Fort and Museum with their own Guides. I just mention this because it was so good to speak English! Impressive is a little church which is the oldest European building in the southern hemisphere. And I was amused in the Portuguese cemetery to see a 4m high cement dhow as a memorial over someone’s grave.

The Zambezi floods had started and my original intention of wanting to follow the coastline in September before the rains, meant that I had to divert towards the western border. It was good to hear about the way the local authorities had learnt from the 2000 floods and were coping extremely well without foreign help. In 1967 Janice and I had hitch-hiked up the coast from South Africa, so it was not as though I was missing anything…just endless bush. This way I could indulge in one of my loves; a train journey. A 4-hour drive inland was Nampula, a largish city (tar roads and grid-pattern streets with even a museum) which is the start of a train journey to Cuamba. The train did not disappoint. It left at 5am and was only about 5 hours late that afternoon so that the connecting truck, on which two US Peace Corp boys and I clambered, would have been traveling half the night in the dark. In Moz. the adage of ‘always room for one more’ really applies and we were in a precarious position to start with when Hans fortunately insisted that we stop the truck and get off as Peace Corp rules said ‘no traveling in the dark’. We jumped off, found a hotel and left early the next morning for Lichinga where the boys were settling in as teachers for the next two years. Once again Moz. proved a first for me in the bed-bug stakes….And I have slept in worse conditions!

After three nights of Peace Corp luxury (well, no electricity for two nights, water in a bucket and sleeping on the floor) and conversation in English, I set off once again to fight with my lack of Portuguese. The plan was to get to a small port on Lake Niassa (called Lake Malawi in Malawi) where I could catch the Ilala Ferry to the Malawi side of the lake. 8km north of this landing place is a simple set of thatched bungalows by a quiet beach which is an ideal place from which to await the arrival of the Ilala in three days’ time.

Stepping out of the lake after a swim, I greeted Drew, who was standing next to his mud-covered 4x4 with sleeping tent on top. Originally Zimbabwean, he lives in Canada and works seasonally, so spends 51/2 months a year traveling through Africa. We shared drinks and food and decided the next day to drive north to an even better isolated beach nearly opposite Likoma Island. The latter is another favourite tourist island of charm and history. The track was a real challenge and it had obviously not been used by a vehicle for many a moon. We later found out that visitors to this particular isolated beach are collected by canoe from a town to the north. But it was worth the effort and the unexpected visitors (no-one had been for many weeks) were soon treated royally (or at least our huts were furnished with bedding and nets) and Drew created a good meal from his supplies. We planned to have fresh fish the next day when staff could be summoned; except that it began to rain early in the morning and the fear of flooding in the little hardly-passable streams was incentive enough to send us scurrying back without breakfast. The dreaded wooden ‘bridge’ was confronted and after due planning, Drew set off to cross it and suddenly spurted forward as the rotten tree-trunks collapsed below the back wheels. Relief! Two hours to do 10km…

As Drew was going to the Malawi border the next day anyway, I accompanied him there and must admit that I was very pleased to get to a country where they could speak my language….How arrogant can one get?!

Time was running out for me. We had enjoyed the best, non-touristy beaches on the lake, I had been to Malawi before and there was no requirement to dissect fish, so Malawi became a stepping stone for Zimbabwe. Drew was meeting friends and I went to Lilongwe, the 'garden capital' of Malawi. One can fly out from there.....

THE ROT SETS IN

2007-12-11T15:02:00.000-08:00

INGRID, PETE AND SALLY

By that I mean that all my good intentions went out of the window andI indulged for the next months in butter, cheese, milk and processedmeat to such an extent that I needed to return to Africa very quickly to regain areasonable body shape! Apart from food over-indulgence, there was film, theatre, opera,ballet, art galleries and so many wonderful friends and restaurant meals tofit in! Clean water which one marvels at and cannot countenance beingso pristine, is plentiful and safe to drink, even from a toilet! Thepavements (sidewalks) are clean and smooth, electricity is alwaysavailable, new-fangled hand driers in some toilets are super-efficient andeco-friendly, loo paper can be found everywhere, shops stock a greatvariety of things they encourage you to buy, transport is driven by theclock and timings are in minutes, not hours... Yes, culture shock but also wonder at how quickly the world changes.

After only 18 months away, I find the UK citizens being encouraged tobe hardy outdoors. It started on 1st July and they are slowlyentering winter with huddles of people puffing at cigarettes where there is nonotice to ban them from such anti-social activity. The pubs haveadapted and now they are producing very expensive, energy consuming outdoorheaters for their smoking customers and a new word has been coined:smirfing. If you do not want to loose the friendship of your smokingfriends, you have to join them outside pubs and restaurants wheresmoking and flirting have become the norm. In Yorkshire they are trailing the acceptability of mini-bananas (myfavourite) to the British who so far have only known Fyffe’s and Geestuni-size ones. Do people know that there are even bananas with pips? Traffic wardens now use timed digital cameras to record one'smisdemeanor. No excuse or argument tolerated! Ruth in The Archers has breast cancer and Liz Hurley is married.

Poor (?) Heather McCartney-Mills tried to explain to people that 18%of greenhouse gasses come from the dairy industry, for which she wasbooed (ok, she was not too clever in her comparative examples). But sheechoed my oft-quoted mantra that milk is for baby cows and that we canget calcium from many other eco-friendly sources. However, the DairyIndustry is so entrenched in its powerful industry and ‘education of themasses’ that these cries for sense are just ridiculed by the majority. My recent indulgence shows how I am but a product of my upbringing……
People would ask me; 'But what do you DO in Africa?' There is no adequate reply. I am not bored. As C. McCullers says in ' The heart is a Lonely Hunter’; The soul rots with boredom. Just watching the world go by or talking to people about their lives and aspirations is reward enough. Having the time to indulge in 'Me-Days' with books one would often never contemplate reading but might have to due to a dearth of reading matter, is always a challenge and surprising delight. One sleeps a lot...or at least I do as I do not generally go out to Reggae parties or clubs...and scientific research is confirming that adequate amounts of sleep really are necessary to ward off health problems. And of course I do not have stress, so can just enjoy being alive. That is reward enough.

In England I was reading again about how you can invest in Africa,but it is with the proviso; ‘African Funds are only for the most gung-hoof investors, who can afford to take a long term view and risksubstantial losses’ (Sunday Telegraph Oct. 28 2007). It does not encourage meto even try to invest my own money while I am here when locals see oneand immediately stick out a hand for money. I persist in loving theplace nevertheless. And my opinionated remarks can rile and activateyour conscience. Come and see!
Sam Kiley, in a TV film called Genocide’s Children (Channel 4 Nov.9th), warned that Rwandan exiles are being reared for a new genocide.(Glad to have my own feelings confirmed) To come to the end of my cynicism, let me just quote a recent OxfamReport: War in Africa has cost the continent at least 280billiion US$ in15 years- as much as the amount given in international aid over thesame period... 38% of the world’s armed conflicts are being fought inAfrica. And what I was very disheartened to learn is that about 95% of AK47s in Africa came from the West.
The winter cold set in and Ingrid had a daughter, called Sally, on 20th October. Thus I am now a grandmother.

Back in Zanzibar (direct flight now with Ethiopian Air). I am inmy little hotel which is much used by resting Volunteers. And I am once again being entertained by the same old story of corruption and mis-management and inefficiency by not only the African locals, but the good people from the West who come here to ‘leave a mark’ I suspect.

I shall indulge in being in Zanzibar and try to give more of my thoughts and unsubstantiated opinions while waiting to move on. Christmas in South Africa is to be avoided only because I do not want to intrude on family celebrations.

But to any of you who might be reading, I sincerely wish you a

VERY HAPPY FESTIVE SEASON

and a lot of

GOOD CHEER FOR THE NEW YEAR

THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE

2007-11-20T06:33:00.000-08:00

BOATS SERVICING THE LIEMBA

PERDITA AND HILDA OUTSIDE THE LIEMBA FIRST-CLASS CABIN

The above statement is no joke. Many a time when I despaired at a vehicle ever getting one more person into a non-existent space, bodies would miraculously form and reform and the person is somehow accommodated!

During my three-week whistle-stop tour of some parts of Tanzania which I still wanted to see, there was a lot to get into a few days:

Buses, Boats, Bicycles and Breakdowns
Catamarans, Chatting and Climbing
Waiting, Walking and Talking
Taxis, Trains, Planes, People and Patience
Roads, Railways, Refugees and Robberies
Death, Daladalas and Dust........

As a traveller I do not make arrangements beforehand, thus leaving the adventure to take its own shape. This chapter is an illustration of just how such a little trip can include so many elements. They were all unplanned and rewarding!

The overnight fast-ferry catamaran to Dar es Salaam from Zanzibar suited me. There were many young back-packers taking the cheapest option and, once the ferry had left Stone Town at 10pm, foam mattresses were brought out and we slept on them or the luxury settees in the vast lounge. I never understood how a trip which normally takes 90 minutes could now take 8 hours.

In Dar, after 21/2 hours of negotiating at the Central Line Railway Station, I managed to secure a ticket for a connecting bus to Dodoma (already two months after the promised re-opening of the train line) and a train to Kigoma where I could then get a boat going south along the eastern shores of Lake Tanganyika. Only after all this was I told that the boat in question, MV Liemba, would only be travelling south a few days after my arrival and that I could not make an earlier connection. "But if you go to Mbeya, you can make a south/north connection. We do not know when that boat or train will leave". I cancelled my hard-fought-for-ticket, took a daladala to the Tazara Railway station far out of town and stood in a queue. There are trains three times a week. Chozella was only reconfirming her booking and we started to chat. She is Zambian and had just returned from her honeymoon in Nairobi. "My husband, Patrick, is looking after our bags and the train leaves in 40 minutes". When I finally got to the end of the queue, there was a ticket available! A hasty rush outside to buy food from hawkers and I caught the train! Over the last two months I had been told that there was no food on the train because the contractor was not making money. But, without notice, the situation had changed and the buffet car was providing food and drinks. This was a good place to gather for meals and long chats.

I was a great pleasure to have a 'power-shower' on board too! One gets so used to little trickles of water and this was efficient and refreshing. I have never had a shower on a train before and was very impressed. The fact that the train is 'always late' and has inexplicable stops is not reason for concern...just Africa. It was built by the Chinese when the idea of infiltrating Communism into the heart of Africa via Zambia was very prevalent. But maintenance is another matter...

In my compartment was Jennifer, a journalist from the USA who lives in China and has been travelling about Africa, gathering information on the effect of the Chinese presence. The journey was 24 hours long and we joined Chozella and Patrick for lively discussions. Patrick has a stature and strong presence to go with it. Had the British Colonialists not killed off his great-grandfather, he would have been king of a prominent tribe (I forgot which) from the Malawi/Zambia border area.

In Mbeya I 'picked up' a young man out of the usual selection waiting to meet mzungus off the train. Lucky walked me to my chosen Missionary Hostel on the outskirts of town, although he found it a bit strange that a mzungu actually preferred to walk the 6km. The next day he met me early and without being asked, took me the long but more interesting way into town. At one stage we passed the local prison where smiling and very friendly prisoners beckoned us to come inside and see their work. There were none of the usual guarded gun-wielding formalities and only after our visit did we sign the visitors' book. Men were busy making furniture, baskets and other items which are then sold to the public. The large vegetable garden with a great variety of plants is the best I have seen in Africa and I never once thought that I should be wary of the sharp knives and pangas being wielded about. The men get warm shelter, three meals a day, companionship and interesting work to do. Why should they want to escape?

We booked into a central hotel then went to buy a bus ticket for early the next morning. This became a farce as two English-speaking men outside the bus operator's office organised the ticket for me. The assistant inside handed it over and only after they had disappeared into the crowds and I queried the price, did I see that the ticket quoted 10,000/- instead of the 15,000/- I had paid. The hapless assistant could not help and the owner returned just then. He explained how I and his assistant had been duped and all the people in the teaming confusion of the bus station soon managed to find the 'culprits' and divest them of 5,000/-. Honour was re-established.

After this exercise we took a minibus to an area south of Mbeya. Ngozi Peak is a crater lake known for its beauty and local legends. Once the necessary Park Fees were paid and we had walked and climbed for 2 hours, our reward from the 2,629m high rim certainly proved worth the effort. Far in the distance below is a clear lake of cold water with no outlet. Two Dutch girls who had done their volunteering and were now on the usual mini-holiday before returning to college, had climbed up without a guide and were extremely pleased to see us. They had contemplated going down through the thick bush to cool off in the lake, but the remnants of fear at being lost or the stories about the lake and its equivalent of Loch Ness Monster, had restrained them. They gladly returned with us through the thick tropical forest .

Lucky had studied art for 4 years in Bagamoyo (famous for its art college) and now shares a shop with his artist brother where he sells his Tinka Tinka-style art. However, we were back too late to visit the shop and of course I was convinced that I shall return to Mbeya and see him and the shop again. But it never happened. One can never make such plans on my kind of journey.

One leaves in the dark of 4.30am and needs to keep to main roads rather than the short-cut paths to get to the bus stop. Too many warnings about thieves....The bus ride to a connecting town called Sumbawanga was the usual crowded and bumpy ride. We arrived late (what is new?!) and I just managed to find the one and only bus which would take me to Kasanga where I might just catch the once-a-week appearance of the Liemba. I knew it had already left the Zambian border town of Mpulungu. Only after we arrived in the dark and I was convinced that we had missed the boat, did the driver assure me that the boat would not leave without his passengers. Relief! This lengthy day of bumpy bus rides really put me off the thought of repeating it soon. Now for some smooth chugging on the world's second longest and second deepest lake.

'Of course' the boat was later than the advertised time. For the next 50 hours it would not depart from any of its moorings until the last passenger or bag of rice or fish was safely stored aboard. The system works. No one would believe this when viewing the utter chaos which each stop seemed to bring forth.

The parts for the 71m long and 10m wide cargo boat MV Liemba were built in 1913 in Germany and then transported overland for 1500miles from the East Coast to Lake Tanganyika. Here they were assembled in 1914, just for the boat to be scuttled in 1915 by the Germans rather than be left to the English who were mandated to take over the area known as German East Africa. It was re-floated in 1922 and refurbished in 1970 to take up to 600 passengers. It has travelled up and down the east coast of the Lake ever since. However, in the early 1990s, as Mobutu was being overthrown in Zaire, the Liemba was used to ferry 75,000 refugees across the lake from Zaire to Kigoma. Today the same weekly schedule applies, but instead of a rest in Kigoma on Tuesdays, it crosses the lake once again with 500 returning Democratic Republic of the Congo (the new name for Zairre) refugees, only to start its circular trip again on a Wednesday.

There are no more jetties or quays for the Liemba to moor to between Kasanga and Kigoma and it has to slowly chug into an area near a village, whether it is day or night. Once the engines are switched off, a blast of the hooter and suddenly the water around is alive with small and large paddle or outboard motor boats. Depending on the size of the nearby villages or the seasonal crop, anything from 10 to 30 boats could arrive for servicing. A new law has forbidden these small boats to wait less than a km. from the expected stop because of accidents in the past. So a dead-calm sea without a boat in sight suddenly becomes a hive of activity with each boat wanting to be on either side of the Liemba for the loading on and off of passengers or the storage of cargo. The latter is usually large baskets or plastic bags of dried fish or, as was the case when I travelled, sacks of rice. It was the rice season and I could not believe how much was being produce in the hinterland! The sacks weigh 110k each and by the end of this slow but efficient way of transporting the annual crop, we had hundreds of them on board. Many were of course brought by small dug-out boats as well as larger motorised ones. There is an efficient crane on board and while some large nets are being filled with bags, other boats might have their cargoes being lifted or getting into position for their turn next. Everything seems so chaotic, but only after a long time did I realise that there was somebody meticulously recording each item that was being stored in the hold or on the deck. The Tax-man is always present!

One evening it was very exciting to see two rival boats resolve their little differences. A boat with about 4 oars was bearing down upon us when an outboard-motor boat shot past and rammed into the Liemba. This was certainly not fair play and the 'captains' very quickly stripped off shirts and the most exciting boxing/wrestling match you can imagine took place. If a film fight had been choreographed to show such a fight, it could not have bettered it. The men, weakly being separated by others but always breaking free would lash out and wrestle amongst the bags, passengers and boats. Not once in this beautiful fight did they loose their balance and no-one else fell into the water despite the two boats rocking from side to side. Honour was finally restored when all the passengers had disembarked and not one wanted to embark. So they each lost out on return customers...

I have never yet seen a wooden boat without water sloshing in the hull. When these boats are built they have a certain area in the design especially for the bailing out of water. Thus each boat often has a little boy as oficial bailer. On this lake the flat oars are very long and pointed, but just as efficient as any curved oar I have seen.

My first-class cabin was extremely comfortable and I found myself singing with happiness. Well, if you can call the dreadful sound eminating from my throat....

There were four of us who soon became a 'unit' through chatting or eating meals together.

Perdita is German and had been working for an NGO in Namibia. She had hoped to arrange to set up an Eco/Cultural-Tourist enterprise which would encourage the local, marginalised people to make an effort to earn some money. But they were not interested and found it easier to just drink away the day. She was thankfully in agreement with me about the relative uselessness of trying to impose Western-style projects on people who will not be able to maintain them on their own....

Jose is Spanish and nearing my age. He has business in Spain and the USA and travels there briefly every month. Magically, the rest of the time he spends in Africa and has done so for the last three years. He has a vehicle with which he has covered just about every country in Africa, or he just takes transport like this boat trip. There are no roads in Central Congo. I would have given much to be able to do his recent 8-day Congo River trip on one of six barges in convoy. There were about 200 people all told and an ox was slaughtered every day. The reassuring thing is that he has promised that I can join him whenever I am free. Something to look forward to!

Mark is Swiss and an Executive Chef with absolutely no pretensions. He has cooked all over the world and is on his way to Manila where he will be in charge of a luxury Hotel with inter alia 15 staff-chefs alone below him. I never realised that these large organisations obviously have to feed their staff as well... But Mark was not a happy man. He was recovering from his 'African experience': He had been head-hunted to run the catering of a 5-star hotel on an island on the lake. Financiers had backed the building operation, but the people who were to run the place were totally incompetent and inexperienced and had no idea about what constitiutes 'service' for clients. Instead of a helicopter, the clients are flown to the nearest mainland airstrip and then subjected to three hours of the kind of roads I am only too familiar with. The kitchen did not have adequate supplies and the facilities generally were very poor for the 1000 $ a day service paid for. He did not renew his probationary contract and left when there were no more bookings at this time of the year which is the height of the tourist season.

We also met and often chatted to Matteus, a Benedictine priest who wore ordinary clothes and had been sent to Germany to study. He learnt to speak the language within three months! I really admire the African ability to learn languages. He and Perdita could indulge in German.

The charm of looking down from one's deck upon the heaving mass of Africans below is that it is so very colourful and full of humour. We learnt that a man had died on the boat and so, when we docked in Kigoma and everyone wanted to get off at the same time, I was very moved to see this active mass of people all stand still in respect whilst the body was carried off and the relatives allowed to follow. Then the orchestrated chaos erupted with everyone trying to get off at the same time. Yet again, not an item dropped into the water.

Kigoma. Matteus was home, but, after our late arrival in the dark, he kindly helped us to get a taxi which took us to a local Mission Hostel where the other three would be leaving from the next day. Or so we thought.

Perdita had booked a bus to take her to Uganda and she successfully departed. The boys were to get a train very early that morning and were there on time, but the train only left at 11am, just to turn back after about a kilometer. They were so fed up with the train that they gave up and booked their respective busses for the next morning. I had always intended to stay a day or so and then return via the next train two days later. When I tried to book a ticket, I was told that there were none available. This was after a delightful hour-long queueing and chat to Arthur who is involved in Adult Education through the Radio. Many people have radios where there might not be electricity for TV coverage, so these tapes are ideal learning tools. The funding is from a Costa Rica-based Foundation and students pay for their books only. The 20-minute tapes are distributed to registered students and they can take a National Examination. It is hoped that these radio classes can eventually go on air for anyone to listen to. Thus queues are not a burden but an interesting way to pass the time and learn about the country.

While the boys sat and fumed on the train that first day, I had hired a bicycle from a young man who repaired bikes. He was totally bemused and borrowed one off a friend, changed a wheel with a bulging tyre and quoted an arbitrary figure. When I gave a deposit with the payment (based on what I had paid in Zanzibar and which pleased him greatly) and said I wanted it for 24 hours, this was a bit difficult to understand, but he was happy. The next day, when I wanted to hire it again for another day, I could not. His friend wanted it back.

Dr. David Livingstone had been ailing on the coast of the lake, in a little village called Ujiji. This was the largest settlement along that stretch for many years until Kigoma was chosen as the rail-head. Ujiji, 8km south of Kigoma, subsequently declined and is today a scruffy, rambling town with signs of former Colonial glory in the street layout and established old trees. Livingstone was informed of the imminent approach of Henry Morton Stanley and chose to meet him on 10th November 1871 by the lake shore under a mango tree. Today that lake edge is 70meters away from the two mango trees grafted from the original in 1924. The lake is becoming more and more degraded and the water is not being replenished. When one thinks that the few meters in depth of the top surface of this steeply graded lake holds most of the water, it is a frightening concept.

The small museum is full of interesting facts about the abortive attempts by Livingstone to convert the natives and stop the slave trade, but one can but marvel at his exploring ability in such an inhospitable continent. Stanley arrived with a USA-flag bearer (where were the cameras?!) and Livingstone does not mention the famous greeting. One wonders if the great exagerator, Stanley, did not invent it to make a better story. All Livingstone mentions is the fact that he was now eating three instead of two meals a day. The local guide ("Michael Palin is my friend" - Oct.1991) kindly showed me where the Royal Geographical Society had erected a memorial in 1927 when the importance of the site was recognised. He then gave me a 5-minute mantra about the life and death of Livingstone, much of which I could not understand although it was in 'English'. In the RGS Head Office in London, there is a petrified piece of the tree from Zambia under which Livingstone's heart had been buried.

The bicycle ride to and from Ujiji was just what I needed and the exercise was punctuated with chats to locals, meals/drinks by the roadside and questions asked about the refugee situation. The Congolese (Zaierean) and Burundian refugees had turned the area around Kigoma into the largest refugee population in Tanzania which already has the largest number of refugees in Africa. Part of the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) site is along the road I took and I marveled at the large secondary school where instruction is in French.

Later in the day I cycled to the UNHCR headquarters to try and find out more about the refugee problem. I waited for nearly an hour (I am getting used to timing my waits, but back in England, find it very difficult to justify such time-consuming activities. Did I make an exaggerated mistake? No! The notes in my diary verify it every time...) before I was told to 'come tomorrow, they are at a meeting'. During this wait in the Ptrotection Unit Office, I was amused by one of the three security guards who refused to let me pass their office. The 'traditional build' woman guard had been picking her teeth throughout my waiting period, but near the end, a collegue told her that there was an ant on her collar. She jumped up and down in great agitation and fear, and, with the help of her collegue, managed to flick it off. She really was afraid that it might do her harm. So much for the wild life in Africa. The most common question I am asked on my return to England is "did you see lots of animals?". My reply has to be "no, they eat them all" and I can quote from an email I sent to a friend when visiting Ingrid: The red squirrels have been all over the place, the rabbits, pheasants, partridges and sheep all around the door and a mouse in the bathroom. More wild life than I ever saw in Africa outside the Parks!

Some facts elicited the next day from papers obtained because all members of the 242-strong UNHCR staff (53 internationals) were too busy to see me:
there are currently 273,678 refugees in Tanzania.
the 2007 Tanzania budget is 28,680,000 US $
the camps provide free health care, shelter, education, food, water and sanitation
the local population also has free access to health facilities and schools in the refugee camps
in 2007 it is estimated that 123,000 refugees will be repatiated to DRC and Burundi
Back in Kigoma I bumped into the deservedly angry boys. We discussed supper. I had already explored the expensive hotel complex a few km outside town overlooking the lake on my bicycle and they had taken a taxi there for lunch which was not good. I reccomended another place which I had heard of, which is further down that road. We hired a taxi on the understanding that we pay 10,000 for the ride and 5,00 for an hour's wait. Once there, the place did not do meals and we returned to the usual restaurant in town which we had been patronising. The taxi driver insisted on 15,000 and just could not understand our reasoning: No wait, no money. He angrily denounced us all.

The boys were sorted with buses for the next day, but I was in a quandry:
Do I return on the Liemba and then have that very long and bumpy ride to Mbeya? 4 days
Do I wait for another train a few days hence for either Dar or Mbeya? 4 days
Do I get various buses which would eventually connect me to better roads towards Dar es Salaam? 3 days
Do I get various buses which would go through the Katavi Park towards Mbeya but which are in a very bad state? 2 days
Do I take a 'plane and fly to Dar? 1 day

I enquired about the latter from local airline and travel agencies. No one could tell me how many flights there were on a day, but everyone told me that they were fully booked. "But if you go there and wait, the pilot might let you get on if he thinks he is not too heavy".

I stayed for yet another night in the Mission Hostel and continued interesting conversations with Emile and Jane.

Emile works for the Jane Goodall Institute and of course her 47yr+ research island, Gombe Stream National Park, where chimpanzees are still being studied, is a boat-ride away. Sorry, I never knew this before I came here, but it is so easy to be arrogant about my new-found knowledge! Anyway, Emile is involved in the 'Roots and Shoots' programme which give the local inhabitants schools, education, healthcare and so on in order to encourage them to leave the chimps alone. They are a popular bush-meat food. He was flying off to a meeting in Dar the next day.

Jane and her collegues from Dar, who preferred to stay in more up-market acomodation (she liked the attached church), had driven the 1500km from Dar. They work for the Government Food and Drugs Agency and have not been in the area since 2003. On the first day they went out and visited a few pharmacies and private hospitals. Two were instantly closed down (a patient in the dirty backyard of a clinic was sent to the local hospital) and many such medical establishments had their drug supplies confiscated. The next day, not surprisingly, most of the drugstores were closed. The team hid and waited for about 30 minutes. The owner of one pharmacy arrived. They pounced and found that most ot his drugs were either out of date, illegal or sub-standard. All shelves were cleared and there was much wailing and knashing of teeth. That day they closed down a few more places, but the message had been taken on board in the area and the Govt. officers had done their job. Jane hopes that they can get the funding to return more often, as the same senario will need to be repeated pretty soon.

Very early the next morning I walked a few km to the local fish market. There were no returning fishing boats as it was the time of the full moon and catching fish is less successful. I watched the moon set in glorious orange colours and at the same time, with the same glorious orange colours, the sun rose. Magic!

After breakfast, with nothing else to do, I took a minibus to the spot nearest the turnoff for the airport. It was a long walk as people usually take taxis, but I revelled in the remoteness and surprise of the locals when they saw this strange mzungu with a small rucsac walk down the road. Eventually, along the perimiter fence, I met John who is in charge of the whole airport. He told me to continue walking and that I would find a kiosk with drinks and food and somewhere to sit. This was about 11am and the sun was hot and I had not bothered to bring along any water. I found the airport, I found a spot of shade, I found all kinds of notices, I found profound silence. What I did not find was a supply of water, a supply of food, a seat or a person to talk to. The notices intrigued me with their dire warnings:

Kigoma Airport Regulations:
Going through gate onto tarmac area: 100,000/- or 1year or both
Parking in front of terminal: 20,000/- or 3years or both
Restricted to Public Areas only: 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
Speed limit 15kph: 20,000/- or 3years or both
"Not allowed to be seen at Airport Area more than 6 o'clock": 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
I am not quite sure why I can get 3 years in prison if I park in front of the entrance, but only one year if I enter a restricted area or am seen at Airport Areas after 6 o'clock.

At about 1.30pm a kind gentleman arrived to open up the airport facilities. He had no idea about if/when there would be 'planes that day, but I could buy some chemically manufactured fruitdrink and a packet of dry biscuits with similar chemicals. He provided me with a chair.

At about 3pm some people arrived and then there was movement and noise. A local Tanzanian 'plane finally arrived at about 4pm and people were processed into a waiting area. Just before the 'plane was to take off, I was told that I could get on. I hastilly paid about 350 US$ cash (cash is a requirement, I was told), was given a boarding pass and was pushed through the security. My knife showed up and I was told that it would be given to the pilot who duly returned it to me after the 3-hour flight. Just for the record, when I flew out of Dar on Ethiopian Airways, I had forgotten that I had a whole handful of steel medical dissecting tools in my rucsac which I was going to leave in transit in Addis Ababa. I asked them to please do as the Tanzanian airline had done, and to give them to the pilot. This was graciously agreed to and, while fastening my seat-belt before takeoff, a sewardess came to me and handed back all these incredibly shartp knives, blades, scissors, tweezers and other diverse objects which could cause mayhem in the hands of a few 'terrorists'.

Back on that small 'plane I realised that I had fallen victim to a robbery. What a clever scam! There were plenty of empty seats. But this way, I had not been issued with a ticket, my name had not been recorded and I might as well not have boarded that flight.

Back late that night in Dar, I walked the streets and felt the need to be careful. But there was no need, although it did remind me of the time in the 1960s when I lived in Johannesburg's Hillbrow area. Today it is notorious for being one of the most dangerous places in South Africa. Then it was a mixed area of great charm, although not of the safest. It was about 4am and I was walking to my flat from the nearby airport terminal when a man approached me from ahead. He asked if I knew where the local hospital was. I told him that he was walking in the right direction and he thanked me, saying that he had been stabbed and wanted the knife removed. As he walked away I saw the knife protruding from his back....

Bagamoyo, 11/2 hours' travel north of Dar, used to be the main town on that part of the East African coast. All expeditions to the hinterland finally went through this town although the main port of exit was Stone Town on Zanzibar. This has always puzzled me as the latter is on an island 50 miles (80 km) away and one still has to cross water to get to the mainland. However, Bagamoyo was marginalised in 1891 when a rail-head was created at the new port and capital city of Dar es Salaam. So why visit this town? No reason. It is dusty and neglected with German-era colonial buildings in disrepair. There is no real industry and the fish-market seems very lack-lustre. It reminds me of a village in Greece in which I once spent some time. This was in 1964 and the little village of Monomvasia on an island off the eastern Peloponese coast, was a totally deserted place apart from one American artist and his wife who lived in a refurbished house. One approached it via a bridge, but the economic situation was such that locals could not make a living and the children had emigrated. I lived in a deserted lighthouse on the far side and could walk about naked and snorkel to my heart's delight. Today I am sure that it is a thriving town. Bagamoyo needs to reach that stage and currently struggles with a few rough art galleries which reflect its main claim to fame; the local Art College.

Walking from the Bagamoyo bus station towards the hotel which I had chosen from my guidebook, I passed a man repairing bicycles under a tree. Yes, it was unusual, but he could rent me a bike for 24 hours. Just then a man on a bike came past. John could speak English and was willing to help me find my way. My choice of hotel turned out to be very expensive and John knew of another one nearby which was a third of the price with exactly the same facilities. This is where one's reliance on locals really pays off! As John was on a borrowed bike and had some classes to attend to (he is a teacher), we arranged to hire a bike for him for the afternoon. I spent three hours cycling alone around the town and came to the conclusion that it is really not worth a visit although there were defamed Information Boards outside the old buildings which could give some idea of what a bustling and important town it had once been. John and I met up and cycled out of town to the Holy Ghost Catholic Mission. It has a very good museum about the area, its industries and of course, the 19th century Expeditions which caught the imagination of those people at home who were unable to face the unknown of Darkest Africa. White men who came to Africa were either Missionaries, Explorers or Traders. Unlike Africans who only walk when they are going somewhere specific, these strangers walked in circles for no certain purpose. The word Mzungu is Kiswahili and it comes from the meaning 'walking in circles'.

The thing that the Mission is famous for, is the chapel where Livingstone's body was laid before being taken to Zanzibar en route to London. His two faithful servants, only one of whom could be regarded as truly converted to Christianity (what a waste of energy for all those years of deprivation in the bush!), had carried his dessicated body from a village in what is now Zambia to this town. It now lies buried in an honourable space in the nave of Westminster Abbey. And Stanley, having initially been recruited to find Livingstone, went on to do many mysteriously unacceptable things in Africa.

Being stubborn, I did not want to return to Dar es Salaam and to then travel north-east to the Usambara Mountains on the accepted route and tarred road. Why not cut straight west and join the main road there? A daladala was going to the village at the cross-roads, I was told. By the time we came to a stop, it was still 40km from the main road and the driver told me that he was not going further. I was laughingly told that he had a girlfriend in the village. One over-full truck with no room for me (my desperate plea of 'there is always room for one more!' went unheaded) passed and after 30 minutes of no traffic and a setting sun and nowhere to stay, I accepted the offer of a ride on a motorcycle. We only came off once on that dreadfully uneaven road and the driver skillfully managed to keep the bike upright! I scrambled up the slope, he manouvered it through the grass onto the road and we set off again with a nervous giggle. At last, in the dark, we arrived at a place where there is a tar road, shops/eating places and a mangy hotel/guest house but is more likely, a brothel.

The next morning was very frustrating as all the overfull daladalas and buses from Dar rushed past. We were too close to the city for any passengers to disembark and they would not even stop for a mzungu when the conductor was already hanging out of the door. Kind souls did eventually flag down a bus for me and it was only after I was squeezed in that I realised that they were demanding money. But by then we were already moving and I could not reach my purse.

Another bus-change and we were off the tourist road to Arusha and into the Usambara Mountains. It is always a great pleasure to enter mountainous country and I was very pleased to know that I would be walking amongst this range of unspoilt fertile hills and valleys for the next few days.

In the town of Lushoto, there are two rival Eco/Cultural Tour organisations. Rivalry is fierce, but the Guide I chose had the best English I could hear and helped me find a good hotel (no doubt to receive the usual commission). It might be unfair on the other Guides, but it may also just make a point. Said understood this and a few days later, we discussed the profession of Guiding and he could readily understand what I was talking about. We had often 'bumped into' and spent two nights together with a delightful, erudite and unprejudiced Israeli tourist called Guy who had a Guide from the rival outfit. The latter could hardly speak a word of English and Guy was quite frustrated to hear Said and I endlessly talking whilst walking.

We discussed the plants and trees and he took me through various farm lands (the area is famous for its potatoes grown in the valleys), to spectacular viewpoints with Kilimanjaro in the distance, a local village market, to watch the sun set, to eat farm-produced cheese and bread with salads (to die for after a diet of local foods for so long!), to a woman's co-operative pottery and so on. At the latter place, despite the good demonstration of pot-making for which they are paid, Guy and I both refused to buy badly-made clay animals which the children were trying to sell us at exhorbitant prices. Said did not think he could modify this behaviour because most tourists just feel sorry for them and happily pay over the odds. Thus the image of mzumgus being money-suppliers for rubbish continues....

During the first day, Said showed me a chameleon in a bush. Although I had had one as a brief 'pet' many years ago, I knew nothing about them. They are very territorial, extremely difficult to spot because of their rapid camouphlage colour-change and will always be found alone unless they are briefly mating. The bushes have to be quite open and airy, of a certain kind and not close to places where insects will not breed. So a continuous 'chameleon-hunt' took place. After four days we had spotted 32! Well, I had spotted only one......

One day we met a young Masai medicine man. He and Said happily chatted and I asked for a translation of his list of diseases and prices for the cures he carried with him. On the flip side of the list was printed the names in English: Diabetes and Epilepsy cures cost about 7,000/- in Kiswahili, but 85,000/- in English for the same miraculous three-day courses of medicine! This man is one of the many who ride on busses for certain distances and then happily tell his captive audience about his cures or other wonderful potions. I marvel at the volume of sales thus generated.

Days in the mountains came to an end I needed to return to England for a while.

The joy of an overnight flight transit in Addis meant meeting up with friends and eating 'Western foods' in the Hilton Hotel, which I had avoided as much as possible during my travels. The rot set in...

There is Magic in the Air

2007-09-06T09:37:00.000-07:00

July/August 2007 (Zanzibar and Pemba)

HILDA IN A DHOW

THERE IS MAGIC IN THE AIR

Comparing the three main East African Muslim towns I have visit during this trip, I can understand why I never felt comfortable with Harar in Ethiopia. Although this walled city has 100 mosques, most of them are hidden within private dwellings. The locals indulge in chewing chat to a very large extent and the sides of streets are full of semi-comatose men (in other Muslim towns in Ethiopia I also realised that it becomes a habit to work until lunch-time and then, after lunch, to begin chewing, so that not much work is done in the afternoons). And what I cannot forgive the locals for in Harar, is the fact that the best coffee in the world, which comes from the area around Harar, is being extinguished because the production of chat is more profitable. Well, we should pay more for our coffee, is the answer.

Lamu is charming with its narrow streets and fat donkeys. Nothing much happens and the tourists are tolerated and exploited, the sea is wonderful, but the soul is missing.

Stone Town is the only big town in Zanzibar and was named thus when it was built by the Omani invaders/traders. Coral stones rather than the usual wood and mud of the local’s homes was used. I saw a sketch of 1980 which is done from the east side of town. The Anglican Cathedral which was built on the area used for the recently prohibited slave trade dominates the skyline. In front of it is a creek with boats, thus showing how the original town was built on an island. Today Creek street is a busy two-lane road and mzungus hardly ever venture beyond. The narrow streets are slightly wider than those of Lamu and one has to dodge bicycles, scooters and motorbikes instead of donkeys. There are 53 mosques and many of them are large and impressive. The locals are incredibly friendly and 'Jambo' is a constant call. One feels completely safe and can walk the lanes at any time of the day or night. The fact that the Maasai are here in force in the numerous TTs (tourist traps), adds colour to the streets. Friendliness abounds. And one is soon sucked into the magic…

Bliss, Bliss, Bliss....endless murders, killings, shootings, suicide, torture, rapes, child abuse, wife abuse, sex by the bucket-load, kissing, singing, dancing and all kinds of other human emotions and actions. All this within ten days!! What is happening in Africa? you may ask. But this was not restricted to Africa alone. Global exposure at the 10th annual Zanzibar Film Festival left me reeling. From 9am 'till 11pm at night, I could indulge to my heart's content. This is what I will do in future, I have decided; go to Film Festivals and just sit and watch.... Bliss.

With a season's pass and about 100 films to choose from, you can imagine my delight. Well, sometimes the films did not turn up, or the DVD was not compatible/restricted, or the film disk broke down and you never saw the end, or the film started before the time advertised (even if there was no audience!), or there was no announcement about change in programme, or the order of showing was altered, or ....you get the picture. After 10 years one would expect a bit of efficiency, but TIA. I spoke to a lady who had tried to train the chap in charge of the DVD player last year. For example she had told him to wait until the advertised time before he started a film. But he is now in charge and his African power meant that he could do as he pleased. We just quietly pulled our hair out.

Having said that, we did view most of the stuff and it was a great joy to see what is happening all over the film world. Although the theme was Dreams and Water, it was not really adhered to and more attention was placed on the Slave Trade anniversary celebrations. The Danish film industry is remarkably advanced in child-orientated films (25% of the Govt. subsidy for films has to be for children) and they were a revelation. I marveled at how directors elicited acting from such young people, but also wondered to what extent child actors can be affected by the stuff they have to do when asked to portray horrific scenes/emotions. Good films from various countries about the problems faced by refugees/immigrants emphasized so much heartlessness and prejudice in our society. A stark film about child gangs in Kibera (Nairobi--largest slum in Africa) reminded me of the happy day we spent there. Discussions afterwards could be hi-jacked by the strident Afro-Americans who would not give an inch to reason or forgiveness 200 years after slavery ended. How much longer has one to carry a chip on a shoulder? On the other hand, the South African films were wonderfully forgiving or evocatively made. No excuses, but reality did not elicit justifications/anger/unforgiveness. One of my favourites was a year in the life of a white beggar in the streets of Johannesburg. The outside world does not always accept that this kind of situation exists in SA. Also very moving and inspiring is a film about the street sweepers of JHB. Every night these courageous women come out to sweep the unspeakably dirty streets and to face muggings and shootings. As one of them said; "There was more discipline during Apartheid and people did not just throw stuff into the streets like now". My arrogant prejudices against Bollywood films was laid to rest by two stories which had no mad music and dancing or endless colourful kisses. I look forward to seeing more of them.

African-produced films are mature and well-made. It is a market with potentially vast audiences and the variety and content was truly inspiring. A few films were about Rap or Hip Hop and one can see the incredible influence these artists have over their audiences. Can protest ever be snuffed out when such a strong tool is available? Being a young industry, it is good to know that there is much collecting and archive recording of African-made films. I salute them!

I sent this version of my impressions of ZIFF to a friend involved in the film world. He wrote: It sounds excellent and slightly hilarious. There’s a beautiful charm to its shambolic nature and it is actually refreshing in comparison to the arrogant slickness of the western film world which I hate.

The Magic of Zanzibar continued (or it just shows how popular this island is):

Because I often seem to not receive emails sent to me, this time I missed an important one. A friend from Lalibela in Ethiopia had emailed to ask where in Africa I was, as she and her Ethiopian husband were going to Tanzania for a holiday. We might just be able to meet up. Thus, with no knowledge of the fact that she was even in Tanzania, I was dashing through the museum to see a film when I saw a faintly familiar figure. After a double-take, I returned and saw it was her! What are the chances of meeting like that? (small world) We had some good times together in Stone Town and on a beach on the East Coast. Travelling back through the only natural forest on the island, I watched one of the very rare Red Colobus monkeys cross the road in front of our vehicle. Magic!

A friend from London was going to South Africa and wanted information. I emailed Karin in SA and her response was full of good advice and a postscript; ‘By the way, do not come to visit me in July as we will be on holiday in Zanzibar’ (small world). We met up in Stone Town and later Judi and I spent 4 nights in a delightful spot on the East Coast near the house which Karin, family and friends had rented and where we could eat and snorkel together.

I befriended a girl in Uganda who had wanted to climb the volcano I had told her about. Totally by chance, we met up here when she was studying Swahili (small world)

When I was in Kampala, I met the other teachers who lived in the compound where Ben stayed. We often had meals together and the boys were drinking companions. I was dashing to a beach to catch the sunset one evening when I heard “Hilda”! Looking back, the two attractive males out of context baffled me a bit. But we were soon swapping news. They are Ben’s co-teachers who were in Z. for a few days (small world).
During ZIFF, I befriended a long-term African resident who has retired to Nairobi with her similarly academic husband. They really do understand Africa, have known Cynthia for years (small world) and can relax with the pace of life. One of Annetta’s hobbies is to collect African sayings. She has a collection of 60,000! I find this quite staggering, but then I remember a conversation I once could not but listen to. It was in Uganda and three very well-dressed Ugandans were talking in English next to my table. This is a very common occurrence in Uganda where English has been the main language of schooling since Independence. However, the Govt. has decided to go back to local languages in Primary Schools because they are being lost by today’s children. This animated conversation between friends was memorable because every sentence was punctuated with a saying or two to emphasize whatever they were trying to convey. And as a non-speaker, this is how I imagine all conversations, whether in English or the local language, are conducted in Africa. What a lovely way to say something! To confirm my theory, the BBC World Service for Africa starts its daily programme with a saying from an African country sent in by listeners.

Talking of slogans: Kangas, those gaily-patterned cotton squares worn around the waist with very often a matching one draped across the shoulders or around the head, all have a Kiswahili slogan printed on them. Any Kiswahili-speaking person next to me is inevitably prodded to ask a woman wearing one to twirl around so that it can be read and then translated for me. The sayings are endless and very varied. Mine, given to me by Beatrice with whom I stayed in Arusha, says
The beautiful ones will not survive. Learn to say no… (this is an anti-Aids Kanga) others, too numerous to list, say for example
The condition of the world needs toleration…
We are neighbours; we do not disturb each other…
Human beings are incomplete
God! Give me patience
Although you are self-sufficient, you can rely on your parents
Where can I plant a banana tree and get rid of bush-babies? (They live in all b. groves)
Today is a happy day…
Despite having nothing, I do not despair
Thank you very much…
In the Zanzibar museum, there is a Christmas Kanga with fir trees and Father Xmas…

Judi is from Australia. We met in London over 4 years ago and had planned to meet in Malawi for a two-day boat ride on the lake. She was to continue northwards and I was to continue southwards. As time became more flexible, we decided to meet in Zanzibar and she too was instantly under its spell. After nearly three weeks (instead of two days), she dragged herself off to Arusha by ‘plane to save on the time lost. On the Lake Malawi boat she had met a South Africa who was slowly moving to Zanzibar where he was to celebrate his 60th birthday with friends who were flying in from all over the world. Chris had given her the date of the party, but as Judi thought she would have left Z. long before that, she did not make arrangements. We bumped into Chris on his birthday… (small world). That night the party presented an amazing meal of local foods!

I had saved the touristy things to be done with Judi, so we
· got a boat to nearby Prison Island for snorkeling and to see the largest tortoises outside the Galapagos Islands
· joined a Spice Tour which is excellent value and extremely informative. I went again another day to remember all the things we were told about and tasted
· hired bicycles to ride to ruins and a beach south of town
· stayed in two bungalows for 4 nights on the east coast where we could walk for miles on snow-white coral sand, go on boat rides to snorkel amongst the fabulous coral/fishes and swim amongst the dolphins
· walked endlessly amongst the shops and markets
· often ate supper on the beachfront at Forodhani Gardens where it is prepared for you over charcoal fires
· had numerous meals and coffees in many cafes/restaurants all over town
· visited the interesting museums housed in Arab Palaces
· just sat on the beach and watched the sun set over the sea
· had a beer/coffee at Mercury’s Bar over the beach and watched football being played on the ever-widening pitch as the sea retreated at low tide and the sun set
· constantly bumped into and had meals/drinks with friends and their friends
· read and swapped books
· sat in the open arena of the Old Fort (originally Portuguese) where there are the usual TTs as well as a restaurant to indulge in while watching life pass by or one can listen to the loud music performers from all over Africa on the stage where the main Film Festival films were shown at night
· finally, one cannot forget the breakfasts at our hotel where endless hot drinks, fruit and bread were complimented by eat-as-much-as-you-can pancakes! And conversation with fellow-travelers and ex-Volunteers went on into the day and resumed into the night on the balcony.

That is a list of the activities in Zanzibar which I can remember. Otherwise, time just passed magically and days easily merged.

Freddie Mercury seems to be the only famous person to have been born in Zanzibar although there is much to see and hear about people like the Omani Sultans and Colonialists and of course those intrepid 19th century missionaries or explorers like Livingstone and Stanley. If a café, restaurant or house can be named after a famous person associated with the island, it is.

Some of my impressions on Zanzibar:

Endless shops and displays of Maasai stuff being sold by these ‘invaders’ who originally lived thousands of kilometers away and have nothing to do with the sea.
The wonderfully varied supply of fresh fruits available. There are apparently 30 varieties of banana (I even bought pink ones) on the Island and they even imported some until recently. A disease called ‘banana wilt’ has spread and must be contained. Apart from this sexual image…. I think many visitors from Europe are not aware of more than the usual large Geest or Fyffe’s types which travel so well.
T-shirts being sold with MZUNGU on the front. This subtle joke reminds me of the slogan on T-shirts being sold in London: My mother went to London and all she brought me is this lousy T-shirt.
Being told to “SIT!” by a female guard when I innocently ‘strayed’ near the gates of an official–looking building (I assumed that the large canons facing me were rather too old to fire) and asked what the building was. She could not say more in English and no matter how much I tried to explain that I was only a silly old mzungu on a bicycle and “can I go now?” her only answer was “SIT!” Whilst she furiously tapped into her mobile ‘phone, I finally resigned myself to start re-reading a book I had not touched for many years. Mr. Darcy had just entered the district to Mrs. Bennett’s delight, when my friendly guard finally told me “GO!”. Perhaps she had not had the sheltered background of the Bennett girls. They say that brutalization easily happens and I can well understand why the total confusion of having this white-skin suddenly appear on a bicycle in a remote area would have made her very suspicious.
At another vast official-looking mansion along the coast, I was courteously told by the guard that it had been build for the President when the Island was independent. Now only the Tanzanian President’s mother lives there. And many of her hanger-on, I assumed. I cannot imagine anybody in Africa living in such isolated splendour. Generally one is fortunate to be able to sleep in a girls-only or boys-only room, which also of course implies one bed or floor to share.
Seeing four little girls happily playing in stretchy track-suit bottoms. Children all over Africa really do do the same things like children from all over the world... although the football might not be made from many plastic bags and string. These girls had stuffed a lot of old clothes into the ‘bottom’ parts of the tracksuits and they looked grotesquely like those stick-figures with elaborately emphasized bottoms one sees in tourist pictures. They were prancing about and imitating the bottoms they would no doubt have within 20 years. And boy, do those mature women use them effectively in dances!!! In my hotel I recently had a sudden view of my naked body (not something I ever willingly do) and realized that I had lost my bottom! Being in a country of wonderfully sensuous and ample female bottoms, it looks decidedly scrawny and must give rise to comment by the local lads.
The sadly neglected outside of buildings. Once they are built and painted white, not many are kept in good condition and the walls are very soon a dull grey mould which emits an atmosphere of neglect. Nowhere is this more apparent than on the outside walls of the rows of ten six-story-high soulless blocks of apartments built beyond Creek Road by the East Germans during the Socialist era when the West was in competition with the East for a foothold in East Africa. The Cold War. The Americans built a school and the East Germans housed 150,000 people. But Africans are used to sweeping their outside compound and not to live up stairs in cramped rooms. This is not easily accepted. Soon an ingenious system of pulleys with baskets for the daily shopping was erected outside the windows (as seen in the Arab Stone Town), and, as the concept of an indoor kitchen is unknown to most, the walls were punched through to allow air to escape from the charcoal burners being used on the floor.
Being told by a retired ‘Doctor’ who is now running an Internet café that there are 130 hospitals/clinics on the Island and that he is part of a team of 4 who regularly and unexpectedly inspect them. If medics are seen to re-use disposable gloves or enter false information, the hospital or clinic can be closed down. But all too often a bribe is all that is needed to ensure continued dangerous practices. Later I was told by another resident here that my ‘Doctor’ was only a minor health official.
This love of the importance of titles is also reflected in my unsuccessful attempt to get fish to dissect. When the dhows arrive in the morning to sell their overnight catch in the unbelievably chaotic but functioning fish-market, the fish are already dead. I was explaining my ‘mission’ to a gentleman by the beach when he confidently promised to let me go on one of his boats so that I could obtain the fish whilst alive. These promises went on during all the time I was in Stone Town and he was constantly full of excuses but also new promises. He sought me out and would then disappear. I was finally given the reason by someone else: no mzungus are allowed on dhows. Fair enough; but he had had his ego’s worth from me. Despite my initial protestations that he has misunderstood my explanation, he constantly addressed me and introduced me to people as Professor.
Exploring evocative ruins of the buildings erected by UMCA (the Universities Mission to Central Africa) for the education and training of freed slaves. The little church is still actively used and the grandson of a freed slave can take one about and show the graves of ex-slaves as well as of those dedicated men and women who succumbed to their harsh lives in Africa. Around the ruins are trees and palms which would gladden the heart of any tree-lover. Faded/broken/misplaced/misnamed/missing tags and storyboards describe (or not) the name and origin of the plants. I have never seen such a profusion of different types of palm trees/cycads and was very happy to be introduced to the tree that produces ylang-ylang perfume. That is supposed to be my personal scent and who am I to argue with the experts?
At many of the ruins or restored buildings I visited on the island, one is aware of the limitations placed on the architect; whether for a modest classroom or for Sultanate baths for the Harem… This restriction is the height of the mangrove tree. The poles from these trees are ideal building aids because they do not encourage termites and can thus last ‘forever’. But the width of the room is determined by the length of the ceiling-pole: about 3 meters. Although one constantly reads and hears about the transfer to Arab countries of ivory, spices and slaves, the export of mangrove poles for buildings in the desert was a very large element of trade in these parts.
On the way to the airport are large Ambassadorial mansions dotted amongst the homes of the rich. They were necessary once upon a time when the Archipelago was independent. Today there is still a longing in the population for this ‘lost’ freedom. One has to have a passport stamped to enter, even from Dar. Maybe the Opposition to integration with Tanzania will one day require those buildings to be properly occupied again. Locals resent having to pay for the maintenance of the mainland because they make so much from tourism and they recon that a large percentage of their taxes are never re-invested in the islands. True, they get electricity from the mainland, but they pay for it in any case and argue that they can produce it themselves if necessary. Fiscal and military elements will have to be sorted out, but the enthusiastic opposition says ‘Hakuna Matata’ whilst the conservative doubters say, ‘It is impossible’. I say it depends on what the International Community wants to achieve.
If you are very thirsty in Tanzania and long for an ice-cold coca cola, forget about asking for it! They look at you blankly. But say that you want a ‘soda’ and a coke will miraculously appear!
Very early in the morning the fish market in Stone Town is bustling with the usual totally confusing but ultimately efficient distribution of the day’s catch. Hundreds of large oblong fish wicker baskets are fixed to bicycles and held upright with a forked stick when being loaded. Soon the owners pedal off to resell their wares.
The endless discussions at the breakfast table with interesting people were a great delight. I had a chance to soften my attitude about NGO workers as they are so serious about their missions that one cannot say “Do you really think your time here would have made a difference in the long run?” Only those students who felt they had been exploited by the companies ‘back home’ were emphatically saying ‘NO!’ On the other hand, I admire the young students who are doing real research to help with eradicating malaria, or other diseases or testing drugs safely. Sadly, on the island of Pemba, every house is currently sprayed twice a year and the prevalence of malaria has diminished. This is being funded by an International Drug Company which will be pulling out after a few more years. What then? The Government will not be able to continue funding the spraying, the young children would not have been exposed to mosquito bites and thus not built up immunities and the mosquitoes will very soon multiply… Other self-satisfied “I had such FUN!!” remarks were not followed by me saying,”but do you not think that your three weeks of fun actually disturbed the pace of life and/or expectations of these kids?” or some such sarcastic remark. I just marveled at for example the need for Gender Issues to cost so much hard-saved money. Just for the record, there were no permanent aid workers or UN employees in our modest Hotel. Their salaries are far too good and they are used to living in protected compounds or luxury hotels. Every idealistic NGO worker wants to work for the UN (the ‘salaries are so good’ they say) and I dig deeper into my prejudices. Ingrid just says “You are opinionated, mum”.
Early one morning we were disturbed in the Hotel by loud arguing. I never got to the bottom of it, but it seems that an Inspector from the Tax Office had arrived and was demanding to knock on all our doors to see how many people were sleeping in them. The staff refused and she became aggressive and finally demanded a fine of US$ 5000. As we (10-20 guests) paid about 15-20 $ each per night, it would have been a sizeable ‘tax’. They went to the office and all was sweetness and light that evening. “We did not pay” was the answer to my question.
I make no excuses for my prejudiced revulsion when looking at the tourists on the beaches of Nungwe and Kenwa (and this can also be seen at other beaches), walking amongst the mainly Muslim fishermen and boat builders in the skimpiest of ‘swimwear’. These often bloated white skins seem to have an utter contempt for local feelings. I could not but laugh when watching men with tight bathing costumes wearing a flapping bum-bag over their crotches! Or the rotund man entering the sea with a thick cigar clenched between his teeth.
Wondering what on earth the Guest House owners do with all the money they receive when normal life is so cheap for them. They always say that you are being offered the last room and that is why it is so expensive. But a few minutes later one can hear the same mantra being told to the next potential guest.
Watching the workers on the coral shelf above the beach where they are building yet another resort (all water to be pumped from a nearby borehole which serves the village and where tourist beds have multiplied from 90, 10 years ago, to 4000+ today) steal petrol from the large digger in front of the totally unaware tourists. They drained it out of the machine into plastic cans and then hastily ran off with the spoils.
When a local mzungu couple who arrange fishing trips decided to ‘clean-up’ their village with the help of children, ministerial speeches and newly placed trash-cans, they were soon disillusioned. Streets were instantly dirty again, the trash-cans were removed (“they got dirty”) and the couple were told to go back to their own country if they did not accept the dirt and pollution.
On the beach area in Stone Town where most Tourists pass, is the newly painted Tourist Information Office. I entered and the staff of three gave the usual friendly ‘Jambo’ greeting. I looked around and then asked, “How long have you been here in this office?”
9 o’clock.
“No, I mean when did this office open here?”
9 o’clock
“No, I want to know how many years this office has been here.”
9 o’clock
After trying further variations on this theme, I gave up and left. English can be a very complicated language! As most visitors speak English……and Zanzibar relies on tourism as its main income, it needs to enter the 21st Century.

To have a change, I went to PEMBA ISLAND for a few days. Here they have hardly heard of the 20th Century.

This island is just to the north of Zanzibar. It is about the same size, but geologically quite different: hilly with mostly mangrove shores (no good for swimming) and only small local villages with a few tarred roads and otherwise mainly covered in clove trees. The latter is what it is famous for (Zanzibar lost its trees in a hurricane in the 1970s and never tried to replant). Both islands with the hundreds of small ones dotted around them were part of the independent state of Zanzibar before being incorporated into Tanzania.

The overnight ferry was very comfortable, if one has a bed booked, as I did. Otherwise it was the usual unbelievably crowded boat with bodies and bundles everywhere.

The two islands are justifiably famed for their spices, although the only industry today is cloves and other spices are imported and sold to tourists in attractive packaging. Both islands have 'Spice Tours' in which one can see the various plants which are only there for the tourists. But so what? At least I can now describe how turmeric or cardamom is grown and how one gets the six different coloured peppers from one pod or how complicated it is to release a nutmeg from its protective cover....

My stay on the island was centered on a smallish town, Wete, to the north where there was a very comfortable guest house. I took various trips from there by local transport/driver-guide or rented a car:
I used a local young man in Wete with whom to walk about town in exchange for the chance to practice English and have some lessons. This I always find a very good way to stay safe, have a translator and find out things one misses as a lone tourist. The sad thing is that they are generally not always motivated to do anything on their own. Despite my pleading to just read anything in English aloud, it is never done. There is no understanding of what advertisements are about and the contents of one is as easily read as the index to a book, without grasping the difference between them. My young man could happily show me a Pemba Fox (large bats), but if we were in the middle of an English lesson and the call to prayer is heard, he would jump up without a thought and dash off to pray.
Guides in the small remaining natural forest, like so many African Guides trained by NGOs, are very Latin-name-friendly. Although they might not know the common name or properties of a tree or plant, their incredible language skills means that they have a remarkable ability to remember the most obscure Latin plant names.
At a lighthouse on the northernmost tip, the guide could only rabbit off a synopsis of its very interesting history. He could speak neither English nor French, but he had learnt ten-minute explanations off by heart. The French couple with me tried to hear it in French, but they said that they could not understand a word either. The guide could certainly not answer any questions in either language although he happily knew how to charge us for the ascent and then ask for a tip afterwards... I say this only because it reflects the unsophisticated nature of the island which was cut off from tourism for years because of fear of political opposition, where illiteracy is 90%+, where only rich tourists usually go to stay in the few self-contained luxury ‘Lodges’ reached by ‘plane or where English is never heard, so practice is impossible. This is a prejudiced view and there certainly were tourists about and one or two places to stay, although none, apart from my quiet guesthouse, had clients in Wete while I was there.
I looked in depth at the farming of rice which is common in all low-lying places. Men and women both do the hard work and the fields are well-made with walls and drainage outlets. It is being harvested at present and the women have small knives in their palms with which they individually cut off each head of rice. No scythes as in the Far East. One has to have great respect for these time-consuming activities.
Went on a Spice Tour, which was on a small farm where various varieties of spices have been grown for demonstration only. The farmer showed me around and that was it. This is in great contrast to the sophisticated day-long Spice Tours of Zanzibar where dozens of minivans ferry their visitors all over the place and one is not only shown interesting ruins (and a large cave by the sea where slaves were smuggled from after prohibition), but also fed handsomely with spiced foods, all kinds of fruit and fresh coconuts. These Tours also include swimming on an isolated beach. It is one of the main incomes for Zanzibar Tour Agents and the competition is fierce.
The Rubber Industry is Govt. owned and was being run by well-trained staff. I wondered if the isolation of this Island and lack of dependence on tourists has had anything to do with its efficiency. There is talk of getting new equipment which will take the backbreaking job of squeezing water out of sheets of rubber, away from the workers. I was assured they would get jobs collecting rubber from the weeping trees with sliced bark, instead. Flat pieces of raw rubber, the size of the average computer screen, are hung outside to dry like so many small nappies (diapers). They are finally dried in smoke-houses and then the browned pieces are collected into 100k bundles which are interestingly stuck together with the power of their own properties. A fellow-tourist asked the rubber processing boss what the wages for those people who collect fresh milky rubber from the trees, is. "3 US$ per day" was the reply. That sounds low, but reasonable for Africa, I thought. I asked, "What time do they start to work?" "6am", he replied. "And finish?" I persisted. "9 o'clock". “In the evening!!?” “No.” "You mean they work for 3 hours a day?" "Yes."
Well, I reason, this is not too bad, as it leaves them free for the rest of the day to work in their shambas (farms). I can just imagine a do-gooding Westerner pulling hair out at the thought of such a 'low' wage! But a bonus of 3$ a day and still having all the daylight available for farm-work cannot be sneezed at.
· The understanding (or lack of understanding) of rules of behaviour imposed by Western standards is also demonstrated by my visit to a spaghetti 'factory' in Wete. I was fascinated to find it beside the road. There is a large, ramshackle, dirty shed in which the pasta is being shaped. Electric machines are fed flat sheets of pasta which come out the other side in strands of spaghetti. A barefooted man sits at the pasta outlet, gathers the strands together and whips them off at a certain length to put them on a rickety, square, wooden frame for drying. Outside, in the dusty overgrown open area next to the shed, the pasta is placed to dry in the sun on old and ragged trays. Barefooted men walk back and forth with these drying trays past goats, passing cars and dusty playing children. I asked if I could enter the shed to see the machinery. 'Take off your shoes', was shouted at me. They remembered from distant 'Health and Safety' rules and factory hygiene regulations that dirty shoes were not allowed into the building. However, bare feet, no matter where they have been, are acceptable.
There are occasional Daladalas on the roads and one pays for the ride at the end of the trip. I was with a French couple and, although I held out my 1000/- note for my fare, it was refused. The conductor (utingo) demanded that the man pay for all of us. I desperately tried to show that I was independent of them and only solved the problem when I gave Patrick the money and he then passed it on to the conductor. Similar customs are ingrained in a community where lack of contact with the outside world is still very prevalent. After the Revolution when there was a possibility that Pemba would harbour dissidents and they would call for Zanzibari Independence, the island was totally banned to outsiders. So the literacy rate became non-existent and it is difficult to find English speakers today, six years after it was opened to tourists. Most of the people are Muslims and I loved looking at the stately women in their black garb with intricate beading always showing as it billowed or the young girls exposing their jeans below.
With no idea of what I was about, a man was expensively (10 US$) ‘employed’ to go out and catch me some fish for my research for two hours. He gathered a bucket and finally poled off into the sea after about ½ an hour. Back ½ an hour later with 4 small fishes, my protestations for more fish were to no avail. He had done his job and there is no way I could impose Western value-for-hours-worked onto him! That night I ate the most expensive fish ever caught on Pemba: Two mouthfuls. But the word was out and a man approached me with a bucket in which he had placed various pieces of coral, seaweed, a sea urchin and the most beautiful small, dark blue tropical fish. I was horrified and told him that I did not want to buy it at any cost and that he must return it to the sea. He was very cross. Obviously, mad mzungus would love to carry a bucket with a fish in it onto a ‘plane.
Something which made me want to cry, was visiting the fish markets. There, amongst the abundant catches of 'ordinary' fish, were endless samples of the most beautiful and varied tropical sea animals. The colours shapes and sizes are what makes snorkeling/scuba diving so very rewarding. Yet here the life of the coral, so endangered by over-fishing and warming seas, is being denuded for the sake of a small, tasteless bite of a beautiful animal. And in tourist areas, the harvesting of shells so fondly bought as souvenirs has caused these sea urchin-eating snails to disappear with the result that the very large black-spiked urchins are now infesting all the coral and making life dangerous for viewing as well as denuding the coral of life. Thank goodness there are a few Marine Parks, but even these have to be constantly monitored against dynamite wielding poachers who willfully destroy the coral for a few fish. This sadness about the fishing of tropical fish off the coast was exaggerated when I went to a village on the north-east coast where the boats came in after a night’s fishing. The most beautiful fish, eels, sharks, rays, octopus and crustaceous animals were being offloaded. While sailing back to the village, the fishermen had strung the catch into different types/sizes/quantities. Small boys would dash to an approaching boat, gather one of these bundles and drag this catch through the water and deposit it on the sand of the beach where an Auctioneer would start the bidding. In no time a group of buyers would gather and the swift calling of prices reminded me so much of the cattle and sheep market we always go to in Yorkshire. It is also reminiscent of the total confusion for a stranger of
any open financial commodities market in the City of London. But no paper is involved. The large group soon moves off and one can remember the action which has been playing off in front of one. The buyer brings out the money and gives it to the auctioneer; no doubt the auctioneer takes a cut; the fisherman is paid; the little boy is paid; the boy who cleans/scales/guts the fish is paid; the boy taking it to the basket is paid; the new owner mounts his bike with the oblong basket on the back and cycles off. And I am left heartbroken to see such wonderfully coloured and shaped fish treated like so many bites to eat. How dare I be so sentimental!!! Of course the locals who need to eat do not realize that their ever-increasingly difficult need to live is killing off the things which might bring big fat mzungus with lots of dollars to their shores.
Cloves are the main economic product on Pemba. Most of the island is covered in tall evergreen trees where the clusters of buds on the ends of branches are picked in December. Apparently the tree is pulled together into a ‘sausage’ with a rope and people can then mount ladders for the picking. I was told that there are very many nasty accidents every year. There is no insurance either. Many of the trees are privately owned, but the Government insists that all the crops have to be sold to it. This pays about a third of the market value and one is not surprised to hear of smuggling to nearby Mombasa in Kenya. We had to pass many road-blocks in the north for the obvious reasons. Punishment with automatic imprisonment is very severe if a smuggler is caught.
However, I did visit a Clove Oil Distillery which seems to be totally independent and sports the most expensive and sophisticated technology I have ever seen (courtesy of a Dutch company). Here one can see how either the buds or stalks (less oil) are steamed to extract the distilled oil. They also make eucalyptus leaf oil from the small forests of these imported Australian trees. Most of the oil is exported all over the world. Remember, when you have a toothache or muscle sprain, to use clove oil!
Tourism is so new that there is a real problem with perception. Some very exclusive Tourist Lodges have been built near some of the few acceptable beaches, but the prices are steep (the cheapest I saw was 200 US$ per person for a double room not facing the sea) and the isolated and misunderstood impression the locals get of mzungus is very skewed. I always make a point of trying to tell locals that we actually have beggars and poor people in our countries. The power of film/TV is too strong though and they look at me in amazement and disbelief. They also find it difficult to understand that most holiday-makers have actually been working 9-5 for the rest of the year in order to afford such a holiday.
I left Pemba after a local lunch for 300/- and paid my mzungu price for the fast ferry back: 43,750/- (the locals paid 17,500/- for the same facilities). This difference in price I do not object to and it is standard in most countries where the locals have a smaller entrance fee to museums etc. Ultimately, no matter how much we paid, we were all given the same plastic bags when we approached the rough open seas between the two islands.

How long the magic of the Zanzibari Archipelago would have kept me captive, is debatable. But I had to return to England for a few months and I had three weeks in which to see a bit more of Tanzania....

Did I Say 'Never Again?'

2007-06-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-15T09:03:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-02T08:59:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-06-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Killing not Catching Fish

2007-05-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

March 2006 to May 2007

Dissecting a fish from Lake Bunyoni at Edirisa, Kabale, Uganda.

See link to: http://www.edirisa.org/?blog_start=98&blog_end=105

KILLING NOT CATCHING FISH

Oh! How soon one can become used to anything! And I am not here talking about the torture of human beings, although this may well apply. It is just the little matter of killing live fish. One does not kill dead fish and this is not a tautological mistake on my part. In order to make myself understood in these African countries I am visiting, I have to explain to the catchers of fish, that I want them alive, so that I can kill them.Dead fish are rejected. Live fish are killed. QED.

It all started as I was celebrating my 65th birthday in the mists of a Scottish farm. No fertilizers, organic husbandry, non-organic-food-animals kept until they died of old age, the equivalent of a perpetually hot Aga stove in the kitchen, lots of lovely books to read and fresh air to inhale. I was farm-sitting for friends.Other friends who live nearby had come to visit and I was happily telling them about my proposed trip through Africa. James looked at Alison and Alison looked at James. I know James can be called a 'mad scientist' because he has spent all his adult life looking at fish parasites whilst getting a doctorate, but I did not know quite how hard the bug (oh dear!) had bitten. The outcome of the looks was that, in the UK, there are 21 known and identified fish parasites. In the whole of Africa (you can work out the relative proportion in size), only 2 such parasites have been recorded. Yes, only two!!!! Ehm, this is a challenge..James and his colleague Andy appeared a few days later with a little salmon fingerling and delicately showed me how to cut out the gills and fins. I did not take in all the intricacies of being a super-trained scientist, but was willing to muddle along.

The last year has certainly been a muddle, but I think I am beginning to get the hang of it..The first 'hang' one has to get is to know how to carry large quantities of laboratory alcohol in small and large phials in a rucsac designed to hold enough things for independent living for two years. Then there is the very useful and expensive stainless steel dissecting kit with tweezers, two sizes of blade-holders and endless large and small dangerous replacement blades, scissors, laboratory tape, other mysterious implements, label stickers, pens and plastic bags. Well, we scientists (!) have to be equipped..It is only while I was in Ethiopia that the posting back of the samples began to be difficult. Someone had the bright idea of banning liquid through the post.something to do with high-jacking in the air.

In Agadir, my first stop, I enthusiastically went to the beach and employed boys to catch some rock-pool fish for me. They expertly killed the poor victims and the dissecting and labeling was done! Easy!!

The next fish-dissecting stop was Nouakchott in Mauritania. The Atlantic beach was a good 4km from the town and I had no idea of when the boats come in. By the time I got to the sea, the market had already been closed. All along the beach were hundreds of 'dead' deep freezers. They rusted in the salty air, piled next to each other in untidy heaps amongst rotting and disintegrating boats. But they were actually 'alive'. Each seemingly badly leaking and rusted deepfreeze was filled with ice and fish. These fish would be hauled out when the need arose.usually early the next morning when the market opened. I decided to take a walk along the beach. Bliss! Totally 'deserted' and full of the promise of the desert to come. In the distance I could see a European woman, her guard and two lovely dogs approaching. We exchanged hellos as we passed and a few steps further, both turned back to look at each other and she then spoke and said that I should be careful, as therewere robbers in the dunes. So I turned around and we walked back together. Anne is German and worked for her Embassy. The upshot was that I returned to her home where I was royally entertained with good German fare and looked after for the rest of the day.

After weeks of local dishes and dusty abodes, to come to a 'western' house with marble floors, pets, rows of books and videos, was a luxury! Later, when we went to the very busy fish market, I was already suffering a bit from heat-stroke, so not concentrating very hard. Anne and her servant enthusiastically bought fish with bright eyes and I hurriedly dissected. Later I was gently informed by those who know (mad scientists?) that the gill and fin samples were too old and that the parasites, it there were any, had already died. So, the only answer is to kill the fish myself..

There are not many pools with fish in the desert, but there is the Niger River! It was near the end of the dry season and the river was very low. It starts in the forests of Guinea and flows in a north-easterly direction into Mali where it changes course near Timbuktu and then goes southwards through Nigeria and ends in the Atlantic Ocean in the Niger Delta area where there is oil and unrest. I think the two go together.

In Bamako, a bustling city on the Niger River, I investigated the possibility of getting fresh fish. It was blisteringly hot, but if one ventured towards the river, it was as though a little cool air came from there and created a bit of relief in the adjacent plant/garden supply enterprises or the modern luxury hotels and government offices. However, the river itself was a green sludge as far as one could see and I wondered how the plants could survive being watered from this mess, let alone how fish could exist in it. Needless to say, I found not a sign of fish.

The magical village of Mopti, lies on the Niger River where the Bani River joins it. It is known as the 'Venice of Africa' and the low-lying area around the town is flooded during the rainy season, which means that it becomes a major rice-producing region. Here the river had had a chance to recover a bit and the low water table meant that it was reasonably clear in its centre although the shores were polluted by the endless clumps of people washing clothes, washing themselves, defecating or just swimming to stay cool. I had a 'guide' called Sec and we spent many a hot day in the middle of the river. It meant getting a 'pirogue' (dug-out longboat) to take us to some of the exposed islands and to then jump, clothes and all, into the fast-flowing waters to cool down. Total madness! You do not see locals doing it! Of course I ended up days later with heat-stroke, which was a good excuse to have rides on bullock carts in the sandy plateau of the nearby Dogon Country where there are no fish, just an impressive escarpment for miles with hidden wells supplying the extraordinary villages with water.

However, I had managed to get some fish from the Mopti market and local fishermen and we went to post these precious samples at the one and only Post Office. At 4.30pm, when it is advertised to close at 5.30pm, the PO was deserted. We asked around and were pointed in the direction of a man having his shoes polished in the road. He was the postmaster and he kindly returned to deal with our parcel. Much fussing later, it was 'in the post'. Sadly, this or a subsequent posting from there never reached Stirling University, where the scientists were too busy to do analysis and were waiting for a foreign (South African) scientist to come along and do some work on them. But they were happy to receive whatever I sent.

In Mopti I had decided that it was really not worth a few days' ride in the desert to go to Timbuktu just so that I could say that I had been there. I did not go to Petra in Jordan for similar reasons..how cussed can one be?! I had seen and stayed in many mud-houses and admired many mud-mosques and was not in the mood to be a tourist. Instead, I hired a whole boat to myself for four days. Well, there was Sec and the owner and his son (to bail out the water) and an assistant to cook. These boats normally do not move unless they have at least 50 passengers on board. We noisily putted down the river, although it felt like we were going up-river as we were traveling in a northerly direction after all. We ate and slept on the shore and could buy fresh fish and occasionally a live fish for dissecting from the local fishermen. Every year these people move their abodes down the shoreline as the river empties.

We entered the great Lake Debo, where the now-exposed sandbanks made for very tricky maneuvering of this large boat. But jumping into the water in all one's clothes to push it free when we got stranded was part of the fun.

Throughout my travels so far I have been in awe of the many and varied ways employed to catch the wonderful gift of fish. Here on the Niger, I could watch for hours as the large round nets are expertly thrown onto still waters; the lead weights drop down and one anxiously watches to then see the net being hauled in as a container for whatever had unsuspectingly been grazing below. The fact that there is sometimes nothing, does not make the fishermen despair. The process is just patiently repeated. However, what the local Niger fishermen do, to assist them in their timeless livelihood, is to find any bushy branches (about 2m long?) which are strategically 'planted' in a large circle in the shallow banks of the receding river. In the desert such branches are very scarce, but, once in place, the fish tend to gather there to nibble at the bark or feed on anything the river throws at this obstruction. Voila! A fish-rich area from which to catch fish. Needless to say,we had some good fresh samples to dissect.

In their make-shift hamlets I watched the women fold a small fish (about as long as my hand) sideways and then spike the tail with its very firm and sharp side fin so that it ended up in a shape like a paisley design and could be dried and sold in that way. Watch this space for that fish to appear again in Ghana! The men, when not fishing, were engaged in pouring molten lead into deep pencil-thick holes made in a container of fine sand. This was 'spiked' with a thin reed, and when cool, an oblong piece of heavy metal with a pierced centre became a fishing net weight.

In the West African countries I visited, fish is a major source of protein and because of the dwindling supplies in the world, they will have to be extensively farmed in future. This is where James and Andy and their research come in. If fish need to be managed, then there will no doubt be times when the parasites on them, will need to be controlled. Knowing about such things and being able to identify them, will, one hopes, one day save supplies. In the mean time, it is fun trying to discover new parasitic species.. Or at least that is what I think I am helping to do.

Burkina Faso is also in the desert but there is no river in Ouagadougou. I just like saying the name of its capital city where I spent many happy hours swimming in a hotel pool. Chlorine is not conductive to fish life.

In Togo, I was staying in Lome, the capital city, which is on the Atlantic Ocean. My hotel was across the road from the palm-tree fringed beach. I am not so sure about the last sentence. I try to avoid clichés, but how does one otherwise describe rows of palm trees lining the area between the road and the beach? And should I say 'sandy beach'? Does that convey more than just 'beach'? Can a beach be anything other than 'sandy'? Writing can become an exercise in semantics.One can spend some very profitable hours sitting on the beach and just observing the catching of fish as done by the locals. And when I say locals, I mean a group of about 40 men all intent on hauling in one net only. This operation is repeated all along the African coast and I never tired of watching the process. A long net of about half km. long with a depth of about 3m and with weights below, is carefully loaded on a boat and then taken out to sea from which it is slowly dropped into the water. The one end with its long rope is secured by the many men on the beach who then wait for the boat to make a large circle before it lands back on the beach about 200m further on. This process can take up to an hour. When the tail ropes are then taken over by the other half of the men, the process of hauling in this very long and bulky net starts. With rhythmic singing and chanting, the net is slowly pulled ashore. I tried to help pull and it really is very hard work! Once you are at the end of the line, you get a chance to have a breather as you walk back to the sea and rejoin the row of pullers. Does this remind you of the competitive tug-of-war done at many a local British sports-day? Except that this is not for fun and is much harder work and lasts for easily an hour. Women meanwhile carefully pull the emerging net into a line along the beach so that it does not get entangled. There are about 5 men deep into the waves who make sure that everything goes smoothly and I used to watch with awe as they disappeared into the foaming mass and never seemed to want to re-emerge. But then, suddenly, far from where I last saw them, a black dot would appear and I could then mark the progress of the net.The two rows of straining men on the beach would slowly start to get closer to each other. This would be the sign for the women who sell water and snacks and the women who would buy and sort out the fish to start appearing.When the catch is finally exposed on the beach, much activity and seemingless complete disorder erupts. But they know what they are doing and the fish are soon sorted and sold. I have seen with dismay how such a very complicated and person-involved operation has resulted in just a small pile of wriggling, panting fish. How can those people possibly take home enough profit for the day?

My seemingly mad request for different species, which I buy and then promptly return minus gill and fin, usually creates a large crowd of intense viewers. Everybody wants to make sure that I have a clean surface, that the fish is firmly held down for killing and that the bottle of laboratory liquid is upright and open for receiving the sample. They are impressed.

In Lome I also went to the fish market near the vast container port which imports mainly second-hand cars from Europe and sells them to most of the Western Sahara countries. But the authorities would not allow me to 'buy' the deep-sea fish I longingly looked at. One has to have a licence.

In Lome's polluted inner-city lakes, there are a few places where fishermen actually catch small fish. I suspect these are covered in parasites, but will probably never know whether my sample did have anything to show.

However, up in the western mountains of Togo I became excited about getting some fresh-water fish. I had seen some and knew they were there; caught in smallish ponds near irrigated fields. My ever-patient 'guides' were happy to try and catch them for me. I had strained my back and was taking it easy. The boys set off with a net as it was becoming dusk. I doubt that it was a butterfly net although this is the area where the demands of tourists mean that the lovely butterflies, for which the area is famous, is systematically being denuded of them. Talk about killing the goose that lays the golden egg!Dark hours later, wet and tired, they returned without a catch. I'm afraid fish are wilier than they thought! But the gesture was greatly appreciated.

In Accra, the capital of Ghana, the local sea-harbour where the fishing boats come in proved a successful but sparse 'catch'. Its bustle and many shabby shacks covering whatever free space was available away from the piles of boats reflected the fact that this harbour was probably in existence during the 19th century when slaves were a major export and they were probably fed on fish, which was far more abundant in those days. I never returned to the harbour with its very popular backwater of small houses now renovated and lived in by artists, although I stayed in Ghana for many weeks.This gave the scientists a chance to replenish my scientific research supplies. Sounds so impressive! All it means is that I had decided not to take all the stuff they had originally given me, in my rucsac. Ingrid was left with extra supplies, but it was easier to just SOS James and the department would send a nice parcel via DHL. I moved hotels to be nearer the main DHL operations dept. Actually my excuse was that it was safer, closer to busses going north and easier to access the large internet café nearby. DHL informed me via my email that the parcel had arrived and I went with my passport, showed the latter to them and was instantly given the over 3kilo package. No sweat!

Months later in Addis Ababa, whilst I type this, I am still waiting for a simple parcel of a dissecting kit (value one pound/2$) to be released from Ethiopian Customs. Over two weeks later and the masses of paperwork has still to be dealt with. The Ethiopians like their paperwork and to send one from desk to desk to office to office. Kafka must have lived here at some time..

Travel in Ghana is easy and one just waits for a bus to fill up. Food is constantly available through enthusiastic vendors who come up to one wherever one happens to be; especially to ply their trade through the windows of the bus.

I preferred the calm of a long and quiet ferry ride through the man-made lake of the Volta River. We traveled for two days from the south to the north. Gratefully, even on the ferry one was being sold drinks and eats by travelers. Sometimes the ferry would stop at remote landing places and we would take the opportunity to have a walk on firm ground. I remember once reducing a small boy to tears as I approached with a smile. He was terrified. And then I realized that I was wearing dark glasses. After removing them, I was 'human' once again despite the white skin and he could follow us to a place where someone had caught some fish, one of which was still flapping its tail! Lake Volta might have some interesting parasites.

A few weeks later I was at the mouth of the Volta River. The estuary is flat and vast and I took a few taxis from the village where I was staying, to go past endless market gardens and swamps (as they call it) of rice. I eventually reached Keta where there is an old Portuguese slave fort, now badly in need of repair. It had been extensively damaged a few years ago when the whole area had suffered from unusually high seas, with many buildings in town completely destroyed. Although the optimistic guide was sure that he was showing me a wonderful relic, it was sad to know that hardly any tourists visit it. According to the register, I was the first person for over two months to sign the book. The Germans can always be relied on to be intrepid travelers. On the other hand, the off-shore fishing which I described in Lome, and which was no doubt used at the time of the slave transport, was in its closing stages. The catch was not large but my audience, as I now expertly cut the spinal chords of the fish, was enormous. A lone woman in this remote area was something to talk about. Especially when she appears with implements to die for and then returns the fish she has bought!

One morning early, having just arrived in the town of Kpong, I was looking for an elusive cup of Nescafe (the word 'coffee' is unknown) when a very kind woman took me into her room which she shared with her husband and 2-yr old daughter. She gave me hot water for a cup of tea. I became friendly and spent many happy days with the family, sleeping on the cement balcony next door. On the Sunday, after their Kingdom Hall meeting, we went to the nearby man-made Lake (supplies electricity to Accra) to have a pleasant boat ride and also establish the activities of the fish market. One could see the boats from afar as they negotiated the submerged trees where the whole village had once been. Apart from the usual Telapia, I managed to obtain one of those little fish with the deadly spikes which are dried after being spiked with their own fin. People say 'be careful', 'watch out', 'take care', and so on, but do we ever really listen? Think of how many times one has to say something similar to a child before the message is absorbed. Anyway, you can guess the rest. That deadly spike on top of the fish neatly penetrated the tip of my right index finger along the line of my nail. The poison made it swell and the pain was relieved by me dipping the finger into boiling hot water. A wonderful remedy! Don't worry, the fish was killed and a sample obtained.

These kind friends had brought me to the village on the shores of the Volta near its entrance into the sea. The father-in-law and his neighbour were negotiating for a piece of riverside where they were to develop a fish-farm. The total reliance in many parts of Africa on the Tilapia fish, demonstrates the need for the protein and food value of this very common fish. However, stocks are dwindling fast and it makes sense to start farming them in a scientific way. Hence the burgeoning fish-farming industry along the Volta river. Guess which scientists who have spent their waking hours working with farmed fish will be happy!

The most intriguing of all the fish-catching methods I have come across, was here. Very early one morning, before sunrise, I accompanied the two men in a small boat to the sides of the slow-flowing river with its muddy bottom about 4m below. The boat-owner, a thin but sinewy 55yr old, stripped to his underpants and, at a certain spot, stopped rowing the boat and dropped anchor. He carefully positioned himself according to trees and other visible markers only he knew (preventing poaching was his main concern) and dropped into the water. After a long wait in which I thought he would never survive on only a lung-full of air, he emerged. He handed an old metal pipe, about 10-20mm in diameter which was crudely closed at one end, to his waiting companion. The latter let the water in this badly closed end run out, turned the other end into the boat and, amazingly, out dropped some fish! I was delighted. Fish cannot swim backwards, so once they had inquisitively enteredthe pipe lying in the mud, they were trapped. Our hero kept diving and retrieving many of his pipes. Some were 'lost' though and he suspected poachers. Others had not been found on his previous trip a few days ago and the fish inside had begun to rot. As always, I admire the ingenuity of whoever devised this form of fishing!

With Ghana a dream past, I flew to Sierra Leone.

Evy was working for an Environmental concern and it was a great delight to be living in their quarters where I could enjoy the banalities of making my own bed and helping with the cooking and washing up. The buildings are across the road from the sea! Endless beaches (OK sandy beaches with areas where vast amounts had been excavated for the building trade and which had left denuded areas of undermined buildings as a result) and 5 dogs to take for walks. Also the ever-fascinating scene of the orchestrated fishing activity I had been observing so often. With incredibly bad roads (well, if one is to spend all one's money on corruption and a civil war, there is nothing left for road-improvements) to negotiate, I was not in a mood to explore a country which was not very developed anyway and did not have a visible historical infrastructure like castles or museums outside Freetown. So I had a lovely time just being spoilt and deciding that the rainy season in West Africa is not the best time to explore. Anyway, as most people/authorities were constantly full of stories of border delays and bribes, I did not wish to just add to that in my attempt to travel down the west coast of Africa.

An air ticket to the eastern side of Africa from Freetown in Sierra Leone involves an overnight stop in Lagos. I had always said that I shall not visit Nigeria with its high and dangerous crime rate. Anyway, there is a lot of shooting going on in the Delta area and why waste time exposing myself to it? Coward!! Overnight, before buying the ticket, I decided to be more humble and give the Nigerians a chance. So I booked a ticket to Ethiopia, but with a one week stay in Lagos.

My humble apologies to the Nigerians. I had a fabulous week in Lagos and obtained some interesting fish samples. Some were via a cycle-taxi (the traffic is so dense that these cycles with truncated handlebars to negotiate the small spaces between cars is the only way to travel) and we went to various sites on the shores of the islands where tourists certainly never go and the initially suspicious fishing populations became very friendly. However, I would not venture there without a local to guide me! At one site a boy went wading in the polluted waters and threw his smallish round net repeatedly until he had caught two small fish for me.Another sample was obtained in the putrid town-scape of the slums and village on stilts of Lagos. We had spent a day exploring with people who could guide us and had authority, so I was delighted when someone produced a live fish. This was caught in the cleaner waters far from the stilt village as nothing could possibly live in these waters which are used as waste-bins and latrines for the thousands of water-born inhabitants. My West African sample of gills and fins was complete.

At some stage I had the most extraordinary letter from the Scientists' quarters. Their intern (?) from South Africa had had a chance to look at the stuff worth looking at and came up with a foreign language analysis as far as my limited understanding of Latin and scientific words is concerned. But it seems there were a few new ones.

Now for Ethiopia and the eastern side of Africa.

In a high, land-locked country like Ethiopia, one does not expect much fish. For certain tribes it is taboo to even think of eating fish and for the majority of Ethiopians, it is eaten only rarely if ever. However, one tries to find something to get the scientists interested.I only spent a little time on the southern shore of Lake Tana where the Blue Nile has its source, but it was possible to get some fish from the local fisherman. He was very suspicious, despite the fact that I paid full price and then returned the large, still-alive fish because I had only removed a small bit of gill. His argument was that he could not sell it like that... Logic is not a strong subject in Ethiopia.

In the west of the country, is a large river, the Baro. It is the only navigable river in Ethiopia, but since the problems with the Sudanese and the great cross-border movement of refugees for over 20 years, all commercial traffic on the river has been suspended. Fishing is not a major occupation here although one does see a few fish for sale in the local markets. Only one live fish was seen the day we were searching, but that is better than nothing.

On the way to the Baro, our bus had to be accompanied by armed guards along a road for about 2 hours. At the police check-point by a bridge, we waited for enough vehicles to make up a convoy. All Government installations in Ethiopia are strictly off-limits to photographers. Even taking photos from afar of a scenic view with a bridge in the distance, is considered punishable. So anything remotely like a photo of a bridge from nearby is certainly not allowed. The soldiers were intrigued to have a female feranji off the bus. It gave a lift to the tedium of eating and sleeping under military tents, washing clothes and themselves in the river below and generally spending much time polishing their AK47s. No bandits had been seen or heard of for many months if not years. One of the soldiers had a camera with a new film in it!! What joy! All the soldiers wanted to be photographed with the feranji. A brisk trade in 'who is next?' to pose with me ensured. And of course,we were standing on the bridge and it was a great background.

While we waited for vehicles to join us, I climbed down the slope to the river to cool down. With bare feet in the water it was heaven! Suddenly I was aware of a strange tickling sensation and looked down to see many small fish nibbling at my feet. Shoals of little fish were milling around and it was no problem to find a disused plastic bag, lower it near my feet and slowly push my foot plus fish into it. I am no expert fish-catcher, but this was easy! After a few attempts a fish was secured. Back on the road to do the killing and dissecting, I asked the locals and soldiers for the name of the fish. They are not interested in eating fish and just could not bother to give such small vermin a name. So from now onwards, it is known as Hilda's Toe Sucker.

Trying to post the samples to the scientists was a new experience. Because of the total ban on liquids through the post, the Customs Dept. at the Post Office would not consider it. A few days later, I had to post some other parcels and happily showed another assistant behind a different desk the contents of the other parcels. She said I could seal them and then slipped the parcel with samples through at the same time. One can become devious when desperate! Amazingly, the parcel got through!

When Ingrid, Peter and Cathy were here during December/January 2006/7, we did a lot of traveling thorough magnificent countryside in the north of Ethiopia, but never stopped anywhere remotely near water with fish until the last day when we were relaxing by a crater lake. The African Rift Valley can produce some startling and unique environments. And where there once were active craters spewing lava, today they are filled with lakes and dense bush surrounding the steep sides. What intrigued me was the fact that there is no outlet, so that only rainwater determines the level and quality of water. The locals collect water and swim and wash clothes in it. But there were a few boats about and we were told that there were fish to be caught. How can a fish survive in such an oxygen-starved environment? We followed a rough, very indistinct path through thorny scrub and came upon some fishermen who had a live fish!! I determined to go back and get money and dissecting equipment from the vehicle and the others decided to see if they could go all the way around the lake.

Being greedy after a long spell of not having had any fish to kill, I dissected three, even though they were all Tilapia. At least I would have some samples to give them to take back to the UK without Customs problems. With the deed done, I was climbing up the slope to get to the path when three youths accosted me with a large bunch of Tilapia they had caught that morning. I tried to explain that I had already obtained what I needed, but the lure of a mysterious cloth parcel and a plastic bag of something else (phials of laboratory alcohol) was too much of a temptation. They must have prearranged it, because I was suddenly hurled upon the ground and, despite loud screams (someone tried to stop my excruciating howling but to no avail) they dashed off with all my arms' contents. The indignity of being mugged was worse than the few scratches and I was more upset at loosing the three samples than anything else. Nothing one could do about it. Later, when the others returned after getting equally scratched by the non-existent thorny path around the lake, we found another fisherman with a live fish. The photo shows me doing the deed without the impressively proper dissecting implements. One can always compromise.

This wonderful 'fish parasite' adventure will continue.Thanks to James and Andy!!

(Much later, I was sent an impressive PhD thesis by one of their students. All based on my samples. Very satisfying... But the most impressive to me was the fact that Hilda's Toe Sucker produced many parasites; Fame at last!)

Jambo Davey

2007-04-30T08:45:00.000-07:00

April 2007 (Kenya/Uganda)

Eating fresh fruit salad at an outdoor stall in Nairobi.

JAMBO DAVEY!

Francis was fortunate to have very good friends. At his funeral, Davey met Katy for the first time and they fell in love instantly! Their marriage two years later was memorable. Since then, Davey has attended SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) where he studied Politics and East Africa. As he had never been south of Morocco, he wanted to come and see these parts for himself and at the same time, to do some research into the efficacy of NGOs (Non-Governmental Organisation) in Uganda. It suited us both for him to meet me in Nairobi for a week’s holiday.

As soon as our bags were dropped at the hotel after his evening arrival, we were out to walk in the streets of the CBD. Nairobi is the financial capital of Africa, hence its desperate attempt to keep the streets clean and free of hawkers and beggars. I remember only too well the frustrations I had in West Africa to try and obtain money. All transactions had to go through Nairobi first, and whenever there was a delay, that town was blamed. Some Colonial habits die hard: The 20 shilling coin in Kenya is still called a ‘pound’, although it is not worth much. Being a timid female, I had never ventured out at night in Nairobi and it was wonderful to feel so free in Davey´s company. His enthusiasm, intelligence and happy character meant that we could just enjoy the experience. Beggars came out of the shadows and people happily greeted us. This upbeat state of affairs persisted and I am forever grateful to him for opening up a world where I feared to tread. He would talk to anyone and instantly make friends. His lovely sense of humour is exemplified by his astute analysis of a vainglorious ´monument´ which Arap Moi (disgraced previous President) had had erected to himself. The structure spelt out his name MOI, but in no time, Davey had christened it into the French word ´moi´, thus accentuating this man’s arrogance.

Davey´s intelligence and questioning nature was such a tonic for me after a rather bleak time of little intellectual stimulus. Cynthia had kindly offered to host a luncheon and I could bring my friends. Walter, a Dutchman with a Ugandan girlfriend, was a generous taxi driver. He had also once very kindly taken me walking/camping near a crater lake to the west of Nairobi. It was full moon and sitting around the campfire for hours, never stopping in our conversation, had prepared me for Davey and his questioning mind.

We were soon on the overnight train to Mombasa and then spent a night in the little hotel in Kilifi where a ride on the estuary in a dugout catamaran dhow in the very strong moonlight was pure delight. We in the West forget how wonderful the sky can be without light pollution and it has been a joy for me to live by the phases of the moon during this trip.

In Lamu we stayed in a self-contained apartment on top of a beautifully furnished house within the town. It belongs to a well-known Kenyan artist friend of Cynthia, who had recommended it to us. Pure joy to look over the rooftops and to use the little reed-surrounded toilet stuck on the flat roof. Davey excitedly enjoyed seeing the sunrise over the archipelago from his room. His enthusiasm meant not much sleep...

Our return flight to Nairobi from the little airstrip across the water on another island was delayed until we finally boarded a ´plane, just to be dropped off in Malindi (north of Mombasa ) for the night. No problems! Luxury living with swimming pool and Italian food! Malindi is the favourite watering hole of the Italians visiting Kenya and everywhere you go in town is aimed at them.

We were back next day in time to meet up with Stacia, to whom I had introduced Davey at Cynthia’s house. She comes from Chicago and had taught locally for an NGO the year before. After that, she had returned with money collected from friends to work in an orphanage in Kibera, a ´slum´ suburb of Nairobi. It is the largest ´slum´ in Africa and is featured in the film ´The Constant Gardener´. Travelling westwards in the train one overlooks these tightly built corrugated iron structures with narrow lanes and no water or electricity for mile upon mile. Thousands of people live in overcrowded spaces, yet they manage to maintain a living. Davey and I arrived at the appointed place before Stacia met us. We were immediately surrounded by men who were obviously under the influence of drink and drugs. In his inimitable way, Davey was instantly high-five-ing with them, dancing and singing and generally making friends and creating a happy atmosphere. Tensions which an average mzungu like me would have created through fear were instantly dispersed. Stacia and friends arrived and we spent many a happy hour exploring this amazing area. And wherever we went or stopped for a drink or to look at articles for sale, we only met enthusiastic welcomes. Why do we have to fear or condemn people because they live in conditions other than what we in the West accept as desirable? One of my pet-prejudices is against the way the mzungu and other aid-workers in Africa manage to generally find themselves in protected and isolating compounds. No wonder they are regarded as beings from another world. And of course, the image of our lifestyles as depicted in film and TV does not help. On the other hand, most people think of Africa as a place of illness, starvation and poverty, which it emphatically is not.

There is a great tide of disaffection with NGOs taking place. I only reflect my own thoughts based on what one hears. A hilariously cynical book about the whole aid business is ´Cause Celeb´ by Helen Fielding. Do read it! More cynically but truthful, is the book ´Emma’s War` by Deborah Scroggins which depicts the scandal of inter alia, the waste and misappropriation of aid food and medicines in Southern Sudan in the 1970s and 1980s. And most people probably know about the way the Live Aid relief was sold off to Uganda instead of reaching the starving people of Ethiopia. But that is another story of incompetence and corruption with which I will not even begin to deal.

In Ghana, I met researchers who were looking at the way these voluntary organisations double up their activities and do not co-operate. Each NGO of course wants the little old lady in the West to give her sixpence to them only. Cynthia, an experienced historian and anthropologist, has been commissioned to investigate the same phenomenon in the north-west of Kenya. In Uganda, the President has asked for an inquiry into the over 5500 NGOs operating in that country. I was told about one district in Uganda where there were over 200 NGOs covering a relatively small area. During and just after the Rwandan genocide, the country was awash with NGOs all trying to do their own thing and thus getting in the way of each other or doubling up their activities, yet they expected the over-stretched United Nations Peacekeepers to protect them as of right.

Stacia is justifiably sceptical about NGOs, because money, which friends had given via an NGO, never reached the orphanage. Also, the local NGOs were cross with her for not directing funds through them. It meant they lost out on the 25%+ administrative fee. I might sound sceptical, but too many stories are going the rounds. My favourite was told to me by a friend who was in Kenya when he met a young woman who was having a luxury holiday. He asked her how she could afford it, and her reply was that she worked for an NGO and that it was the financial year-end and if they did not spend the money, they would not get the same funds the following year. I know this goes on all the time in business, but we, the public who contribute to these funded organisations, should question them far more. Davey was to study these aspects of NGOs in Uganda.

We travelled overnight by train to Kisumu on the eastern shore of Lake Victoria, but the train was late as usual and we did not have much time to enjoy the ever-moving sea of hyacinth, which is the lake, whilst eating fresh tilapia in one of the many Hotels (Kenyan for ´restaurant´) on the shore. Sadly, hyacinth, killer Nile perch (30 species of endemic Lake Victoria fish consumed by them), pollution, agricultural chemical poisons, diminished water and lack of fish is slowly killing off Africa’s largest Lake. But some of the wonderful 5W ladies of Kisumu managed to meet us and have a brief reunion! For the record, it is here that Barack Obama came to visit his grandmother and the streets/roads were lined with flag-waving well-wishers. And that was before he officially decided to contest the Democratic nomination!

We arrived in Kampala in Uganda in time for Ben, Davey´s friend who teaches at a local school for local wages, to welcome us warmly and give me his bedroom whilst he went to stay with a colleague who lives in another one of the six houses in his compound. The boys went out for the night (and this was followed by many similar outings) and I enjoyed stories of the Kampala nightlife from the distance of a hangover-telling, although I did join them on occasion and could admire the prostitutes, who overran the bars, more closely. They were generally very beautiful and their dress-sense and makeup could be the envy of any London West End lady. Davey was happy to show them his wedding ring and they respected his loyalty and just had a good time with the boys.

One day Ben generously killed one of his 4 chickens for supper and I enjoyed showing the boys how to disembowel it. My father’s sister had had one of the most extensive chicken farms in South Africa in the 1950/60s when well-fed and free-range chickens were a total luxury. She supplied the very large hotels in Durban and the whole of South African Railways with eggs. Every Christmas she would give over 50 chickens to friends as presents and my job was to help get them ready. It sounds macabre, but we are just too far removed from reality in the West whereas here in Africa, it is a pleasure for me to get back to what living is about. If we want to eat meat, the least we can do is to know where it comes from and how it gets there. I might sound as though I have been here too long, but it is just that I think the people of Africa still have a sense of how to live with nature which we so often deny ourselves. Discuss!

I soon left to stay with Liz, Ben’s mother, in Kabale in the south-west of Uganda and Davey departed for an NGO with which Liz had arranged for him to get some hands-on experience.

He subsequently made all kinds of contacts and I am sure is full of ideas and plans for the future and an exciting MA dissertation. I eventually disappeared into Rwanda and we could only say goodbye via email.

It had never been my intention to visit Uganda during this trip southwards, but Davey had inspired me to go back up north and there was no reason why not to do so. I had been in the south of Uganda in 2002 when I took part in a first-ever sponsored cycle ride from Lake Mburo to Rwanda for the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund. Collecting money and asking friends for contributions was horrible! But the trip was great and I did manage to see the gorillas. Since then, there have been similar cycle trips every year. What stands out in my memory is the beautiful scenery and deep lakes amongst high mountains with numerous islands. Quite magical!

Liz lives in Kabale where she works for VSO and is an incredibly experienced and competent worker. She is involved in setting up a grass-roots anti-corruption NGO. It is only through teaching via community-based organisations, that the understanding of ´corruption´ can be taught. When she and fellow NGO workers are together, my mind reels with the way they talk! It is a shorthand language with acronyms being used all the time. She had hoped that I could assist a local NGO which works with disabled people, but once I visited and realised that the Chinese Manager, who has only been here for two months, needed to get a grip on the situation himself, I threw in some ideas and left them to it. Too many cooks…

One of the volunteer people with whom Liz works, is a local Tourist Guide. 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 subsequently 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! African education is still in the area of students just sitting quietly at their desks and never making a sound. What they take in is a debatable point. Later in Rwanda, I spoke to a VSO Educational Consultant and he was in despair about the system! Why teach children complicated fractions when they will never need them and cannot understand anyway? And I remember in Kenya sitting in on a class in an orphanage I was visiting in which the teacher was telling students about the sun and planets. I was very tempted to tell him that Pluto had been declassified and was no longer a planet, but when the books from which teachers are teaching are old and out of date, one cannot interfere. Being in huts or outdoors under a tree does not lead to checking things on the internet! Anyway, to return to my lecture: I realised that the students did not take in a thing I was saying when I tried to ask questions. My role-playing baffled them and there was total silence. Therefore, I took them all outside to emphasis that Tourist Guiding is a Practical Profession. This really threw them into a state of confusion! Whether my presence had any lasting effect, is debatable, but Warren wrote copious notes and was inspired!

I manage to put the cat amongst the pigeons at times when I say that compulsory education should be stopped. Here in Africa, where it is regarded as such a privilege to aim for and when people go hungry to pay for school fees, my attitude is incomprehensible. In the West, however, we have had over 100 years of compulsory education and it has not necessarily produced an educated population. Where education is free and compulsory, there are often students who just do not want to learn and as a result, disrupt the class for those who do. In England, teachers are often just trying to maintain discipline. Students who have to stay at school until they are 16 often leave without being literate. Is this a scandal? Not necessarily. As long as facilities are available for them if they ever want to learn, let them go and become entrepreneurs or labourers. They will manage. I have recently read H G Wells´s ´The Time Machine´. Written in the 1890s, it is the first real science fiction book. But he was a realist. He could foresee that mankind was not necessarily going to go on being well-educated and better through the application of science and education. Mankind’s striving for happiness will eventually lead to diminishing of intellect. Oh dear, I am treading on toes!

The above was sent to Davey to have a look at, and

Davey responded with the following…
I like your digs at attitudes to slums/poverty, the comments on non-governmental disorganisations, and the brief critique of the attempts to institute universal education. Perhaps the most damning criticisms I heard to do with the latter were practical and grave: There are simply not enough schools and teachers to cope with such a programme.This has resulted in classes of up to 200 kids being taught by some barely-qualified (but doubtless well-meaning) buffoon.
It also means that kids are not able to help their parents out in whatever work they are doing, or even simply take care of household responsibilities while the parents are working elsewhere.Western attitudes to this latter aspect are often based on some spurious notion of what children can and can't do and what they ought to be doing. e.g. the Dutch woman who taught at the Masaka disabled school related to me in shocked terms about a family she met in which the 5 yr old daughter was expected to look after a 3 yr old sister during the day. I don't know how common such circumstances are, but surely we have to weigh such arguably undesirable situations with others in which young children learn domestic responsibilities and useful skills, not to mention building themselves up physically by carrying water butts etc.

This latter point is especially interesting to me in view of the chronic child obesity problems we have in the more civilised parts of the world.Much of the universal education programme has been motivated by a desire on the part of the NRM to appear 'progressive' in the eyes of the donor community - regardless of the efficacy of such programmes and their potentially disastrous effects on Ugandan family life.
Meanwhile, an intellectual (Omar) told me, the quality of education at a higher level has been deteriorating due to 'commercialisation' of the main universities and the co-option of graduates into NGO jobs. The commercialisation purports to re-structure university courses according to the job market, which means that the degrees are becoming almost exclusively directed towards business and the NGO sector.
This may sound good and practical, but the result is that there is very little room for encouraging critical thinking and promoting socio-political, and even aesthetic, awareness.
The intellectual, Omar, teaches at Makerere International - the second biggest university in Uganda. Almost all of his students, he said, were intent on getting a cosy job with a foreign firm/NGO, and were fixated on consumer goods.
Interestingly, my favorite teacher at SOAS also made similar complaints: "Where have all the student radicals gone?" he asked.
While I have been struggling to find an answer to this question in the English context, Omar provided one for his country. The NGOs and businesses are not only not interested in 'politics', they actively discourage discussion of political affairs. Someone who appears too 'political' will simply not get a job, or will not get promoted (or even get sacked) if they start taking an interest in trade unions (or whatever) while already employed. Such an environment makes it very difficult for an intellectual and even arts-based scene to flourish, especially as the middle-class audience that typically forms the core of such scenes are precisely those who are embracing consumerism and the 'de-politicised' world of foreign employment with such enthusiasm.
The scare quotes around 'political' and 'de-politicised' are there because, of course, in such affairs, everything is 'political'.
The presence of so many foreigners who are effectively re-structuring Uganda's economy, society and culture is surely a matter for political debate. You mention people complaining more about the efficacy of the NGO programmes etc. In my experience, yes and no. People in Uganda seemed generally uncritical of the British presence, past and present. They had a certain antipathy towards the French and Yanks who they deemed arrogant (prejudice doubtless passed on from the colonisers). They might not have had an independence struggle on the scale of the Mau Mau (indeed nothing really comparable), but that doesn't mean they were not exploited and continue to be.
The real antipathy seems reserved for the MuHindi community - and understandably so, in a way. Because the mzungu pay better wages and pay them on time, because they treat their workers well, and because they even intermarry, they are seen as generally beneficent - which is great for people like me, who are treated so hospitably as a result! However, I noticed a complete lack of cynicism (amongst almost everyone) re. Blair's and Clinton's attitudes to Africa. , Omar the intellectual said that during both Bushes' administrations, and during the Conservative years (in UK), Africans tended to be left alone to forge their own futures. He went further, saying that during colonial times, people like him (who questioned the proliferation of foreigners in his country) had a target: basically a pith helmet. "Now" he said with a smile, "I don't know where to shoot. They're everywhere and doing so many different things, you don't know who the good guys and the bad guys are..."
I (pretentiously) used terms like 'network power' and 'diffuse strategies' to conceptualise what was happening now, and he agreed. There were good, straightforward projects (he said), such as those of the military that we all talked about at Cynthia's - where, e.g., they come into a village, dig some wells using Western technology, and then leave. Others, however, are more keen to re-structure society on deeper levels, attempting to create new types of people (basically modern, liberal citizens) rather than simply helping what already exists, to work. Ultimately there are no black and white answers to these vexed and complex questions. For one thing (despite Omar's distaste for liberal internationalists like Blair/Clinton) it is not really useful to imagine an Africa without foreigners meddling in it - there will always be muzungu there making a buck, at least.
The real question is what kind of 'interventions' are more beneficial for the objects of intervention.That is a very moral question concerning what kind of society and future does one see as desirable for Ugandans. But that does not mean it should not be asked.
By hobbling the radicals thru education reform and an effective silencing of political debate, 'Development' (as a general project) becomes what one British critic has termed 'The Anti-Politics Machine'. There is no debate because there is no question that development along Western lines is undesirable. The debates are how to enable Development, how to encourage some narrowly conceived notion of 'citizenship', how to eradicate child labour, or whatever - not whether these outcomes are desirable or even possible in the first place. This is analogous (for me) with the new direction of British politics: Blair's Third Way, with his emphasis on globalisation as "irreversible and irresistible", basically starts from the premise that the left/right debate is over - that there really can be no ideological debate now, simply a kind of tussle over which elected bureaucrat gets to oversee the implementation of Thatcher's legacy. Thus debates on 'Britishness' emerge, no longer centering on what kind of economy we should have, but on what our 'values' are, whether those immigrants next door are 'like us' or not, etc.While previously the domain of fringe racists, such arguments are now being taken seriously in No.10 Downing Street - doubtless partly because of our higher exposure to Islamic terrorism (Thanks Tony!).In the Ugandan society, such a situation is manifest in the tendency to attack the easy target of the MuHindi businessman, while ignoring the presence of the impoverished and illiterate Ugandan Asians, and more importantly, while not addressing the environment which enables the kind of exploitation that is deplored. Omar the intellectual emphasised the connections between this ignorance, the education reforms, and the presence of rich mzungu employers and experts all over Uganda. Sorry for this slightly vague ramble, but I thought you might like to hear the results of my 'investigation'. In the end, I didn't exhaustively probe the new Heart of Darkness or whatever, but the taster was delightful and fascinating.It has really only whetted my appetite, and as I said in my last mail, I am very much looking for any excuse to get back out there and really get stuck in.

Davey’s remarks were sent to a retired expat Historian who has spent his life in East Africa and now lives in Nairobi. I include it just to make one aware of all the thinking that is going on around the world. Lateral thinking is finally being considered!

Hi Hilda,

Interesting! A can of worms!

In my view, the current 'development apparatus' which is variously being offered or imposed upon or claimed by Africa is based on a narrow definition of technology. It is a technology/science which draws all things toward urban conglomerates, toward traffic jams, toward crowded school rooms, toward people who need antiretrovirals full time to stay alive, etc. etc.

In a recent article in the New York Review of Books, Freeman Dyson suggests that this distorted matrix of modern civilization is but a short phase in the evolutionary process. In his optimistic view, in future science/technology will become more relevant to the needs of the masses of people living in rural areas and will draw on and apply to a much broader range of resources. I suspect he is too optimistic. But I do agree on the need (and hopefully, a trend) for a focus of science and technology on the welfare of both urban and non-urban folks. Clearly the present pattern is not workable for the long run.

A book by Paul Dawken entitled 'Blessed Unrest' tries to quantify in the broadest terms those millions of people groups around the world who resist the dictates of modernity or, alternatively, identify new and more humane applications of technology. Dawken compares these armies in favor of alternative options with the human immune system. One obtains some sense of the intended shape of the human being by examining the workings of its immune systems. Similarly, one obtains a sense of what the future of the world might look like by examining the cumulative work/vision/experimentation by the 'alternatives'. Interesting.

Like the wag said: 'Don't change your mind; it is reality that is wrong!'

Best wishes. Many greetings. Harold Miller
Although I had read the book, I did not choose the following quotation. It was sent in by Stacia who had so happily taken us around Kibera and who was having big problems with the local NGOs who did not like her ‘hands-on’ method of helping in an orphanage.

Quote from "The Zanzibar Chest" by Aidan Hartley:

"... Only a handful of volunteers were there to help at the start. Every humanitarian disaster is a golden fund raising opportunity for the charities. One Christian outfit worked all day praying rather than distributing food, shelter or IV fluids.... Africa may be the world's poorest place but it is rich in men of God. It's unfortunate that the Africans no longer boil them up in pots and serve them for dinner."

Leaving Ethiopia and early Kenya - Feb - March 2007

2007-04-22T09:56:00.000-07:00

CULTURE?

‘DO OR DIE’ the large headlines in one of the numerous Kenyan newspapers screamed on the Saturday. For an Englishman, this is an expression often used, but for a Kenyan not so fluid in English, it must have been a bit mysterious. Too many deaths from unnatural causes makes one interpret it differently… However, the difference in cultural interpretation was soon explained. The headline was referring to the World Cross-Country Races to be held in Mombasa that day. Fortunately Kenya won the overall team prize and no one had to die. In conservative Ethiopia that headline would have been impossible.

Now that I have left Ethiopia, I can see so clearly the cultural differences between the two countries. And this is not referring to the very many more isolated communities (tribes is the new non-PC word which anthropologists may not use) in both countries, which have such immensely different ways of life, but the differences between those people who have absorbed the ‘Western’ way of life. In Ethiopia they can still not speak ‘proper’ English and are totally unaware of the fact, especially in their printed literature. The Kenyans have embraced English with relish and it is such a pleasure to once again understand what people say first time round! And in Uganda, where it is the official language and all schooling is though English, the joy of being able to communicate easily is great! However, the Ugandans are now aware of the fact that they have begun to loose their heritage and the first few years in Primary school are now reverting to the local languages.

The Ethiopian love of Bureaucracy is so stifling that it impedes their move to ‘westernize’ but, at the same time, it reflects a reluctance to change. The Orthodox Church has a very defining stranglehold too. When church services go on for 9 hours and one has to stand throughout and the service is loudly broadcast from clock towers from 3.30 a.m. onwards on one of the many Saints’ days, thus keeping one awake, it cannot lead to ‘progress’. I am not advocating that the Western way of life is necessarily 'progress', but it is understood to be so by those who adopt its clothes, technology and educational aspirations. Other elements are ignored. As an example: I wanted to see some famous but relatively remote stelae on my way south towards the Kenyan border. This involved getting a ‘ticket’ for the anthropomorphic stelae at Tutufela from the nearest administrative town (Dilla) and then a bus to a turnoff 30 minutes away. After walking about 2 miles (5km), I got to the field of about 300 stelae and a ‘custodian’ took my ticket and proudly showed his companion the official ‘stamp’ on it. Neither was literate, but the all-important stamp was the clincher. However, to get to the next set of stelae at nearby Tututi (with over 1200 phallic stelae), it would have involved taking another bus to another administrative district for a ticket and then to return to near the first turnoff and repeat the process again. I had been willing to do this mad thing, but after the first visit I was so demoralized by the incessant begging and demands made by the relatively isolated farming community, that I felt nervous of being dismissive of them and feared that my vulnerability was at risk. I say this only because the unthinking bureaucracy, which isolates visitors from money-earning enterprises, is so self-defeating. But you try to tell that to an Ethiopian! They just cannot understand it when I say that they can make life easier for themselves! The Kenyans, on the other hand, have embraced the Western way of administration and despite many scams and trying to get as much money as possible from you as a mzungu (I am no longer a faranji), they adhere to some order. And things are done with a smile and 'no hard feelings'. The occasional Kenyan beggars just greet you with a smile and say ’how are you?’

The last few days south of Addis were spent trying to get fish in the Southern Rift Valley Lakes (a small bait-like fish I dissected had to be named St Valentines Day as it was un-named by the locals) and to slowly travel towards the Kenyan border. Sadly, lack of days on my passport meant a much quicker journey than planned and I will simply have to return another day…

I had entered the Southern Region, which, like the other 13 Regions in Ethiopia, had been designated and given much autonomy when the current government overthrew the Communist Régime in 1991. Trying to keep everyone happy and to accurately reflect the different societies living there, this Region is called Southern Nations, Nationalities and Peoples Regional Government. How is that for a mouthful every time you want to mention them?! One of the main agricultural products and food supplies is enset, a banana-like plant which is cropped when 8 years old. After much pounding, sifting, boiling, drying and pummeling of the whole root/trunk, the resultant blob is wrapped in its banana-like leaves and consumed or buried. This food can last up to 20 years, so there is never famine in southwest Ethiopia.

The ‘capital’ of SNNPRG is called Awassa and is probably the most beautiful town in Ethiopia. My walking boots which had split and were ready to be thrown out, were expertly mended by a shoe-shine boy and my hair, which needed to be trimmed, was roughly and to great hilarity, sawn into shape by blunt scissors. I bought two blouses (one pretty and one practical), and was thus ready to leave this incredibly cheap country. I had hired a bicycle for the day and a puncture, swiftly mended on the side of the road, cost 1 Birr! My final burglary in Ethiopia was also performed with consummate skill: I had just checked into a lovely old lakeside hotel in Awassa. The famous Ethiopian bird life was overwhelming and Colobus and Vervet monkeys swung in the trees around the bungalows. I threw my bags onto the bed, opened the small rucsac and then decided to go to the en suite bathroom. By the time I returned to my bag a minute later, I could not find the pack of cards I was sure I had pulled out of the rucsac. What else was missing?! I dashed to the door to see the culprit. Nothing! Then I noticed, amongst the lush plants, were strewn 54 playing cards and their torn box. Poor monkey must have been very disappointed with his theft!

Arriving too late to cross the border, my final night in Ethiopia was pleasantly spent on the northern side of Moyale. I would not have decent coffee again for a long time! Next morning was Saturday and the only weekly bus to Nairobi left at 9am. However, the Ethiopians, in their love for order and unwillingness to compromise, only opened their side of the border at 9am. When I finally emerged from the endless form-filling demands and crossed the border, it was 9.45 and the bus had left!

A truck was eventually found and I was lifted onto the metal pipe structure over the back, which was filled with large plastic containers of diesel being ‘smuggled’ into Kenya. This ‘cage’ was shared with many others and I can assure you that hanging from ropes and being bumped over impossible roads for 8 hours with fellow passengers smoking and throwing matches and butts onto the diesel containers below, is not the most pleasant of ways to travel! We often had to stop at roadblocks (bribes being paid?) and have armed guards with us, as there is still a bit of banditry going on in these parts.

We left the intensely farmed and overpopulated land of Ethiopia with its tall fluted anthills for the flat, dry and sparsely inhabited semi desert with sensuously shaped anthills. My eyes could scan the horizon once again!

My cultural exposure started the minute a very kind member of 5W (Women Welcome Women WorldWide) and her husband collected me in Marsabit that night. They are Muslims and had built their own house. Twin boys of 12 kindly shared their room with me. The house is calm and ordered and individual family prayers are said without fuss from behind the settee. On the Sunday the boys, dressed in spotlessly clean jelabas (?) went off to the Madrassa (?) to study the Koran and the husband disappeared for the rest of the day. We went shopping in the market and I used my ‘Muslim-dress’ and shawl to cover up, as it was just so ‘right’ to do so. In the house with no piped water or kitchen as we know it, I was kindly shown how to use a small quantity of water with which to wash and how to use the urine-only indoor toilet. It was the end of the dry season and they still had water because they had installed an immense underground tank to collect rainwater. I was told that the majority of people in town had to walk many miles to collect their water.

As Marsabit is isolated and trucks do not generally stop there but continue through the night, it took 5 hours of patient waiting at the local petrol station before a small truck drew up. It only had two Italian mzungus and an Indian driver in the cab and nothing/nobody in the back! I hitched and they kindly let me jump into the rattling, bumping empty truck. Only after the 6 hours of deafening shake-up (two gun-wielding guards joined us for part of the trip) did I realize how my poor rucsac had been shaken and damaged because it was so loose. Normally, vehicles are so crowded that everything is tightly packed. The story behind this empty truck was once again revealing of the intransigence of the Ethiopians. The two Italian men had been traveling down and up Africa for months in their own two 4x4s. Nowhere else, having crossed 25 borders, were they refused a visa and told to get one two days’ drive back. The poor chaps therefore had to hire the Indian and his truck and travel for two days back to Nairobi, get the visas and then return. Needless to say, they were furious and I thought of them a few days later when I heard that this road had been closed because there had been ‘rebel-activity’ shortly after we passed. But it is far from the Lord’s Resistance Army insurgency and I am in no way exposing myself to areas of danger…. Coward!

In Osiola, I stayed with a local 5W member whose family is strongly Roman Catholic (this church is even stronger in Uganda) and who is a teacher at the local school in the nearby army barracks. The small two-bedroom house is home for five people, but they insisted on giving me a room to myself! Lovely local food was prepared and explained and one was introduced to many curious neighbours and visitors. Such hospitality is to be encountered over and over again. An adjacent Evangelical church was having a weeklong recruitment (?) and the loudspeakers were directly outside the window. One just had to think of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church’s loudhailers and the various other Evangelical outpourings I had to endure in West Africa, to know that this will not be the last time…I knew somebody in Ethiopia who was part of a movement to stop these loud overnight services and even in Uganda, there was talk of curbing them. The following day was peacefully spent with the local RC priest giving up his busy schedule to drive us around. Evidence of the devastating floods in this semi-desert area just a few weeks before could be seen outside the village.

I was now in a less isolated area and it was only a bus ride away to Nanyuki where the cousin of a friend in the UK met me. She had conveniently come to town to attend her yoga lesson and after getting soft cheeses and wine (hey, I am supposed to be in ‘primitive’ Africa!), we drove to their glorious homestead which would sit comfortably in Surrey. All the time, Mount Kenya with its snow-white glaciers caught one’s attention as it loomed on the nearby horizon. These ‘ex-pat’ flower-farmers are members of the permanent generations who have kept their love of Kenya and their way of life alive. Children go to boarding schools (often the secondary ones in South Africa) and entertainment is around the estate with tennis court, horses etc. or at the local, exclusive Club where all manner of facilities are available. Needless to say, it was a tremendous joy to mix in my own culture once again. It sounds snobbish, but one cannot deny one’s upbringing and I am not adverse to a bit of western luxury! Just to have knives and forks in place around a place-setting can be mighty pleasing! The flower farming industry is very impressive and, contrary to the current ‘anti-air miles’ movement in Europe, the flowers and vegetables grown here are still cheaper to produce and use less energy than if they were to be grown in Europe. The only way to show protest is to not buy such items out of season, but our tastes have evolved with refrigeration to such an extent that we in the West expect to get flowers, avocadoes, green beans and tomatoes throughout the year. And yes, the farmers commute with their private airplanes between farms and pay low wages to thousands of workers. On the other hand, if they did not take the risks (weather, change in fashion, disease, low yield, cost of pesticides, fertilizers and airfreight), then the thousands of workers who are feeding large families but without constant managerial cares, will be totally unemployed. I explained this risk-taking to a local woman much later when she mentioned the profits of these farmers to me. Ironically, she had employed 30 people herself a few years ago and spoke with longing about her little industry, which had gone bankrupt because one of her clients did not pay the bill for goods she had supplied. When I explained that the white farmers have the same worries and could also go bankrupt if they did not manage things carefully, her face lit up and she said,”oh, now I understand”. Despite this whitewash, I am very concerned about the depletion of water where the local Rift Valley Lakes are used for irrigation. That is another argument which saddens me immensely, although it is not just the exploiting farmers who are responsible for water-loss, depleted fish–stocks, degraded water-quality, increased diseases and so on. Poor Lake Victoria is dying at a very rapid rate.

Arriving in the CBD of Nairobi was a real culture shock! Broad, clean and smooth pavements, no beggars or hawkers, endless little eating places and Internet cafes (oh, sorry, they are called cyber cafes here) made one reel with wonder! This is a real western-style city center and I have not seen anything similar for a long time. Lagos and Accra were too ‘African’ in their busyness. So, OK, the city authorities have made it illegal to beg or sell on the streets (beggars appear at night) as the city is the financial capital of Africa and appearances have to be maintained. Ex-pats live in comfortable, protected suburbs and the streets are crowded with rush-hour traffic and endless busses packed with workers. People are very smartly dressed and the women have incredibly ornate/intricate hairstyles. One can say it is a mixture of many cultures, but, sadly, they still maintain their separateness. Despite a large group of people who have integrated, there is still a cultural divide which makes the Indian shopkeepers and white businessmen separate from the many different local cultures who man the offices and shops. I think of South Africa which is far more integrated and where the large white population means that there are e.g. shop assistants of all nations serving together in a supermarket/dress shop. Later, in Uganda, I am pleasantly surprised by the far better mix of people throughout. The Colonial culture in Kenya was far too well established for members to give up their ‘rights’, whereas the Protectorate status of Uganda meant that the mzungus never owned land and only furthered the administrative aspects in the country.

While in Nairobi, I read about the sudden and total destruction of ‘illegal’ squatters’ homes one night. It left 3000 people homeless without any form of compensation. It was being done in the guise of making Nairobi beautiful. There is a ministry of Beautification and Tree-planting which is only denying the local inhabitants a relaxed way of life. Thus the visitor can say; “Nairobi is one of the most beautiful cities in the world”. In the streets outside my hotel, while I was there, the authorities had dug great holes in the pavements and planted small decorative trees with cement surrounds which took up about half of the pavement width. This on over-crowded pavements! The tradition of beautification for the visitor is universal (think of London which is already being transformed in the East End for the 2012 Olympic Games) and I was amused in Addis Ababa when the street railings were suddenly given red and white paint for the African Union Conference earlier this year. The beggars in sensitive streets were removed for three days. In Mombasa there was frenzied activity to redesign and plant the parks and streets for the World Cross-Country races (a few weeks later when I returned after the event, the hastily planted shrubs looked very sad). In Kampala the activity to prepare hotel rooms and beautify the streets for the Commonwealth Heads of State Conference in November is a daily item in the newspapers. The Queen has to be very used to the smell of freshly-painted walls…

I settled into Nairobi and enjoyed visits to the ex-pat suburb of Karen (Karen Blixen’s house is an interesting museum of those early days) where Cynthia, the anthropologist I had befriended in Addis, was a constantly welcoming hostess. Such a pleasure to have interesting conversations and to borrow books!

The Indian Ocean lured, however. As a child and during my student days much time was spent in battling the waves of this beloved ocean on the east coast of South Africa. Here on the equator, there is hardly any surf and one has the compensation of snorkeling over coral reefs instead. The train to Mombasa was an experience I repeated quite a few times during the following weeks. It is sadly neglected and the so-called improvements promised by the SA Company which took over in 2006, have not materialized. But the remnants of the Colonial era are potent and I enjoyed the experience despite the lack of lighting and awareness that things could be stolen while one was in the restaurant car or sleeping.

In Mombasa I decided to ‘push out the boat’ and joined a tourist group who were taken south for a few hours and then into a boat from which we could float next to the local dolphins and drop over the side to snorkel over the coral. This is a Marine Park and it is good to know that the area is being protected. On the island we were given very elaborate courses of crustaceans and the tourists were given an exciting walk through the local village. Well, being used to this, it was just so embarrassing for me to see how every doorway is festooned with things to sell at hugely inflated prices. But the visitors could go home and say they had ’slummed it’. What upset me more though was the fact that I had been amongst the beautifully slim Ethiopians for so long and had not been exposed to ‘normal’ tourists for so long. Thus I was a bit horrified to say the least at having to face these half-naked bloated white bodies from the West. Apart form the insult to the culture of their host country, what the locals must think of our sedentary and over-fed lives, I dare not imagine!

Escaping the over-touristy south, I moved north towards Lamu, the centre of over-touristy exploitation! But on the way, I found a magnificent estuary with a small hotel on the edge of the water where I was the only guest. One could have a beer and meals under the terrace roof and watch the sun set over the water and bush. Walks along the edge of the tidal estuary lead to the sea and a ride in a dugout catamaran on the sublimely peaceful estuary was just heaven! For those who need a total ‘away-from-it-all’ experience, this is it! And for a spoilt traveler like me who really does not need a ‘break’, it is still magical and worth using for the unwinding we all need. Remember the name Kilifi….

Lamu is all it is renowned for….An island in a protected archipelago with an Islamic town of tiny alleyways where one can generally touch both sides of the high buildings, where the 3000 donkeys are the only means of transport and one can eat freshly caught fish, hire a boat to go to the many islands and snorkel or just swim and play by the white sandy beaches.

After Lamu I took the train from Nairobi in a westerly direction to the shores of Lake Victoria. Here the 5W members who live in Kisumu and environs entertained me royally. Days were spent in going from one home to another, always being offered margarined bread and sweet milky tea, or a meal of local produce. It was fascinating and I was humbled to be so spoilt. The 5W members are all part of the local Quaker Friends’ congregation. However, when one thinks of the aims of George Fox to have a quiet, contemplative gathering in a hall, one will not find it here! The Sunday services throughout the morning are designed to attract the young people of today. Thus the preacher was enthusiastic in his loud and very active lessons/prayers and singing. The congregation danced and waved and generally filled the church with deafening noise for long sessions. T.I.A. as they say; This Is Africa.

It occurred to me that I had been exposed to many different cultures within a short time. Perhaps this chapter does not do justice to them, but I am aware of the fact that one has to tread gently…

Bale - early January 2007 (published out of order!)

2007-04-22T09:51:00.000-07:00

EVEN WITHOUT A COMPANION, IT CAN BE FUN….

Addis Ababa means New Flower. This city is surrounded by the Entoto Hills to the north and, at 2,500 meters, has a very bracing climate. It can take up to three weeks to acclimatize. If you go into the Entoto Hills early in the morning, you can see many athletes training in the even thinner air. Ethiopians are justly famous as long-distance runners.

Addis is also in the middle of the country. If you think of a simple drawing of a flower with petals and make Addis its centre, you can envisage my trips. Each petal is a rough loop: to the Northern Historic Sites and back; to the western Gambella area; to the Eastern Harar area; to the south-eastern Bale mountains area (this trip) and then finally, to the Southern Rift Valley Lakes where I shall be continuing south to the Kenyan border (the stem of the flower). I have seen very little and there is much more to see and know, but being on my own in such a vast country, means that it is not always easy/safe to just go-for-it. That is not as daunting though as the tedium of being stuck in a bus from 5am for 14 hours, which happens far too frequently. Busses do not travel by night, so one has to be up and ready so early to get a seat, although one can wait a few hours before setting off. The Ethiopians do not like fresh air and insist on all windows being closed and curtains drawn to keep cool. So I peep out of cracks/holes in tatty curtains to assess where we are going, but the journey is beginning to loose its appeal. Not that it was any more comfortable when we had our own 4x4 with Ingrid! One still had to endure the bumps…

Two students who had said they would go with me, withdrew because of exams at the
last minute, so I decided to go alone to the Bale Mountains area. It is a very high plateau and includes one of the National Parks where the lush growth ensures more animal and bird life than many other of the so-called Ethiopian National Parks. How does one change centuries of dependence on the land for indigenous people when they are suddenly told that their area of livelihood is now a ‘Park’? It does not encourage lots of wild animals. Thus people remain in many Parks but are slowly being given ultimatums to get out. Hard though when grazing is of a premium and your cattle are hungry. Illegal ‘poaching’ is tolerated.

I reached the area I was going to explore, which is to the west of the Bale Nat. Park , after two days on a bus. Early on the second morning we drove through the village of Bokoji, which is at a high altitude, and is famous for producing many the world’s greatest long-distance runners. Some were out there running beside the bus…

Being completely on my own ensured many stares, comments and giggles. It was not too pleasant as I am still incapable of learning the language and one can get very tired of having to constantly turn left and right to acknowledge greetings or the inevitable crowd of beggars or just children and adults accosting one as a Midas-figure. A ‘white-skin’ really evokes all kinds of images for these people who have only seen them/tourists in lush western films or unthinkingly dishing out coins and notes. We really are considered to have unlimited riches and the expectation is ‘give give give’. So I was very relieved, after a few minutes of searching for the office, to be met by a Guide and to be taken to the HQ of the Integrated Forest Management Plan. This is an Eco Tourism Project which was set up by the very efficient Germans, who know how to create walks in forests. The project is now being run entirely by the locals and all monies go straight into their own pouches. One pays for a Guide, for a horse or two, for the horse-handlers, for the camp-site, for the cleaning lady, for the use of stoves/cooking facilities, for the cooking of the food you bring… Thus it is distributed evenly because, e.g. the horses go back the same night and other local handlers take over the next day. Cleverly though, to maintain standards, the Germans instigated a ‘default system’ which means one pays less if the horses are late or have sores, if the bags are badly loaded, if there is no firewood, toilet paper or tea/sugar and so on. Camp sites are evenly spaced within 2-8 hours’ walk.

It was too late to leave that day and I set out early the next morning with my new Guide on a gari (horse-drawn cart) for the first 2 hours before we had to leave it and handle all out luggage and food for another hour. Base Camp is set on the side of a hill so that one can enjoy the sunrise in anticipation of the trekking ahead. We had a cooked brunch there and then set off with our three horses (they know how to make money!) to the next camp. At times I would get on a horse to see the world from a different perspective, but most of the time one was negotiating stones and eroded ruts or hills on very diverse paths, so that concentration was needed. And when one did need a horse because the going was tough, the horse could not take you anyway. After two days I decided that a horse was an unnecessary luxury. The first night’s camp is at 3460meters and one can enjoy the sunset after a hard day’s trekking. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, unable to breathe properly. It felt as though I was drowning. Altitude sickness…

Despite all the overgrazing and erosion, which is part of the countryside wherever one goes, the mountains and valleys are extremely pleasant to go through and one is very conscious of the different bands of altitude vegetations: lower in the valleys are the very tall Juniper Trees dripping their berries, mosses and lichen-beards (yes, the berries taste like the ones from the bushes in the UK which are used in gin-making). Colombus monkeys with their broom-like tails for balance seem to fly from tree to tree; the vast Hagenia trees (some with their parasitic trees - I cannot remember the name - slowly choking them to death) with fragrant bunches of male/female flowers. The female flowers are elaborately dried, crushed, fermented, distilled and finally used as a medicine. How did they ever discover how to do it?! But that is the secret of African medicine….; then the bands of St. Johns Wort (Hypericum) Trees covered in their wonderful yellow flowers - I did not feel depressed!; this evolves into red-hot-poker-covered grassland and then, higher up, layers of large Erica (heather) Trees which come in two main variations. They look alike, but taste differently and one can tell which is which by the way they have been grazed by the cattle. The preferred taste results in a small cropped bush. Once up on the higher plateau, the inevitable Giant Lobelias take over. These strange plants have a thick stem with a mass of fluted leaves coming out of the top. They look like those giant Christmas balls some authorities erect on lamp stands as decoration for the Festive Season. When we were all recently huddled in Ingrid’s tent during a very sudden and unexpected rainstorm in the Simien Mountains , we were peering out at the Lobelias though the tent entrance and were amused by the rhythm they were setting up. As the horizontal leaves filled with water, they dipped with the weight and then emptily sprung back, causing the scene outside to look like an orchestrated man-made concert. Well, many sculptors have used this effect in water fountains.

One night I was not the only trekker. It was good to share a meal with a young Englishman and we spent the night playing cards and smoking cigarettes until 1am . Fun to be naughty!

Three days of hard walking/climbing left me exhausted but exhilarated. The last day was extra hard as we covered twice the usual distance to get to a town further east than the guides normally go. But I was happy with the effort and looked forward to the next part of the trip. Sadly, I fear that the relations between the Eco-Guides and the official Park-Guides cannot be very good because the person-friendly trails are diverting business from the actual Park where the facilities are not quite so relaxed. One bus-day later, in which we skirted the north of the Bale National Park , and I arrived in the village of Goba from where no busses travel south. A front seat (or at least a 4th of a seat) on a truck was negotiated and we set off early next day to unintentionally catch the beauty of the sunrise. This road south is regarded as the highest all-weather road in Africa . It is suitably spectacular, but was built, like most of the roads in Ethiopia , for military purposes. During the time of the Derg (1974-91), there was only the one main road south to Kenya/Somalia (my flower stalk). In case it was blocked by enemy action, an alternative road was required. Lucky me! If I had had a camera, these are the scenes I would have wanted to photograph. On the other hand, when I think so positively about taking a photo, the images are imprinted on my mind. I remember not so much the lone endemic red jackal in a sea of silver, but just the effect of the world’s largest expanse of Afro-alpine moorland – the 3,500-4,500m high Sanetti Plateau - which is a silver-leaf-covered space as far as one can see.

Then slowly 2,000m downhill with the dust our vehicle created swirling into the cabin as we could not get away from it fast enough. We ended in the Harenna Forest where the contorted tree trunks made me laugh with the images they evoked. This is where a skilled cartoonist rather than a camera can come into its own. Each view of the trees created a different scene: Ladies at a tea party with raised arms and extended pinkies; ‘anyone for tennis?’ as the trunks provocatively swayed in one direction whilst holding a tennis racket; the sight of a large menacing tree saying ‘Boo’ to smaller ones leaning back in fear; ‘lets tango’ as the trunks met and parted in a sexy way. So many delightful scenes to conjure. And then down into the thick forest with very high and straight yellowwood trees (one of my favourites) giving a canopy of shade to the very lush wild coffee trees below. We drove for hours through this delightful forest and I was only sorry that I did not have my own transport so that I could stop and enjoy just being there.

On the open road once again, the scrub countryside is dotted with sculptured termite hills/pipes up to 9m tall. These are pretty straight chimneys, but they reminded me of the enormous structures I first saw in what was then called Northern Rhodesia and the Belgian Congo in the late 1950s. One can but marvel at the organizational skill of so many millions of tiny insects. In Togo I deliberately destroyed a small part of a covered termite pathway across a forest path and then watched how they repaired it within minutes. We can learn a lot from them!

In Dola-Mena I was told that there would be a bus the next day. ‘It leaves at 12’, the driver assured me.

More to the point, I looked forward to a late morning’s relaxation before getting that bus for the 12 hour journey ahead. How stupid can one be?! Having been in Ethiopia for over 5 months, I had not yet learnt my lesson. Most people use the Ethiopian time which starts at 6am as 1am . So what the truck driver had meant, was that I had to be on the bus at 5am my time. It makes sense if one is to travel for 12 hours in daylight. Of course I realized too late what a fool I had been, but it gave me a chance to hang about for three nights waiting for the next bus. One or two trucks did pass my hotel, but they were so laden already, that there was no space for one more person (without a faranji to be nice to, they manage to squeeze 6 people onto the front seat).

Next day was Timkat (Epiphany), one of the holiest days in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church when the holy Tabot (replica of the Ark of the Covenant) is ceremoniously taken to water and the blessed water is then enthusiastically used by the assembled crowds. Reminds one of the holy water of the Ganges in India . The Timket ceremony is very colourful and involves many of the dozens of garishly decorated umbrellas which the grateful/faithful leave as presents for their chosen saint’s church. However, this was Muslim country I had now entered and the Orthodox Church is not very well-presented although the small town river is a good enough source of water for the three local churches to come together.

At the end of the Timkat ceremony, which lasted for three days, I was invited by some participants and priests/deacons to have a drink of the local alcoholic honey wine called tej. We went to a tej-beat (local brew-house) where the lady in charge showed me how it is brewed. Once again, how did they ever discover that a certain bark from a certain tree is the only catalyst which can be used to turn the honey and water mixture into a potent alcoholic drink?! A priest who had had the honour of carrying one of the Tabots sat with a far-away look on his face…and this was not due to the wine!

Although I had been told the meaning of the three stages of coffee drinking which one has to go through in the coffee ceremony, when I asked the family who were later kindly hosting me, they had no idea of what I was talking about. They just did it…:- washing the beans, roasting the beans, wafting the smell of the beans towards the guests, grinding the beans, pouring the powder in the coffee pot, pouring boiling water into the coffee pot, lighting the incense in the little charcoal burner, wafting the smell of the incense towards the guests, arranging at least six small cups on a tray, pouring the coffee into them, adding at least two spoons of sugar to each cup, stirring, handing the cups to guests, adding more boiling water to the coffee pot, adding more incense to the charcoal, sometime during all this also roasting popcorn and offering it around, taking back the now-empty cups and sugaring/pouring coffee all over again (second stage), offering it again with even more popcorn; repeat for the third stage by which time the coffee is weak… all very boring… and you cannot be impolite and leave before the third cup has been consumed. But this is the traditional way in which family/village matters were discussed and resolved.

I had finished my reading matter and indulged in endless card games of patience or protracted walks though the village and the weekly market which produced the usual stares and comments with which I have no patience. Hundreds of camels were for sale. They are regarded as the most cost-effective beasts of burden, but I suppose, as with everything, they have their habitat restrictions and cannot e.g. be used like a small horse in the forests. The coffee industry is big, but I was reminded of the labour-intensity of it when walking past a vast yard where women and children were meticulously sifting through piles of coffee beans to check for impurities and sort the black from the brown. Please appreciate your coffee!!! This enforced stop also gave me an opportunity to catch up on letters to people without email. Postage in Ethiopia is cheap and worth exploiting. But my ‘letters’ had to be written on whatever scraps of paper I could get hold of. This village did not boast such a thing as a kiosk where paper could be bought (I remember seeing one A4 page of paper being sold from a kiosk in Ghana and I suspect the same would apply here) and post-cards are unheard of (at least I did not even try to find some; why should a place that never sees a ‘white-skin’ have a supply?). On the other hand, apart from the usual smattering of David Beckham T-shirts with his larger-than-life photo on them, there were an unusually large number of youths walking about in Arsenal T-shirts. Someone must have obtained a large surplus supply and sold them in the market. I remember somewhere else, in the middle of the remote countryside, a Chelsea supporter telling me that he had bought his whole strip in the local village market.

As one went into a more Muslim-populated area, one also became aware of the active building of new Mosques. I was told that very rich Muslims, to ensure a better place in Heaven, are using their money to build new and larger Mosques. And the habit of stopping the bus for prayers in the sand, suddenly reminded me of the Sahara trips I’d done with mainly Muslin passengers. But they do not always know the exact position of Mecca: I was amused at the football match I attended in the National Stadium some time ago, to see the thousands of fans who found a space to kneel, that they were all directing their prayers in different directions.

From deep in the south (Negele Borena…another interminable hotel overnight stop) and not far from the Somali border, we traveled for 14 hours in a north-westerly direction. This bus had only 5 shortish breakdowns and an incredible throng of passengers. I was thinking that I had never seen such a crush of people in a bus, but then reminded myself that one can see it daily during rush-hour on the London underground trains. Imagine that crowded scene between the underground train carriage doors, but with the added inconvenience of bags, packages, grain bags, chickens, baskets, crates, plastic containers, goats and so on crammed in as well. And this is for hours over a bumpy road! By the way, African intelligence once again, but how did they find out? If you tie a small piece of string between chickens’ legs, although they can walk about, they will not move and will calmly squat (and can easily be stored under a seat), but any other kind of restraint and they will squawk and protest. I have long been in awe of the assistant to the driver who manages the customers and baggage. Like minibus taxi assistants, they have a phenomenal memory for who paid what and who still needs change or is getting off where. Maybe the fact that this assistant was chewing chat helped him to keep order…

Shashemene is a convergence town on the road to Kenya and southern routes to the east and west. But it is also known for its lawlessness. I had to be very careful in the dark, looking for a bed (hotels were full, so any bed would do!), late at night. It is not the first time I have slept in an active brothel. Here in Ethiopia prostitution is totally accepted as a way of life and there in none of that Western stigma attached to it. Next morning in the dark at 4.30am a kind couple who spoke some English, asked a walker going in the direction of the bus station, to accompany me. They told me that thieves are very active at that time of the night. I suppose it makes sense as hundreds of passengers converge on the bus station in the dark.

Just outside Shashemene there is an area known as the official home of the Ethiopian World Jamaica Federation. Don’t ask! Known as ‘ Jamaica ’, the area was given to the Rastafarians by Emperor Haile Selassie. In 1930, when Ras Tafari was crowned and became known as Emperor Haile Selassie, the ‘return to Africa’ movement of Marcus Garvey in Jamaica saw this as the fulfillment of the Biblical prophecy of “Kings will come out of Africa ”. Selassie was accorded divinity and a new religion created; Rastafarianism. He will always be known to his followers as Ras Tafari. The smoking of marijuana in Ethiopia is forbidden, although the eating of chat is very legal and is now one of the country’s main exports to the Middle East . Drug-use always fascinates me: One can drink as much alcohol as one likes (and destroy families, livers or kill people with drunken driving and fights), one can smoke cigarettes legally and also cost the State lots in medical bills, yet other drugs, which may not necessarily be more socially harmful, are banned. As a very practical person, none of this makes sense to me. ‘ Jamaica ’ has been raided whilst many thousands of chat-chewers lay comatose in the streets of Ethiopia .

The road from Shashemene passes the Southern Rift Valley Lakes. Ah! I thought. I can see them from the bus! But apart from still being tired after lack of sleep and the fact that there was only a small space to peer through the curtain, not much could be seen from the road and I slept most of the way back to Addis. There had been a long-standing arrangement that I could accompany the students when they did their familiarization trip of these lakes on the 22nd January. This was as a de facto compensation for the hours of unpaid work I had done at the College. I was still going to pay for my food, but they would supply me with a tent with those of the students. Without the lecturers informing me, I accidentally found out that the whole trip was postponed. My moan is just to illustrate the lack of organization from the government-employed staff. This reflects a daily frustration to get anything done by people who have small salaries and are not motivated. Hence the trip I am writing about now. I just hope that the proposed exploration will still go ahead so that I can see the Lakes before I leave.

My second night back, I attended a film at the French Cultural Centre where excellent programs are arranged. The British Council does not even have an occasional lecture. The occasion was the first public showing of a film made about the recent return of the large stele to Axum which had been removed by the Italians at the start of their occupation. Mussolini had wanted to rank himself with the Roman Emperors of the past who had e.g. brought Egyptian monoliths from that country after its conquest. The film was fascinating and is a good example about power-politics and the bureaucracy involved. Prof. Richard Pankhurst, the foremost authority on Ethiopian matters and long a hero of mine, had started the ball rolling for the return of the stele over 20 years ago. He and his committee for the return of this stolen artifact managed to alert the Ethiopian public about the forgotten assault on their cultural heritage when they attended a pan-African football match in the National Stadium. During half-time, they marched with models, flags and petitions around the field in view of millions of spectators. Suddenly Ethiopians were aware of what had been done to them. But it still took over 20 years to shame the Italians into returning it in a jumbo jet cargo plane. Prof. Pankhurst, his wife and I had a chat before the film and reception. I had twice been invited to tea with them through their friend Cynthia, the anthropologist, but could never make it. Now we met at last. I was thrilled, but also acutely aware that, if he wanted to get organized, he could well shame the British Museum into returning the Parthenon Marbles to Greece ! Just to remind those readers who may want to agree with this sentiment, the parts of the aforementioned marble frieze which is lovingly displayed and cared for in the British Museum, were legitimately bought at the time by Lord Elgin from the authorities in Athens. The pieces not removed, were neglected and/or destroyed for nearly 200 years before the Greeks began to realize that they had a treasure lying in the sun and polluted Athenian air. How’s that for a Hilda-prejudice?! By the way, Sylvia Pankhurst, Richard’s mother, became fascinated with Ethiopia at the time of the Italian Invasion and became such a friend of the country, that she lies buried in a prominent grave in front of the cathedral.

This could well be my last blog for some time. Kenyan internet facilities are no doubt better than in this country where the government likes to keep control. Here mobile telephone users who would love to use the facilities of SMS texting (think of the way this poor country could benefit from such cheap contacts), have had that facility removed. They might be able to organize a sudden demonstration against the government… But in the Great Ethiopian Run in Addis a few weeks ago, the TV cameras had a job filming the thousands of runners in the streets of Addis without showing the V-for-Victory sign (the accepted Opposition sign) participants were waving at them. It was the 4th year of this international 10km fun run and cannot now be banned… 1,000s of Opposition leaders are still in prison…
Ingrid took photos when she was here…

Jambo Kenya

2007-03-24T12:04:00.000-07:00

Having ‘lost’ stuff in the sending to Ingrid for putting on this BLOG, I am trying once again to write a bit about my travels. The reason for this sudden enthusiasm is because the “internet is down” in the local cyber net café where I am at present. So I can use ‘Word’ until we are once again connected, I am told. How I long for a machine which works and does not cost so much that one is constantly trying to restrict one’s actions!

This is just a brief update. I had not been able to access the BLOG for months from Ethiopia and lost heart after two bits of writing were not delivered despite the screen saying they have been sent to Ingrid.

Today a year ago, Dick died. And yesterday a year ago, I left for Morocco to start this trip.

After exactly six months, I left Ethiopia on 17th February. It was a good experience to be settled in one country, but what I did not realize, was just how much the locals had penetrated my defenses. I was constantly in a bad temper because of the non-stop soliciting from beggars and anybody who caught one’s eye. Because the country is so very over-populated and intensely farmed, one was never alone, even in the remotest countryside. As a ‘faranji’, I expected to be noticed, but not to be badgered constantly for alms. It is a poor country and I understand the reasons; white-skins are always reeking of money and quite willing to give away vast amounts in the eyes of the locals. After all, those who stay in the country permanently are constantly doling out largess via their NGOs. And tourists, who have neither the time nor wish to be involved directly during their short visit, are easily persuaded to part with a few coins.

What a contrast the minute I entered Kenya! Enthusiastic English-speaking helpers were happy to ask for a tip, but with a knowing smile. Suddenly one entered an open space and the eyes could rest on uninhabited solitude. Miles of North-Kenyan desert changed the atmosphere and I felt the tightness of prejudice lifting. By the time I arrived in Nairobi a week later, I was a different person!

Nairobi has a wonderful buzz about it which suited me after my unconsciously stifling stay in Addis. People ignored me. One saw or was approached at most once or twice a day by beggars, but generally the broad, clean and smooth inner-city pavements were just a busy city scene with everyone occupied with his/her life and a white-skin (mzinga) just part of the scene. I felt free! This does not mean that I am unaware of the vast slums around Nairobi. But for the moment, my contact was with the local theatre, opera in the Arboretum, cinema, friends in Karen, the leafy suburb where the mzingas live and friendly people around my hotel.

I took the overnight train to Mombasa and from there had an organized tourist day to the south of town at an island Marine Park where we could watch and ride close to dolphins, snorkel amongst the coral and fabulously coloured fish and eat fresh seafood in a smart restaurant with tables decorated with fresh flowers. The latter image is not what I like; too much pandering to the tourists and totally out of character for the country. But then, maybe if I went to Hawaii I might find that those garlands and fancy flower decorations are also not part of the culture of the locals. But I did not take to the conducted tour of the village on the island after out meal. Most tourists presumably do not go into villages and might find it fascinating. To me it was just a place where the inhabitants try to fleece visitors and charge for every look. But it is apparently much worse at the Parks like the Masai Mara. So I have to get used to a sophisticated tourist country after all the other less ‘developed‘ ones in which I had been staying .

Mombasa was too busy for me and I went north along the coast of my beloved Indian Ocean (much of my youth is associated with swimming in its warm seas) and found an idyllic spot by a large tidal estuary. Kilifi. The hotel (I was the only guest) overlooked the water and bush and in the direction of the town hidden by trees across the water. For 5 nights I could sit on the terrace and eat a healthy breakfast or watch the sun set over the water and bush whilst drinking a cold beer and once again indulging in freshly caught fish or whatever I ordered that morning.. During the days I swam endlessly, walked all over the place and along the seashore and had boat rides in the local dugout catamarans.

But no one goes to the Kenyan coast without visiting Lamu. It is a fabled Muslim town on an island (35 minutes by ferry) of very narrow cemented streets between tall, cool buildings. One could simultaneously touch both sides of a street most of the time and the town is small enough with the sea always peeping through a vista, for one not to be lost. The ex-pats who return year after year for a few months to escape the European winter all say “it is not like it used to be” and of course they are right. But they keep returning nevertheless and may catch less fish than before, but still enjoy the atmosphere and clear waters. My hotel room on the top floor overlooked rooftops and the sounds of family life below drifted upwards. If this BLOG is working correctly, there should be two photos taken of me on the boat which a charming Dutch woman and I hired for the day. Five nights there and I suddenly realized that time was running out!

Davey, a very good friend of Francis (I attended his wedding in Tuscany) will be in Nairobi at the beginning of April and we are going to Uganda together, so the western parts needed to be explored before then.

As a lover of train rides, it was a delight to take the overnight train to Kisumu on the eastern coast of Lake Victoria. Some of the staff remembered me from the Mombasa trips and the fact that I did not have their evening meal on my return. This was because the meal out was so bad (breakfasts were a delight) and I told them so when asked. This time I was unaware of the fact that I was the only paying diner, but the meal was great and I had a very attentive service; all alone in the dining car. This does not ignore the fact that there are only torches for light! Despite the need for updating parts of the service which was recently re-instated by a South African firm, that feeling of getting into crisp sheets on a bunk is so very evocative of my childhood in South Africa when we would have two nights of unbridled joy on the train to grandparents for the Christmas holidays.

Kisumu is a ‘coastal town’ and surely was a very busy little port at one time. There used to be a regular boat service to Kampala in Uganda, but today goods are taken from the train and then transported by road. To combat the dreaded malarial mosquito, Nile Perch were introduced into the lake. Instead of eating the insects, they soon eliminated over 30 species of unique Lake Victoria fish and then began to grow like Topsy. When I was there, a perch weighing 132kilos was caught. The record is over 200kilos. But it is the introduced flowering Hyacinth which has changed the lake forever. It was even more aggressive than the perch and in no time, vast areas of the lake were and still are covered by this noxious weed. OK, the flower is pretty. One can virtually walk on the thick foliage which floats on the surface of the lake. The most amazing sight though, and one I could not get enough of, was to see the whole area of the bay where Kisumu is just one of many towns, float past. It is like being in a vehicle and the countryside is passing by. Except that this time you are standing still and the landscape itself is moving past. Tomorrow, if the wind changes, the mass will move in the other direction… I remember seeing this on Lake Kariba in Zimbabwe many years ago, so it is nothing out of the ordinary, but at present it has stopped any form of boating activity. We did manage to get through a little passage one day on a dugout boat and the locals can fish to a limited extent, but once again ‘it is not like it used to be’.

In Kisumu I was taken over by members of an organization to which I belong called Women Welcome Women WorldWide (5W). What utter joy not to have to think! I was given bedspace and food and endlessly entertained so that the days merged and the many people to whom I was introduced, confused but not forgotten. Bless them all!

It was bliss though to be on my own once again after 5 days of such activity and I left for a pocket of Tropical Rain Forest which is the furthest east of the once vast forest that covered all of central Africa. Apart from some German scientists who were away on Safari and have a permanent camp nearby, I was the only person staying in the campsite of Bangas (huts) built for visitors. On my first day I had two Guided Walks: One very early to get to the look-out point to see the sun rise but also great for the sounds of awakening birds and primates. Later in the day, a 2 ½ hour nature trail which gave me the confidence the following days to explore on my own. The park is strictly guarded because it is such a precious piece of vanished forest and no woodgathering or poaching is tolerated. This is hard for the local people who live across the pathway from such lush wood and grazing gifts. One afternoon I was going down a path to a waterfall when I came across 5 armed Rangers standing around two frightened sitting women who had obviously been gathering wood. Later, on my return I had hoped to follow the track which went past their village, but the sound of screams and wailing and shouts coming from that direction made me think otherwise. I had not kept an eye on the path because I had intended to return via the track, so, with the sudden darkness that the equator brings on, it did not take me long to get totally lost. Without any whistle or medical aid in case my flimsy sandals gave way in the unexplored bush/tall grass, I was quite worried. Fortunately, after about ½ hour, I managed to find the edge on the forest and eventually the path which lead to the campsite. This was no big deal, but just proved to me how easy it is to get lost when you think you can manage. And as the rainy season has begun, I was completely soaked when the heavens opened with one of those tropical storms of lightning and thunder and very large drops of incessant rain for about 20 minutes. Afterwards, all is sweetness and light and the sky pretends that nothing untoward happened. Wrapped in a cloth and with a fire and hot drink, I soon felt very happy in my loneliness. By the way, the women will be so heavily fined that no member of the village can pay it, so they will go to jail for about three months and be told to do community work. Harsh, but necessary to protect the 9 primates, 280 bird species and up to 400 fantastic butterfly species inter alia.

Now in Eldoret (a name reminiscent of what? I keep asking myself. The Wild West? The Gold Rush?) and the internet is working and I am off to a local Video Cinema to see the only film which appealed out of a choice of 4 which I was offered.

News

2007-03-24T07:14:00.000-07:00

Just a bit more briefly - She is in Kenya, been travelling round the west and Lake Victoria and has finally found a copy of the piece she wrote about the fish parasite research... See next blog.

Intending still to eventually head South to South Africa...

Short update

2007-03-05T15:12:00.000-08:00

Bit of news here from Ingrid as my mum hasn’t been able to send stuff through for the blog for ages. She went on another road trip in Ethiopia to Bale and then made her way South to Kenya, called in to Nairobi and then got the train to Mombassa. At the moment she is heading Northwards up the coast towards the island of Lamu and has been swimming with dolphins and relaxing… Below is from one of her e-mails to us:

Not to worry, I am OK and do not have anything but dry skin from too much dipping in salty water. And no, I live in a small hotel with large room with two beds, tiled floor, loo/shower/mosquito net and great table for all things...writing/cardplaying/eating. Then I walk the few yards to the open, thatched roof space where I can overlook the creek and miraids of boats for miles, see the sun set over the creek/bush and eat and drink a beer. Really fabulous! Yesterday, as part of my 'fish research' I bought a very large 'flying fish' (pink with enormous fins like wings) and had that for supper. Otherwise, the owner suggests something in the morning and my special meal awaits me in the evening. And I need not even fold up the mosquito net! I am the only customer, so am treated royally....

Will leave tomorrow to go further up the coast towards Lamu, but might be back as this is such a heaven!

I am meeting Davey, Francis's friend who got married in Tuscany (Katy has kindly allowed him a month away) in April and we then go together to Kampala where I shall leave him and go on to Rwanda/Burundi. That is all the positive plans I have so far.

Visitors

2007-02-04T08:16:00.000-08:00

Ingrid, Pete and their friend Cathy (nicknamed IPC) arrived on the 18th December to spend Christmas and the New Year with me. You might imagine tinsel, holly, pine trees and lots of carols in the background. The reality was that the days merged into one and no celebrating took place. Conversely, when it was the Ethiopian Christmas on 7th January, the streets of Addis were awash with goats, sheep and cattle being slaughtered and butchered for the great celebration of the Orthodox Church after a period of fasting (eating no meat) for 40 days. Fasting Food (vegetarian), which had been so easy to order in any restaurant, was totally off the menu that day.

Their holiday here was different from the usual activity challenges in which they partake. No great mountains to climb, no rivers to paddle, no rock formations or ice to conquer nor caves to explore. Just endless dusty (and I mean DUST!) roads to survive within non-stop bumps and mind-boggling precipices. We traveled over 3,000km in 17 days which included 3 days exploring Lalibela and its surrounding churches and 5 days trekking in the Simien Mountains. The going had to be slow, not just because of the roads, but because of the animals on them. Endless herds of goats, donkeys and cattle in which the herders could not care less about moving them off the road, although they must have heard us approaching for many miles, were a constant swerve/brake applying hazard. We seemed to develop an affinity with certain types of animals. Wherever goats were, and they could also be seen in and on all kinds of vehicles, especially as the Ethiopian Christmas was approaching, Cathy was happy! I settled for the good old dependable donkey. It is so very long-suffering and patient and carries its load so diligently without objection to the constant harassment from the stick of its owner that I could only emphasize. It evokes a Biblical image which has not changed over the centuries. I was happy!

Ethiopia really is a magnificent country as far as the northern plateau is concerned. But one needs to see it from the road to appreciate the endless vistas which constantly took our breath away. The Italians had done a remarkable job of road-building within the 6 years of their occupation from 1936-41 and the war with Eritrea a few years ago also produced some good connections for troop movements. Despite these inconveniences and obvious limitations to a relaxing drive, there were continuing roadworks in many places, which augers well for the future.

Our driver, Osman, was excellent and he really did make the trip pleasantly carefree. One is so aware of the fact that a Guide in a country where one does not know the language, food, hotels or topography is invaluable. I did a 3-day ‘Tourist Guide Training Course’ in Lalibela (famous for its eleven rock-hewn churches in the centre of the village) over ‘our’ Christmas with some students from Addis and tried to constantly emphasis this to them. When one has never been a stranger in another country, it is difficult to understand the complexities of being unable to understand an unfamiliar culture. Unless there is someone to interpret, one can be floundering in the dark and therefore miss an awful lot. Three cheers for my profession! But, oh, my despair when I cannot understand their ’English’! Most of the students I have been working with think that a smattering of English is enough to qualify them as Guides. Osman was articulate and clear in his language. Such a relief!

Our extended stay in Lalibela was because the local Guides had invited me to do a course in Practical Tourist Guiding. We had agreed on a three-day intensive programme a month before and I had set tasks for participants to prepare. However, despite enthusiastic ‘registration’, the night before we and the three Addis students left to go north, they cancelled because they had obtained some work. I know the tug between having to balance possible work vs. a course when one is freelancing, but…… The local Hotels and Tour Operators had said they would give preference to students with my ‘certificate’. So the three Addis students and I had a very productive time together instead.

We were in Lalibela on our Christmas day when the ‘war’ against Somaliland started. Nothing surprising there as it had been building up for ages, although most of the world had probably not been aware of it. We sent e-mails to family to try and reassure them that we were in no way inconvenienced as it was thousands of miles away. I had scheduled a 90 minute climb up a hill to a rock-hewn cave monastery for the day, but as each of the three students had a different opinion about the ‘war’ and who had to do what and why, I used this difference of opinion as a very good teaching/debating tool for them. As so often in Africa, tribal loyalties and religious beliefs automatically divided the opponents. The climb up the hill took 4 hours instead. We were later than the usual tourist groups who all passed us going down by foot or on mule and it meant that we could see and hear a special service for women which regularly takes place after lunchtime. The women had climbed the mountain wrapped in their white natela (shawl) which they use when attending any church; some had small babies on their backs and were patiently waiting in a cave for the last of the tourists to leave. The priests rang bells and the ancient chanting from the Bible in Ge’ez started. To hear this sound coming from a cave in the mountain was quite magical.

By the time Lalibela was left and we slowly moved northwards to Gondar and Axum, we were all ‘out-churched’ and did not want to make the time to visit the Tigrean rock-hewn cave churches which required quite a climb or did not admit females. As well as this time-saving, we also decided to forego the Danakil Depression area to the east in the Afar Region where the desert sinks below sea level and the temperature can reach 50 degrees Celsius. It is in this area that the 3.2 million year old skeleton of ‘Lucy’, the oldest known upright-walking humanoid, was found. She can be viewed in the National Museum in Addis and was discovered whilst the Beatles song ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ was playing on the archaeologist’s walkman. Pete was mightily pleased as he does not like the heat and had already had to be very careful about sunburn in the high altitude of the Simiens. I like deserts and hope to go there one day on my ‘own’. This would involve two 4x4 vehicles, armed guards, guides and permits as well as transport on a camel. However, we followed the main road southwards through semi-desert on a good road and saw enough camels to satisfy us. Ingrid was happy! The road is used to convey troops to the Eritrean border rather than for cross-border visiting and another part of it is extremely busy with heavily laden trucks bringing goods from Djibouti, which now has an official Ethiopian cargo port, the only sea outlet for Ethiopia.. The ongoing border dispute with Eritrea means that a letter posted to that country from Ethiopia has to go via Italy.

In Gondar I left IPC to visit the 17th century palaces on their own. I had seen them before and liked them, but was afraid to build up their hopes in case they were disappointed in European-style stone buildings which were in a quite ruinous state in parts, although UNESCO had done some good restoration/conservation work. In the end, this was their favourite tourist site.

On to the Simien Mountains north of Gondar, where camping supplies were bought. IPC had brought along a cooking stove and sleeping bags, but at the entrance to the National Park, we needed to hire tents, a guide, 2 mules, 2 muleteers and an armed ‘scout’. The latter, as in so many other places, always had his AK47 slung over his shoulder. I never saw any of these ‘guards’ use their rifles, but they were familiarly comfortable with these items and obviously spent time cleaning and oiling them. My light-coloured canvas rucsac was kindly carried by ours and its strap has permanent oil stains on it to remind me of those unsavoury items. The scout would sit impassively with bended knees and AK47 at the ready and ‘guard’ us and our tents for hours. Unadventurously, we did not opt for the luxury trekking services which supply erected tents and meals at the camp sites with, tables, table-cloths and a chef wearing a white suit with chef’s cap. Trekking in the Simiens is one of the things one is expected to do in Ethiopia. One night I counted 46 tents in our campsite. Fortunately the escarpment space is large enough to accommodate most groups without one feeling crowded out. The weather was hot during the day and freezing during the night as expected. Early one morning I folded up my tent with sheets of ice still clinging to it. On our last night though, just after erecting tents, rain came down heavily for an hour and preconceptions of ‘but this is the dry season!’ were dispelled. We had to dig trenches around my and IP tents as theirs was especially vulnerable with holes in the groundsheet causing mini-fountains inside. The trekking was great though and IPC were very accommodating to this old lady. We regularly stopped for breathers, especially on the uphills where the steadily rising altitude to nearly 4000m caused one to pant much better. The scenery is breathtaking and justifies the effort, although most of the campsites are accessible by road. We did see the rare Walia Ibex on occasions, but our most common and plentiful wild animal was the Gelada Baboon. Pete was happy!

Sadly, the endless shaking about in the comfortable 4x4 meant that we were always ready for bed straight after supper. In Axum, I had hoped to be able to show IPC the 1600-year old granite Axumite stelae in the bright New Year moonlight, but we just collapsed into bed as usual. The mystery behind such sophistication in carving the hard stone and the transport and erecting of up to 500tonne single pieces is unsolved. The vast Axumite Kingdom is not well-known in the West and I had certainly never come across it before arriving in Ethiopia, yet it was incredibly powerful and influential between the Middle East and Africa for 100s of years until the 4th century AD when the then king converted to Christianity, thus making Ethiopia a very ancient and isolated Christian community which has not evolved like the rest of Christianity has. The church in Axum is the reputed ‘home’ of the real Ark of the Covenant, in case you are intrigued by ancient mysteries. Before visiting Ethiopia, one should read ‘The Sign and the Seal’ by Graham Hancock to get a sense of adventure about this country! Not like the Harrison Ford ‘Raiders’ stuff, but a good introduction. And because Ethiopia, with the very strong power/influence of the Orthodox Church insisted on keeping the Julian calendar when the rest of the world changed to the Gregorian one in the 18th century, they are getting ready to celebrate the true millennium in September this year. So just remember that the night when you were all celebrating, was just a rehearsal for the real thing nearly 8 years later!

Ethiopian National Parks are not what one expects. There are hardly any animals and the local people graze their animals inside quite openly, despite knowing that they should not. As far as they are concerned, quite rightly, they have used those grazing lands for centuries. In the Awash National Park, we paid for the obligatory two armed Guards (squashed into our vehicle) and were told that there had been quite a bit of excitement the previous night as a lion had killed one of the local cattle. The owner would not be compensated for this loss. Because of strife between the Afar and another local tribe, one could occasionally expect to hear of conflict fights. But we only came across the cattle herders and at one time were stopped by about 6 Afar men wearing their traditional clothes with fierce-looking knives. IPC say they were a bit alarmed and thought it could turn nasty (my eyes were in a Su Doko puzzle and I just smelt their body odor and the stench of the rancid butter they use in their hair), when they turned around and offered their knives as souvenirs. No doubt there is a little factory behind the bushes…

Because we had a camera between us, this report will probably be different from the others so far. I am still happy not to be burdened by the image that camera-owning evokes, although it is good to have some records; like our ‘broiling’ in Filwoha Hot Springs in the Awash Nat. Park. They are incredibly hot and beautiful, but a reminder of Fentale Crater a few km. away which still spews hot lava and rumbles although the last active explosion was about 200 years ago. This is of course part of the African Rift Valley which dissects Ethiopia and will eventually, after a few billion years, separate ‘the Horn’ from the mainland and provide Ethiopia once again with the sea outlet it lost to Eritrean independence.

When IPC arrived, they were laden with bags. The next morning my own Christmas began! (Cathy had had a proper one in Scotland with her family before she left and then a third Ethiopian one here as well. Can one call this greed? One never knows with the Scots…). It took me at least three meals to complete opening all the numerous carefully wrapped presents!!! What a lovely surprise! From 3 bottles of Marmite to a roll of sticky tape: Rolls of Trebor mints to packets of strong Cheddar Cheese; endless books and CDs/DVDs to wonderful jigsaw puzzles; Ingrid had meticulously photo-copied my address book which I had left in the UK and brought a small diary for 2007. All so thoughtful and essential. I recon there were at least 30 parcels to open. What fun! But when they left and Ingrid said “Mummy I worry about you”, I realized that our roles had been reversed and I was now being looked after by my daughter. If it means so many presents every Christmas, I am not complaining.

There are very many happy memories to treasure. I was spoilt and really appreciate their efforts to come out here. Just a pity that when they left they did not have the space to tuck a baby camel, goat and baboon under their arms.

Extract from an e-mail from the beginning of November

2007-02-04T08:15:00.000-08:00

I have been putting the cat amongst the pigeons with my report (I sent you the first draft just to let you know that I am doing other things) and have had quite a few positive responses from all walks of life. Have also now visited all 10 museums in Addis and collated their information to get a list for the students and also the local monthly free tourist magazine (like ‘What’s On’). Otherwise the students keep me busy and I have 22 two-page reports to read and assess for exam purposes. I am a real glutton for punishment! But I wanted them to present a subject as a ‘Guide’ for 5 minutes each, so gave them a list of subjects to write and talk about and the outcome is that I learnt a lot about Ethiopia!! We have also had very heated discussions. One was about Eritrea. As it was historically part of Abyssinia (now Ethiopia), the students are unwilling to let go, despite the Eritreans’ vote to be independent. So, the older people say ’let it be’ but the younger ones want to go and fight to reclaim it. Thus millions of dollars are being wasted in a futile aggressive action. In the Postal museum, I was shown how a letter to Eritrea has to go via Italy. When will mankind learn?! And of course, on the southern border with Somalia, the same nonsense is going on. This time with American aid as they have not forgotten their defeat by Somalia a few years ago, so want revenge. And I have learnt that most of the Live-Aid food 20 years ago went straight to Uganda where it was sold. There is apparently a book about that scandal. The only legacy is that the kids are all taught to beg for money much worse than in the rest of Africa. Yesterday I spoke to a man who is organizing the manufacture of impregnated Mosquito nets. This kills the mossie and deters others, so that many lives can be saved. The UN is buying 20million of these to distribute freely in Africa. But the very poor and vulnerable will no doubt be selling them in the market the following day. My informant told me this without a flicker of concern. If only they are asked to pay a few cents for them, they will not treat them like just another hand-out from the Western stooges -- maddening for me as I do not approve of all this free stuff constantly streaming into the country. That is why I like working for Habitat for Humanity as they only help people who are willing to help themselves. Sorry about this outburst!
Every day seems busier than the previous one and I wonder if I will ever get away in a few months’ time.. And I left my room this morning with terrible guilt feelings. I was playing bridge last night and returned too late to buy bread, so the birds woke me with their usual demand for food and I had nothing to offer. They walk into my room off the balcony through the French doors and my guilt is compounded….

ANOTHER LITTLE, BUT LONGER, EXCURSION

2007-01-08T05:13:00.000-08:00

Written before the 'war' with Somalia! Dec. 2006

Gosh, away two weeks and there is post with Christmas cards! One forgets in this country about this festivity as they only celebrate in January (the Julian Calendar also allow one to celebrate the true Millennium next September, don’t forget! The rehearsal 7 years ago was for this coming year’s true celebration). The Sheraton Hotel is the only place where wonderfully tasteful Xmas decorations have manifested themselves in Addis. But if there is anyone out there (and I am constantly surprised when someone casually remarks something about the blog and I am amazed to know they have read it), this come to you with my very best wishes for a jolly good Festive Season.

My work in the office of Habitat for Humanity Ethiopia is virtually over. I have translated into ‘good’ English whatever document or letter I could find. Leaflets have been redesigned and the large Manual prepared. How they are going to keep busy a USA volunteer who is coming for 9 months (all her living expenses to be paid by HFHE) and who does not speak the language either, I fail to understand. My cynicism about volunteers/volunteering and the often waste of good talent, continues. Here the policy is to employ local people and Faranjis are not really necessary. I was lucky to step in when I did, but was acutely aware that I was not really being fully employed. There is no house-building going on at present, so I cannot even get my hands dirty. Hence the chance to go off and do some exploring of Ethiopia. By the way, the National Director has just returned from a visit to Madagascar where he was “shocked by the poverty and pollution” (his words). Quite a statement when one thinks of the dreadful pollution in Addis and the signs of poverty wherever one turns. And, horror upon horror, he made final decisions about one of the leaflets, added more script and had it printed!!! Now my Proper English has once again been bastardized and I just cannot believe how tacky it is! Just what I have been fighting against!

We are supposed to be in a state of war with Somaliland within the week. To the North, there has been an ongoing border dispute with Eritrea despite the end of the war there a few years ago. To the south, the Omo People’s Liberation Front has been struggling for years to unify their claims on both sides of the border with Kenya where the Colonialists had divided their tribe in the 19th century (I was told that the two governments had come to a secret arrangement to stop this dispute by allowing their respective soldiers to cross the border in pursuit of ‘rebels’. A few weeks ago the Ethiopians killed three of these ‘rebels’ across the border.) The press is heavily censored and opposition leaders in prison. To the west, the freedom fighters for the Gambella region have been active for years. Two people were gunned down in Jimma (a town near to this area) a few weeks ago, according to ‘those in the know’. If one reads the Foreign Office email warnings that one can subscribe to, one will stay out of all these regions. But I have met enough travelers to know that all this has to be taken with a pinch of salt and that Faranjis are not a target and can cause more trouble than it is worth.

So off to Gambella with Fiker to see some of the west: The poor boy had a hard time with me as he had to be Guide, top-negotiator and translator, as well as meant to improve his English. He had never been to the west or even seen thick natural forests, so this was a good opportunity for him. I spoilt it by nagging him to improve his English, which just got stuck in bad grammar and unstructured sentences and the exercise book I bought for notes was not used. How dare I assume I can teach when I can only speak the language and have not taken a TEFL course?!

This western part of Ethiopia is full of natural landscapes, but not much of cultural value. Unless a tourist wants to see and visit villages, there is not much to justify the endless roads of bumps and delays. Privately owned vehicles are virtually non-existent. Only busses and trucks occasionally ply the roads, which are graded according to the expected daily usage; e.g. we were occasionally between major towns on RR (Rural Road) 50 roads, which mean that no more than 50 vehicles a day can be expected to use them. Our trip was a series of bus and truck journeys of varying comfort and speed. Fortunately only the first one from Addis had the usual mechanical problems. By breakdown No.8 the passengers were fed up and while Fiker and I were on our usual walk (I had decided to walk along the road and be picked up by the bus – mad Faranji! - when it is finally fixed), they had managed to commandeer another bus and get a 5Birr refund on the 39Birr tickets. Half the passengers remained and I decided to also sit it out to see what happened. We had only one other 2-hour breakdown and arrived 9 hours later than expected in Jimma. The road had been prepared for resurfacing for many hours. Large piles of grit littered the road and there was no sign of any road-working activity. It was as though the contractor for the grit had done his job, but the other contractors had disappeared off the face of Ethiopia. So bumps and delays (once we stopped right in the middle of the road and no traffic could go either way for over an hour) through glorious countryside where the final harvesting was being done and the cultivated fields turned into green tree-covered hills and valleys, gave one an opportunity to feel close to it all.

When we arrived in Jimma, after sitting/walking since 5am, it was midnight and we flopped into the nearest hotel without supper (the Ethiopians eat early). All these basic hotels are the same and are generally very cheap, but unfortunately I came up behind Fiker just as he asked the price, so we were charged 25 instead of probably 15Birr (one pound) each for our rooms. After that I learnt to hide in the shadows until he had determined the price of whatever hotel we decided to use. They are generally, by Ethiopian standards, very suitable: a large room with uncomfortable double bed, clean sheets, bottle of local water and potty under the bed, bedside cabinet and chair. Light bulbs are very dim as they do not read in bed… If you are lucky, a cold communal shower and the usual unspeakable toilet hole somewhere. The architecture, however, always left me frustrated because the rooms are generally in a long row off a verandah with only a window on the front entrance wall and a ‘compound’, which is often a restaurant/bar with accompanying deafening noise, in the centre. Note that I refuse to call their loud noise, ‘music’, although it can be pleasant when not so overwhelming, especially when one wants to sleep. Not to have windows to the back makes sense to deter burglars or non-paying guests, but it means that one cannot have the window open as there are no curtains and anyone can see/climb in. It is also just part of their culture to sleep in very dark, enclosed spaces, so my need for fresh air is not understood. Nor do Ethiopians understand the Western way of life and to them the only dirt is what falls on the floor. Walls, furniture and other surfaces are never cleaned or repaired once they are installed, so things are often grubby or non-functioning. But that is what one must accept if one wants to be a non-invasive tourist! I take a delight in leaving my small bar of hotel soap (saved from the Addis hotel where one gets a new bar every day) in the room, knowing that it is probably going to be thrown away as soap is an unknown. This is not true of course, but generally, for daily use, soap is not used. However, I have seen people bathing in rivers or dams, soaping their bodies, so this is a real prejudice on my part!

During one of our breakdowns on that first bus, the sun was setting and we were eventually walking along a deserted country road in total darkness. Fiker kept quiet, but when we eventually saw candlelight on the side of the road, we pounced on the tiny shop selling a few items. Little packets of dry biscuits were a welcome source of food. I wanted to continue, but Fiker insisted on walking back to the distant bus. Only then did I realize what fear he had been under. As a city boy, he was not used to the total dark and had been imagining wild animal attacks. Years ago in Ireland I had been told of two city girls taken out of Dublin for a ride one night. They were suddenly confronted by a dark world and became completely hysterical. So Fiker’s forbearance was admirable.

Jimma was once a capital city for the area and the 19th century king, Abba Jiffar, had a palace built on the nearby hilltop by an Indian Architect. He was king of the Kafar region and you can therefore deduce that we were in the original home of the coffee plant. We hired bicycles for the day and rode about town (the museum was inexplicably closed, although I suspect they do not have many visitors) and we cycled/pushed our bikes the 8km out of town to view the wooden palace. All sadly neglected, but as always, there are hopes of restoring it when a kind organization can offer the funds. The downhill return journey was difficult as the one brake each on either bike was not functioning well and the hills and gravel roads meant one could skid badly. My left wrist was sore for days!

That evening I decided to reward ourselves with a meal in the local tourist hotel which did Faranji food. The Jimma Centeral Jimma Hotel did us proud despite a sudden and violent downpour which struck the electricity and left us stranded and in candle-lit conditions. The ‘English’ menus are always a source of wonder and amusement. I had Fille steak centeral style with rise and vegetable. All it meant was a piece of tough beef which had been pounded into pieces, some rice and chips. I asked for the ‘vegetable’ they had promised and was reluctantly give some super, garlic-over-killed kale. The garlic gave me a sleepless night, or maybe it was the change from the usual goats’ meat. Fiker had Zebra shafe stick which, translated, meant that the meat was cooked in coffee (not that one could taste it or see the black and white effect), that it was the chef’s special and a piece of steak. These literal (?) translations without reference to spelling reflect the fact that in Amharic, there is no spelling rule and, with an alphabet of 33 letters, each of which can be written in 7 different ways, one can understand their lack of care when we make a fuss about spelling. I wish sometimes I had written down all the menu listings I have seen…. The other day, in my own hotel, I ordered beef boil, thinking that a bit of boiled beef would be a pleasant change from the usual stuff one gets in their meat dishes. What eventually appeared was a plate full of hard little balls of minced beef.

The tedium that is travel in Africa…. Another day of bus occupation followed until we had gone through the area of large coffee and tea plantations and ended up in the town of Tepi. We managed to arrange to be at the local government-owned coffee plantation for departure on a day-tour at 8am the next day. But there was no vehicle and after a few hours’ wait, we were told to return at 1pm. The guided tour was worth all effort to get there! As I had never seen coffee growing, everything was fascinating; from the types of trees to the rows of bananas on the edges of the plantations which are used to keep the monkeys happy so that they do not eat the small, sweetish coffee berries; the vast tree-cover to ensure that the coffee trees only get 50% sunlight was a delight and the fact that every bean is individually picked or picked up (the same of course applies to the collection of tea leaves) is just mind-boggling; the final operational buildings where the beans are graded, squashed to remove the outer husk, left in water to soften, washed and then finally separated and dried in the sun on wooden structures, was all new to me. Finally, in a shed, women were sitting on the floor and laboriously going through the dried beans to remove impurities. It does make one appreciate this wonderful bean! I once watched a street seller of freshly-brewed coffee fill a container of boiling water over a wood fire with the contents of a half kilo packet of freshly ground coffee. The little cups of coffee she then sold for one Birr were as good as any one can get in any smart coffee shop throughout the world. Somehow it does not seem right…

It took two days to get to our next destination; Gambella. The first bus took us to a village from which there was no further bus that day. Whilst patiently and optimistically waiting for some kind of transport, I bought a piece of material and then decided there was enough time for the tailor to make me a blouse. In India, I had done the same and my little Sikkim man had ‘knocked up’ a blouse in 5 minute. This tailor, with the Indian blouse in front of him, made a complete hash of the job and the more tried to correct things, the worse it got. So I have not yet worn it. But it saved getting bored and by 3.30 we were ready to get a hotel when a truck suddenly appeared. It was heavily loaded with enormous hard balls of beeswax. The area is famous for its honey and it was interesting to see the quantity of wax produced. It is one of Ethiopia’s major exports.
We had just settled in the back under a tarpaulin with other people and children when everybody was suddenly ordered out. I crouched in my corner on a sack of grain whilst a soldier and small child and I sat out the ‘inspection’ of the usual traffic police. But they had seen the personal belongings of the others and the driver was fined. Everyone knows what goes on, but one has to adhere to the pretence. This meant that Fiker and the others had to walk about 3 km along the road before they could join us again for the rest of the trip. And as the rain had been coming down very heavily, it was a bedraggled group who finally managed to get back on the back of the truck. We continued to pick up customers and arrived late at night, a bit sore and cold in a town where there would be a connecting bus to Gambella the next day.

The bus ride through dense tropical forest and then open scrub should have taken a few hours only, but when we arrived at the bridge which crosses a tributary of the Baro River, there were no other vehicles to create a convoy and we had to wait for hours for someone else to arrive to justify the convoy. The locals were about 40 soldiers (I had asked how many lived at this camp and was told that it is ‘top Secret’ information) and their ‘hangers-on’ like the women who cooked their food. Interesting to see how they can create a meal for about 60 people in their small tented areas. Mind you, it was ultimately only the usual injera and a lentil sauce.

In the mean time we could go down to the river and dangle our feet in the cool water. In no time the feet were being ‘attacked’ by small fish. Definitely the latest fashion for getting smelly feet cleaned! I caught one in a plastic bag for my ‘fish research’ but the locals did not even have a name for them and the species was christened ‘Hilda’s toe suckers’.

It was getting late and the soldiers finally decided that we should move on before the dark set in.

A truck with 9 gunmen outside (and probably 4 inside) led the way. Our ‘convoy’ was two busses and a truck. The cost of all this is mind-boggling, but I suppose it does give work to some people. After a few hair-raising minutes (and that is only because of the fast driving on the usual bumpy roads and sharp bends as we descended the plateau), we stopped and 4 soldiers crammed into the already overcrowded bus. This was our protection for the next hour or so. But as they could hardly hold on to the bars in the passageway, let alone look through the steamy windows (Ethiopians do not believe in fresh air), I doubt that we were very safely protected from the bandits or freedom fighters or whatever they want to be called, who are supposed to roam the hills. There has been ‘trouble’ in that area for years and one does hear about the occasional gunfight, but as far as I am concerned, all was peace and light.

Gambella is on the only navigable river in Ethiopia and was once used extensively for the transport of slaves (25,000 per annum) as it is close to the Sudanese border and the Baro joins the Nile on its way to Egypt. Today, at 526m above sea level, it is the home of a virulent species of mosquito which causes a very high rate of malarial deaths. It is also the sub-quarters of the UN Commission for Refugees or some such high-fuluten name. I did not see a faranji anywhere during the two days we spent there. On the evening of the first day, we were having a beer by the riverside, watching the extensive riverine birdlife and the sun setting over the water. A vehicle with a loudspeaker was hailing the people to tell them that the next day would be a holiday and they must go to the Stadium grounds to celebrate the anniversary of the ratification of the New Constitution. Across the river is the longest bridge in E. (as we were constantly and proudly told) and we could see the man in charge of the police force training his men to march in step. They just could not master it and the next day, at the official parade everyone attended, as he proudly led them, he was constantly looking back at his marching troops to check if they were in step. They were not.

The night we arrived we had a meal and were charged double what it should have been. On reflection the next day I was not going to let them get away with it and went to speak to the manager. He was furious that I had been treated like this and the waiter was summoned. Sadly, although the waiter confessed and gave us back the money, the manager stripped him of his money-apron, slapped him around the head and dismissed him. I had nightmares after that as I could only imagine the man being unemployed in an area where there is no work anyway. Have I caused the starvation of yet another family?

We spent days visiting the tribal villages of the Nuer and Anuwak which are within the town. These tribes have distinctive building styles, clothes, habits (the Anuwak are great smokers of tobacco through a gourd water pipe) and tribal body-markings. However, they are both very dark, very thin and very tall. We attended the parade to celebrate the 5th anniversary of the Ethiopian Constitution (anything for a party!) and for the first time in my life I felt short in a world of tall people! It was held on the stadium grounds and there was not a white face to be seen. Usually some dignitaries would attend and sit for hours in the hot sun on the podium, but I suspect the UN Faranjis knew when to keep away! The last time I was so surrounded by a mass of people was in Athens in the 1960s when the vast crowds swept one along in their frenzied anti-govt. mood. This was a happy crowd using the excuse of a holiday to have a jolly good time. Small groups of people would have their own dress and music and dance for hours up and down the streets and around the parade ground. Speeches were often ignored while everyone just danced and sang.

I had met a member of Women Welcome Women World Wide (5W) in Addis when she went there for a course and she had invited me to visit her in Dembi Dollo, a village not far from Gambella. To get there though, would involve two days as one would have to return on the ‘protected road’ to the original town we set off from and then get a bus back to this village. The other alternative was to find a truck that might be doing the short-cut route on a very bad road through bandit country. Neither of those two elements arose, although Felik admitted that he was scared throughout the trip and I just never thought of it. I was well into reading ‘The Balkan Trilogy’ with its wonderful descriptions of the Romanian peasants, the starvation, the begging, the homelessness, the fear…. And one could but reflect on the African situation which is just mirroring what Eastern Europe was like a few years ago.

Staying in a ‘Western’ house for a change was very pleasant! Hana and her husband had been influenced by a German nurse who had been working in the local hospital and eventually married an Ethiopian. She returned to Germany with her family and left her house to the newly married couple. They had been taught many of the western ways and I reveled in being able to peel onions, lay the table, play with the dogs, sweep the floor and make beds. All the domestic chores I have not been doing for so many months! And then to lay in the garden and read peacefully or go for long walks, was just what a holiday is all about.

To get back to Addis took two more days of bus-riding. Not something to be recommended when there is really nothing much to see or do after so many cramped hours. But I am glad I did go west, if only to say that it needs a lot of hours to see very little.