Holland and East Africa: 2008

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Reflections

The last week has been busier than I expected. Packing is actually a ton of work. I have always had the idea that when you moved, your earthly belongings magically jumped into boxes, and then a big truck came and then you got on the plane.

How little I knew of how much work my poor mother did when she moved across the ocean eight times with two young children.

I have had very little time to actually reflect on the complexities of the trip-- what I learned, how I changed, where I will go from here. And thus, in this brief respite from packing, I will try to formulate a fair précis on the above topics.

The most important thing I learned about the world is how complex the world really is. When I was in my final year at McMaster, I took a course called "The Anthropology of Globalization". It delved into the deep human elements of the increasingly interconnected globe. For example, we examined the cultural implications of the expansion of McDonald's restaurants into Russia, and explored the social ramifications of global internet networking for Indonesian Chinese. When I went on this trip, I realized that there are literally thousands of ways in which cultures from opposite sides of the world interact.

One poignant example of this was in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Eastern Congo, as I alluded to earlier, is one of the most unstable (read: underdeveloped) regions in Africa. However, on the streets of Goma, you will see people wearing nice jeans, expensive Nike shirts, and swanky sunglasses. I asked Mary Tennent, our UN friend, how these people could afford such things. She said that oftentimes, young people will skip meals to save money so that they can shop at the used clothing markets held regularly in the city. These used clothes come from-- you guessed it-- North America and Europe.

Why on earth would someone value a branded "Western" appearance more than food-- a basic, primal need? For that, one must simply look at the Coca-cola advertisements in East Africa, with their uber-cool, western-attired black subjects drinking in happiness underneath a guarantee of refreshment. Or one could look at the Westerners who visit the Congo. At the border, we met three American public health students entering the country, attempting to save the Congo with their Gucci sunglasses.

So the "West" obviously influences the "rest". But the inverse is also true.

In a fascinating display of irony, Westerners view people who attire themselves with East African jewelry or decorate their homes with East Congolese wood carvings as having refined taste. I'm sure more than one person has gone into credit card debt at Pier One or The Bombay Company in pursuit of such taste. I have half a mind to set up a "carvings for clothes" donation program.

People are incredibly complex beings, and their cultures are even more so. In spite of all that we experienced-- the bright colours and dancing of Maasai warriors, the drummers of Butare, the foods of Kenya-- there are so many cultural nuances that we missed. Things that outsiders may never fully understand, like how most women feel about their mothers-in-law, or exactly what most orphaned street children think about white tourists.

Which brings us to the second point-- how have I changed? I entered East Africa as a white "mzungu" tourist (or undoubtedly "chinois" in the opinion of several young Rwandans). How did East Africa change this mzungu?

First, I learned to mix friendliness and healthy cynicism in more appropriate proportions. I came as an overly trusting person, and got burned a couple of times by street touts. I left as a person who could hold his own at a negotiating table.

Second, I got tougher. I've never had a terribly strong constitution (my euphemism for wimpiness), but during this trip I had to man up. We could start with the 17-hour bus ride when I had food poisoning, add in some hypothermia-inducing cold showers, sprinkle in some incredibly itchy tsetse fly bites, and finish with horrible, horrible beds. I did complain at times, but for the most part, I just sucked it up and dealt with it.

Finally, my life was enriched by meeting some incredible African people. One person in particular stands out-- Ibra Mugembe, our world-class kayak instructor in Jinja, Uganda. He has an incredible story. When he was in his early teens, he was a fisherman on the Nile river. He decided to pursue an education and finished his O-levels (the Canadian equivalent of about Grade 10). During this time, he still worked in order to provide for himself, his widowed mother, and his younger brothers and sisters. Ibra then availed himself of the opportunity to become a safety kayaker with a rafting company in the area, learning to run the white water with technical skill and great finesse. He then became a kayak instructor for Kayak the Nile. Last year, at the age of 23, Ibra won the overall title at the Nile River Festival kayaking competition. The Nile River Festival is an international competition held in Jinja which, in 2007, included four of the world's best paddlers-- Karl Moser, Anton Imler, Steve Fisher and Sam Ward. Ibra in a kayak is inspiring to watch--and he is an inspirational human being at that. He hopes to attain a work visa to teach kayaking on the Ottawa River during the summer while his girlfriend completes a Master's of Public Health in the USA. If anyone knows of any kayaking schools needing instructors, please feel free to email me (jng4@hotmail.com).

Having been thus changed and enriched by my experiences in Africa, I plan on returning there in due time. I would love to spend more time on the welcoming, sunny "dark continent". When I return there, I hope to have more than when I left in June-- healthy cynicism, a stronger constitution, friends to visit, and medical skills to use.

And the wisdom to pack lighter.

Friday, August 8, 2008

My sincere apologies. . .

Friday, July 25, 2008

The exclamation point

In any good story, there has to be a plot. You can't put the most amazing bit of the story at the very beginning, or readers will lose interest. So we decided to do something crazy to wrap up our last full week in East Africa.

The Nile River is the longest river in the world. It starts in Uganda at Jinja, and winds its way through southern Sudan and Egypt before entering the Mediterranean Sea. And when it starts at Jinja, it starts with a roar. The white water here includes some of the best rapids in the world for rafting and kayaking.

Our initial plan was to just do rafting. So, on Monday, after coming from Kampala (our stopover point on the way from Lake Bunyoni), we started on a 31-km trip down the Nile on a 16-foot raft with 6 new friends and an experienced guide. The rapids were terrifyingly powerful, and our raft flipped at the top of a rapid called Silverback. This rapid is essentially the largest Class Five rapid on the river. Class Five rapids are the most dangerous rapids that can "safely" be attempted in a raft or kayak. Thus, the minute I spent under the boat was a fairly long one, the sensation being much like spending time in a large washing machine.

We were hooked. By the end of the day, we were tired but exhilarated.

So the next morning, we decided to do a 145-foot bungee jump into the river, and then we set out for the local kayak school (http://www.kayakthenile.com/).

For the next two days, we learned the techniques of kayaking-- paddling, balancing, righting ourselves when flipped, the last being a monstrously difficult task for a beginner. Kyle had a leg up on Rimas and me since he at one time was an avid kayaker in Canada. We went down some fairly challenging Class Two rapids, and more than once had to get out of the kayak and swim upstream. Thank goodness for our teacher Ibra, a phenomenal kayaker and a member of the Ugandan National Kayaking Team. He pulled us out of the water upstream of some big rapids more than once.

By the third morning of kayaking, I was beat. My body could not physically take any more, so I decided to take the afternoon and the next morning off. Which brings us to today, my morning off before heading down to Super Hole, a Class Three wave typically used for surfing. Surfing in a kayak is nearly identical to surfing on a board, except for the fact that the wave stays in the same spot. This allows one to do tricks, but so far the best trick I can manage is trying not to flip.

On Sunday, we will head back to Kampala, and from there take a bus to Nairobi. We fly out of Nairobi on Thursday. I will miss East Africa terribly, but can't wait to see all of you again when I get back.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Monkeys, Trees, Languages, and Volcanoes

Wish you were here

Dear everyone,

I write the above comment with the utmost sincerity. I wish every one of you could experience the richness of Africa as we have done in the past weeks.

The history buffs among you would be thrilled by the life-sized replicas of traditional Rwandan dwellings that we saw at the National History Museum in Butare. Or entertained by the fact that ownership of a country's royal drum technically conveys ownership of a country-- and Burundi's royal drum is owned by the Rwandan National History Museum.

The linguists among you would be amazed by the complexity of the Rwandan language. The length of the vowels in a word give its meaning. Therefore the word "Bayisigiye" has 32 different meanings depending on which vowels are stressed. No wonder the Rwandans are so good at French-- it's easy compared to their native tongue.

The nature lovers among you would be absolutely blown away by the 80-meter-tall mahogany trees that populate Nyungwe Forest. Nyungwe forest is the largest mountain rainforest in Africa, and is located southwest of Butare. And if the trees weren't enough, the many species of primate in the forest provide endless entertainment.

The public transport lovers among you (I know, you're few and far between) would be thrilled by the ride along Lake Kivu from Cyangugu to Gisenyi. The scenery is beautiful, and is perfectly accompanied by the sounds of dozens of Rwandans breaking into beautiful 3-part harmony halfway through the 12-hour trip in order to pass the time. Singing about the love of Jesus in Kinyarwandan never felt so fitting. It helped to forget the 100-meter cliff drops that we kept narrowly avoiding.

But all of you would be simply stunned by Nyiragongo Volcano. The volcano is located in Goma, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). The DRC is not a place you just visit-- it has been racked by civil war and violence since the Rwandan genocide, and it is always a risk to travel there. However, we met up with a UN friend (Mary Tennent) whom we originally met on safari in Kenya and we stayed at her house in Goma. We then spent one day scaling the volcano, and we reached the edge of the caldera at around 2pm. The volcano has the largest lava lake in the world, and the 200-meter drop into the crater does little to lessen the roaring sound the bubbling lava creates. We spent the night at the crater rim, and then descended back down to the base.

Mary picked us up and we spent the day at her house recovering from the climb. In the evening we went out for dinner and then sat in her living room discussing politics over Schmirnoff.

The next day (today) we crossed back into Gisenyi, Rwanda, and then made our way up into Uganda.

I wish you were all here to see how beautiful Lake Bunyoni-- the lake of "many little birds"--is for yourselves.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Pathos

Yesterday we visited the Kigali Memorial Center, which provides testimony of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. Having read quite a bit about the genocide, I was quite interested in seeing the way it would be presented for Rwandans and for visitors from the world beyond. It was powerful-- the stories of pure evil and the stories of survival created a cauldron of emotional upheaval. On the one hand, the total depravity of man is proven beyond a doubt, but on the other hand, there are glimmerings of light that inspire hope. There is one room in the memorial where there are the battered skulls and femurs of victims displayed behind glass. The room is dark, but after a moment of adjustment, the faint images of murdered children projected onto the black walls become visible. I spent a moment in silent meditation contemplating how it was all possible.

I then realized that every person we meet on the streets that is over the age of 14 has endured some of the most unspeakable tragedy. It is a sobering and humbling thought.

Upstairs in the memorial are life-sized photographs of children, with placards displaying their favourite toys, favourite foods, and their best friends. I was particularly struck by the portrait of a young toddler whose best friend was his older sister.

The children memorialized as such were all killed during the genocide.

So many names, so many faces, so many husbands, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends. All dead. Or all perpetrators.

What has amazed me the most about the Rwandan genocide is how the people have recovered. How people are living normal lives, living amongst the people who killed their loved ones, or living with the guilt of murder or collaboration.

Rwanda is therefore a model for healed ethnic relations. One of the mechanisms set up to promote healing are "Gacaca courts", or traditional village courts, modified to hear the crimes of the guilty and provide closure for victims. This is one of the only modern genocides to have such a rapid and thorough implementation of justice.

But there are no trite lessons to be learned. No "moral of the story". The genocide is simply a reminder that monsters lurk inside every one of us, and that it is only by the grace of God that they remain shackled.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Quick update

So I don't have anything interesting-- just food poisoning. Such a banal diagnosis for all of the suffering I had to endure. But I'm feeling almost completely better now that I've popped a couple of cipro's.

Just thought I'd let you know.

-Josh

Sunday, July 6, 2008

A picture is worth a thousand words

This text may be brief-- for several reasons:

1. I am using a French keyboard in Kigale, Rwanda so all of the letters are in the wrong spots.

2. I think I have giardiasis, so I might have to run.

3. This is a fast internet connection; so I can finally upload some pictures

So, since the last post, a lot has happened. We left Nungwi and headed down to Stone Town. Stone Town is the hub of Zanzibar-- where all of the trade in slaves, ivory, and spices occurred back in the 19th and early 20th centuries. We spent some time exploring the town before digging into a hostel for the night. Our hostel had a fan, air conditioning, mosquito nets without holes, and a TV. We were definitely spoiled that night, and thus we chose to eschew futher exploration in the historic city in favour of watching a horrible Hallmark movie and two episodes of Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel. While that may seem criminal to some, bear in mind that we have been living in comparative squalour for the past weeks, with showers so cold they would horrify hardened infantrymen, rather sketchy neighbourhoods, and Goldilocks-style extremes in mattress firmness.

The next day, we went on a spice tour. A huge part of Zanzibar's economy was, and to some extent remains, based on the production and export of spices. We visited farms where ginger, cardimon, nutmeg, cloves, and many other spices were grown, and then we were treated to a lunch of coconut-based, well-spiced curry with basmati rice, prepared freshly by local women. In the evening, we went to a restaurant called Mercury's, named after Freddy Mercury (the lead singer of the group Queen) who was born in Stone Town. Fairly inconsequential trivia, but now you know.

We then took the overnight ferry back to Dar Es Salaam (it was half price-- and this way we didn't need to get a room for the night). In Dar, we booked bus tickets to Shinyanga, a city on the other side of Tanzania. We then took a bus to the mall. Yes, Dar Es Salaam has a modern mall, and yes, we're horrible people for spending our time in it. We watched a movie on "the biggest screen in East Africa", and then took a tuk-tuk back to the YMCA, where we spent the night. We were supposed to wake up at 4:30, to be at the bus station for 5:30, but we definitely slept in until 5:30.We stuffed our belongings haphazardly into our bags, ran downstairs, and caught a taxi. Dar Es Salaam has a huge problem with traffic jams, but thankfully at 5:30 in the morning, the roads were fairly clear. There was ridiculous congestion right outside the bus station, so we decided to get out of the cab and make a run for it. As we were unloading our luggage, a man came up to Kyle and tried to sell him bus tickets. Kyle felt the guy go for his wallet, and started the chase when the theif was a mere 6 feet away. He was joined by several other bystanders, and the pickpocket knew his gig was up. He threw the wallet back at Kyle and continued running. Of course, I was in the taxi paying the driver, unaware of everything, so when I got out of the taxi, I was mildly ticked off that Kyle had just up and left all of our stuff on the street. But he came back, we ran for our bus, and managed to make it on.

In East Africa, when they say a bus takes 12 hours, it will really take 18. And thus it did. That, combined with my aforementioned gastric difficulties (beginning to blossom at this stage), provided for an enjoyable ride.

From Shinyanga, we took another 8 hour bus (the next day) to the Rwandan border, and then took a 3 hour shared taxi ride into Kigale. In the taxi, we met a Katelyn Maher, a native of Buffalo, New York, doing a Master's degree in public policy at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. A fluent francophone, she was entering Rwanda in order to administer a poverty survey in and around the Kigale area. I like to think my French is decent, but I am definitely not able to negotiate exchange rates with Katelyn's flair. It definitely did the trick-- we got a solid 545 Rwandan Francs for each of our US dollars.

Rwanda, le Pays de Milles Collines, the land of a thousand hills, is stunning. Kigale is the most pleasant large city we have been in yet (apparently due to post-genocide foreign investment), the people are friendly and helpful, and they don't expect anything in return. One Rwandan student who we met, Gaston, walked with us for half an hour to the Canadian embassy, and wouldn't even take a few hundred francs for a taxi back to his house. He said he needed the exercise.

The next day, I went to the hospital. The night had not been fun-- I had spent nearly as much time with the porcelain as with the cotton. Some tests were performed (the results still pending at the time of writing), but hopefully by tonight I will have some answers as well as some solutions. We did not attend church this morning (I felt far too uncomfortable, and Kyle would have had a fun time with the French and/or Kinyarwandan sermon). But we will definitely do some bible study tonight, eat a light dinner, and hope that tonight's sleep is a little more sound.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

"Land of Contrasts"

Clichés rarely make good titles, except when they're completely true.

Our Lonely Planet guidebook stated that Nungwi, on Zanzibar's northern coast is a place where "old and new collide at full force". There is a narrow road in Nungwi that separates a 50-metre-wide band of coastline from the town. On the one side of this road are white sands, people to match, lots of beer, turquoise waters, and frequent offers for marijuana from enterprising locals. On the other side is an overcrowded muslim school where children learn in three shifts, their teachers teaching from sunrise till 8pm. There are also small stone houses with thatched roofs, little girls running through the streets wearing their hijabs, and small street "restaurants" selling delicious food at incredible prices. But the same striking blue sky can be seen from either side.

On Thursday we went snorkelling out on the Mnemba atoll. The choppy two-hour ride on a motorized dhow boat was nothing short of nauseating, but it was well worth it. When we got to the atoll, our captain told us we could jump out, set the anchor, and then fell asleep. The other people snorkelling with us were on an overland trip from Cape Town, South Africa, to Arusha, Tanzania. They were a rowdy bunch, but fun. They hailed from Brazil, Australia, the UK, Norway, and Canada. The reef was fantastic-- the fish were the most stunning shades of blue, red, yellow, and every other colour in between. I lost count after 34 species of fish.

In the evening, we brought our new friends into the town for some local cuisine, and then had a couple of beers while watching Spain solidly trounce Russia. I am not a vindictive person (or so I tell myself) but I did enjoy seeing Russia bite the dust. At half time, our entire group burst into a carefully orchestrated rendition of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody", but the very serious football crowd did not seem to appreciate our efforts to entertain them. Kyle and I noted that while everyone in the bar was white, there was standing room only at the bar's entrance-- the black locals who could not afford drinks were not allowed to enter, creating this very strange apartheid-era ambience. It felt very strange leaving the bar and then entering again past the crowd at the entrance

Friday was another beach day (although we spent a lot of time in the shade-- Wednesday was rough on the skin). And today, Kyle and I enjoyed our first foray into scuba diving.

But that story will have to wait, because I have exactly one minute and twelve seconds left of computer time.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

The Sands of Paradise

After we visited Amboseli National Park, our driver took us to Namanga, a Kenyan town on the border with Tanzania. We got Tanzanian visas, and then took a shared taxi down to Arusha. Our driver Joseph had called his "friend" a Tanzanian safari tout, who unfortunately met us at the border and harassed us about booking Kilimanjaro treks all the way down to Arusha. Kyle and I have had many discussions about how much we loathe being pestered in every large city by about 30 men telling to come to their office to book treks and safaris. Kenya and Tanzania would do well to ban touting, as they harass tourists without providing any legitimate service.

In Arusha, we met Rimas, a Lithuanian-American engineering grad who has spent the last three months backpacking from Cape Town, South Africa. We split a room with him, and paid 5000 Tanzanian shillings each (about $4.50) per night. We had fantastic Indian food for dinner (there is a significant Indian cultural influence in Tanzania).

The next day, we met four more travellers. Tom Garth and Imogen Evans were two students from King's College London, and Marthe Kok and Jessica van den Toorn were from the University of Utrecht. They had all been in a bus crash earlier in the day, and had bonded amongst the shards of broken glass. Buses here are crazy, and the drivers think it's perfectly okay to pass petrol tankers blind on hills. We all went out for dinner in the evening, to a Chinese restaurant that Kyle and I suggested. We partially suggested it because we knew it had nice toilets that we could steal toilet paper from (it really sucks when you have to do a number two in the middle of the night, and the squat toilet doesn't have any paper).

On Monday morning, we took the 6am bus down to Dar Es Salaam. We passed through the striking Usambura Mountains on the way down, and removed layers of clothing as the air heated up due to the drop in altitude. We spent the night in Dar at the YMCA. Dar Es Salaam has the most amenities of the cities we've been to thus far, and it didn't take us long to find a nice bookstore, and an electronics shop where I could purchase a card reader. We did, however, almost get robbed. Kyle and I hopped over a two-foot-high fence. Fifty meters down the road, someone tapped me on the shoulder and told me he needed to talk to me. His friend presented an obviously fake police ID (complete with construction paper and a pasted-in passport photo). They told me and Kyle that we needed to follow them so they could press charges. Kyle and I backed away, and he scolded us for not showing respect. I said "Sorry, it won't happen again", and started speed-walking down the road to the YMCA (it was a stone's throw away from where we were). They thankfully didn't follow us, and we heard nothing further from them. This is apparently fairly common in this part of the world, where people pretending to be cops ask naive tourists to follow them, and then mug them in dark alleys.

The next morning, Kyle and I caught the ferry to Zanzibar. The ride was supplemented with dolphin sightings, turquoise waters, and numerous old dhow fishing boats. From Stone Town, a medieval city with narrow, incredibly random streets, we took a Daladala to Nungwi, a town on the northernmost tip of the island. A Daladala is basically a truck with a roof over the truck bed and a bench running along the sides. At one point, there were twenty-two people in the truck bed, and the driver was going at about 100 kph.

But it was all worth it. At first glance, Nungwi is just another poor Tanzanian town. But when you pass through the dilapidated town and reach the coast, you know why people come here. Fine white sands cover the coast, and the turquoise waters are just cool enough to be refreshing. And the sunsets--you simply have to witness them to believe their beauty.

We will be staying here for a while.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

The vicissitudes of life

Vicissitudes-- those sweeping changes in our lives that inspire both trepidation and excitement. The sort of changes both of us backpackers will experience in a couple of months when we encounter new schools, new environments, and new people. But vicissitudes can wait, because we are on safari.

The first stop on our safari was Hell's Gate-- a national park with sheer rust-coloured cliffs, an abundance of wildlife, and the equatorial sun. Oh, and dust. It is currently the dry season in this part of the world, and so any movement down any non-paved road stirs up clouds of fine powder. Which has incidentally been terrible for my asthma. Our Maasai guide at Hell's Gate took us through the gorge, a massive crevice in the sandstone carved out by runoff during the wet season. Boiling-hot sulphur-laden water springs from the walls of the gorge, heated by a lava pool which is close to the surface of the earth.

In the evening, we took a boat trip through Lake Naivasha, passing within 10m of resting hippos in the water. By the time we saw w the 10th species of bird in half as many minutes, I was struck with amazement by the incredible biodiversity of Kenya. I have been more stunned every day by the sheer species richness in Kenya's national parks, a quality fostered by federally and community-funded conservationism.

I got sick in Naivasha. My lungs were congested, I got chills, and I had trouble sleeping. So, the next day, when I saw a Doctors Without Borders truck parked outside a coffeeshop and a physician having coffee outside, I took my chance. The physician's name was Radeke. She was a Czech doctor presumably serving in the Internally Displaced Persons' camp near Hell's Gate. IDP's are domestic refugees- people fleeing strife in their home towns but who do not cross national borders. IDPs typically suffer immensely because they do not receive the same level of funding or attention as trans-national refugees. I introduced myself to Radke and asked her for medical advice. She said that I could start taking ciprofloxacin to clear out my lungs if I had an infection. So I popped a cipro, 10 minutes before the bumpy, 6-hour van ride to Maasai Mara National Park. Big mistake. Anyone who has taken cipro before will agree that it's hard on the stomach-- and no one in the van was lacking in the nausea deparment to begin with.

But we all survived, and we arrived in the Mara region in time to see the sun set behind rolling grass hills dotted with majestic acacia trees. The next seven days, spent in Maasai Mara, Samburu, Lake Nakuru, the Mount Kenya Region, and Amboseli National Park, are best told in a series of tableaux.

The Mating Lions

A huge male lion, with a sleek tawny coat, a gorgeous mane flowing with the wind, and powerful haunches, stands beside a leafy thronbush. His mate, a strong lithe cat, lays beside him. They have left their pride in order to procreate, and will mate three times per hour until they return to the group. No wonder they look tired.

The Matriarch

The light of decades of experience in her eye, she guides the herd with strength and majesty. She is wary of the safari van and steps between it and her herd. She will not feast on the grass with her herd until the van has moved on and all mothers and babies are safe.

The Big Boss

At over one tonne, and with a huge horn built for agression, the white rhino has nothing to fear from a van full of people with cameras. But a hint of underlying insecurity causes him to stand up and shake his horn at us--a clear sign he wants us gone. We clear out, but not before getting some fantastic shots.

The Hunted Hunters

Five safari vans line up along the road, their inhabitants peering out across the plain. Two cheetahs sitting under a tree cautiously peer back at them. The female bears a confused expression, as if to say "Hun, can you go ask those people what they want?"

Stuck in the Swamp

Life kind of sucks when you're a little wildebeest. Especially when you fall in the swamp. You can't swim, you can't walk, you can only pull yourself up laboriously onto the next chunck of floating grass, only to fall into the muddy water again on the other side of it. But, on the bright side, you're almost out, and at least the lions are busy terrorizing another herd on at the other side of the park.

Constant change dominates the lives of animals in East Africa. The land dries up, food runs out, predation threatens survival. So they move-- they embrace change and live. And thus we shall do, but not until August.
_______________

P.S. Sorry there's no pictures-- this is the third internet connection I've tried for uploading pictures, but the page always times out before I can upload anything. You might all have to wait until I get back to see the pictures. Which sucks, because there's some amazing vistas that I want you all to see.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

The Dust of Kibera

Dennis (right) and Richard (left)

When we got off the airplane in Nairobi, we were greeted by Dennis. Persistent, keen, but incredibly helpful Dennis. Dennis is a travel operator licensed and paid by the government to meet tourists at the airport and provide them with free information about travel highlights in Kenya. This program was started after the recent violence led to a severe drop in the number of foreigners traveling to the nation. Our guidebooks, as well as our families and friends had basically told us to be critical of people, suspicious even, and thus that is what we were. But Dennis helped us book a hotel and drove us there for a reasonable price. While in the taxi, we learned that he is a father of three children, aged seven, four, and one and a half, and that he lives with his family just outside the city. At the hotel, he told us he would come by in the morning, see how we were doing, and then help us book a safari. I was a bit annoyed by his persistence, and I doubted that he would actually show up in the morning. But he did. He was waiting for us when we finished breakfast at 10am.

So we went with him. He took us downtown to a travel office, where we met with a tour operator who showed us a beautiful 10-day safari itinerary for a reasonable price. We were originally going to do our safaris in Tanzania, but then there was Dennis. So Kenyan safari it was. Apparently this new government program works.

We went downstairs to get money for the safari from an ATM, and when I came upstairs I thought I heard a familiar voice. I quickly dismissed that as nonsense, but when the girl speaking turned around, I couldn’t believe who it was. It was Jessica Liauw, traveling with Rob Ciccarelli, and a guy called Ryan. I went to school with Jess and Rob in the Health Sciences program at McMaster University, and I took a few classes with Jess. What are the chances, what with all of the cities in the world and all the tour operators in Nairobi? I still can’t quite believe it. We may even be going on safari with them tomorrow (they hadn’t decided by the time I saw them last this afternoon).

After that, we went for a traditional Kenyan lunch with Dennis and his colleague Richard. We ate ugali (a doughy, starchy roll made simply from maize flour and hot water) with chicken stew and sukuma (a local green vegetable). During lunch, we chatted with Richard, whose family was hit hard by the recent violence in the Rift Valley region of Kenya.

In Kenya, there are two major political parties—the Party of National Unity (PNU) and the Orange Democratic Movement (ODM). The last president of Kenya, Kibaki, was a member of the PNU party. From what Richard said, the people were tired of his politics, which apparently favoured the rich and ignored the poor. Thus, the majority of Kenyans voted for the ODM, led by Raila Odinga. Odinga is a 62 year old, more socially oriented politician whose parliamentary constituency includes the Kibera slum outside Nairobi, the second largest slum in Africa after Soweto in South Africa. The inhabitants of the slum are said to number upwards of one million.

Thus, when the former President Kibaki secretly and quickly had himself sworn in as President (a marked departure from the normal political procedure), the people were sure he had stolen votes. The areas most outraged by this maneuvering were the Great Rift Valley (an ODM stronghold), as well as the coast and the Western province. In the midst of the violence, Richard’s family home as well as those of several of his brothers were burned to the ground. Since the region has a primarily subsistence economy, families simply cannot afford the 35-40,000 Kenyan Shillings (around 550 USD) to rebuild homes with steel roofs and concrete foundations. In addition, many of them are too afraid to return home in the first place. Thus, thousands of people in the Rift Valley region are living in internally displaced persons’ camps, depending on non-governmental organizations and relatives working in Nairobi to survive.

Richard said that perhaps after we have completed our travels through East Africa, he and I could partner up to create a non-governmental organization to bring relief to these people. I might just take him up on it.

After our delicious lunch (eaten with our hands, “like the locals” as Dennis said), we were given several options as to what to do in the afternoon. I asked if we could see Kibera. Richard said that we could, but that we would have to hire security to accompany us on our walk through the slum. We paid Richard the requisite 7000 shillings (100USD) for him (the guide), Dennis (the driver), and the “security” (two armed guards with AK-47s). Then we left for Kibera.

I don’t know what to tell you about Kibera. There are so many things I could say. But I want it to be relevant to you, and not just inane rambling about poverty and disease.

To my friends who are educators—I challenge you to be like the smartly dressed primary school teacher we saw in Kibera who daily faces the poverty of her children. Instill in your children the confidence they need to survive, but the compassion they need to live.

To my friends who are physicians or students of medicine—I challenge you to respect the humanity of every person you meet, no matter how poor or dirty or uneducated, as the MSF staff in Kibera do every day.

To my friends whose jobs are not much fun—I challenge you to find the blessing in what you do, be industrious, and seek to improve the lives of those around you, as the stove-makers and tool-makers of Kibera do every day. They find or purchase scraps of metal and make them into useful objects. Find passion and turn it into useful energy.

To those reading who are under the age of 10—be like the children of Kibera, who despite their poverty, keep a smile on their face, and call out “Muzungu [white person], how are you?” to the strangers wandering amongst their homes.

Kibera is poverty, but Kibera is not destitution. People survive, and they find direction, whether that be in setting up small coal shops or shelling and selling peanuts, making shoes, or teaching. Be like the people of Kibera—do not merely survive, but find direction.

-Josh

For the next 10 days, Kyle and I will be on Safari. When I get back, I will try to post some pictures, if I can find a decent connection.

Farewells and Football

I will have to be brief since I'm writing from a small internet cafe in Nairobi. Kyle and I have had quite the day today, but I will write about that in a separate post-- the juxtaposition of yesterday and today is simply too harsh.

Well, we sadly had to say goodbye to Huizinge, to Groningen, and to all of our beloved relatives. To all who so generously accommodated us, namely Annemarie and Harm as well as Koos and Marijke, we sincerely thank you for the wonderful hospitality you showed us during our stay.

After leaving Groningen train station, we headed down to Amsterdam Centraal. We found our hostel without any trouble, and managed to check ourselves in. We then spent the day visiting the Dutch Historical Museum and the Anne Frank house, as well as wandering through the city (we did behave ourselves, Mom).

In the evening we found a bar down the street from our hostel, parked ourselves in front of the projection screen, and watched Holland beat the snot out of the former World Champions (sorry Dave, I had to say it).

It was great.

The next morning we had to wake up too early. I should really learn my lessons.

______________

P.S. Sorry that there are not many photos this time-- the connection's a little slow and the picture above took me 20 minutes to upload.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

Learning

Kyle is a curious guy. Everything is interesting. I told him that if I had one euro for everytime he said the phrase "That's a big farm-- it has three barns", I would be a rich man. He asks questions about the schapen (the sheep), but half the time ends up saying the dutch word for "ships" (which, to be fair, is phonetically similar). He wants to know about tractors, cows, highways, shops, fields, soil, beer, and farm financing to name a few.

I have learned something from Kyle over the past week-- that the only way to find out about things is to not be afraid to ask questions. And over the past few days we have not had a shortage of people with answers.

On Thursday, Harm Frans had the day off work so he drove us to Emmen to visit the dierenpark (zoo). Harm, being a banker in the agricultural sector, fielded many questions relating to Western European farming on the way.

The zoo was an excellent crash course in wildlife photography for me, so hopefully by the time we get to Tanzania I will be able to take some good wildlife shots.

At the zoo, we met penguins who had learned how to escape their enclosure by following the tourists out.

We also met a baby seal (born June 1) whose mother was teaching it about the perils of the water. The baby wanted to go in the water, but its mother vehemently opposed its every attempt.

After our trip to the zoo, we drove back through Germany on the Autobahn. Yes, you can drive as fast as you like. Yes, we drove quite quickly. Yes, it was fun. But to temper our enjoyment of the Autobahn, Harm took us to a place where the lessons of speed were sorely learned-- the Emsland district of Germany, where 23 people were killed two years ago in a crash involving a magnetic levitation train. The train, which has the capability to travel at 450km/h, has been non-operational since the crash, but services are scheduled to begin again this month.

After visiting the memorial, we traveled to the German town of Papenburg, where the largest cruise ships in the world are built. We saw the massive floating hangar where the ships are kept and saw maintenance being done on an older vessel. In the town center, we visited a 17th century cathedral and had an excellent German lager-- Diebels.

I would also like to take this opportunity to recommend a phenomenal dark beer with caramel overtones-- the Belgian "La Trappe" double dark beer. Annemarie suggested it to me, saying it was one of Harm's favourites.

Back in Holland, we stopped by for an amazing meal at the Shu Fu State, a wokkery where guests can create their own meals using a buffet of raw ingredients and sauces. We ate too much, but loved every mouthful.

Our next stop was the house of Jaap-Jan and Christianna Frans, the newlyweds recently returned from their honeymoon in Italy. We saw their wedding pictures and had coffee with them. Christianna is a special education expert who diagnoses and treats children with learning and behavioural difficulties (which conveniently fits with the theme of this post), and Jaap-Jan is a web designer who educates companies on optimizing their web content.

On Friday, I bought a little pot in Middelstum. Actually, it turned out to be far too big for the spot where it was supposed to go on Annemarie's windowsill. It was meant to replace the one that had crashed to the ground when I clumsily opened the window while Annemarie was at work. Annemarie liked it all the same, and so I was off the hook.

Kyle and I also biked to Warffum, where we visited a museum-town representing life in Northern Holland circa 1900. We then visited the home/museum of Henk Helmantel in Westeremden. Henk Helmantel is an amazing painter (I took a no-flash picture of one of his most famous works), but his unassuming appearance meant that we mistook him for the museum gardener and so we missed out on an opportunity to talk with him about his work.

On Friday evening, Annemarie's brother Koos picked us up from Huizinge, and we went to stay at his home in Uithuizen for a couple of days. We met his two sons, Ferdinand and Jasper, who are both heavily involved in farming. Despite the fact that we know no Dutch, and Ferdinand and Jasper know a limited amount of English, Kyle and Jasper managed to talk about tractors for well over an hour. Jasper has a collection of miniature tractors that greatly impressed Kyle.

Have you ever wondered how potatoes are grown? What kind of soil they need? What sort of processing is involved in getting them to your supermarket? We had all of these questions answered on Saturday morning. We first visited the Bennema farm, where an (apparently modest) 1.7 million kilos of potatoes are grown every year. The Bennema farm was huge. It had three barns (four, if you count the double barn twice).

Next, we visited a company called Land Juweel (Land Jewel), a potato processing facility dealing with 15-20 varieties of potatoes and producing one third of the Netherlands' supply of packaged potatoes. Here, the potatoes are washed, sorted, selected, and automatically packed into 1, 2, 5, 10, or 20 kilo packages. Each night the massive warehouse is emptied onto trucks and carted off to supermarkets all across the country. They gave us free T-shirts.

A dairy farm in Kantens was having a huge open house, complete with cow-related works of art. We toured the production facility and admired the automatic milker (which the cows can enter at will). The cows can feel when their udders are full, and they politely line up outside the milker and wait their turn.

In the afternoon, we had a wonderful family barbecue-- all of the de Jonge family came out, and we had beautiful weather, that is until the storm blew in. It rained for half an hour, and in the evening we saw a gorgeous sunset.

So many of our relatives spoke perfect English, and they took the time to include us in their conversation, so we felt truly welcomed. I also understood a suprising amount of what they said in Dutch, no doubt an artifact of the time I spent with my grandparents as a child. Jaap-Jan received a call from a friend in Bosnia in the evening, congratulating him on his marriage. Of course, he had to speak German to his friend, which he said was a challenge after speaking English all afternoon. The Dutch have really inspired me with their amazing command of language. Marije, Annemarie's daughter, is studying Russian at the University of Groningen, and once she has completed her studies, she will be able to speak fluent Dutch, German, English, and Russian. It gives me confidence that I will be able to figure out French within the next four years.

And that brings us to Sunday, Zondag, church-day, where we were this morning. I sang in Dutch. I have no idea what I sang, but I sang it with my heart. We celebrated holy supper (for my non-Christian friends reading this, holy supper is a celebration of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ). It felt remarkably like church at home, and so, spiritually nourished, we are ready for the next leg of our journey. But not before a day in Amsterdam with some crazy football fever.

-Josh

P.S. I will try to write every 3 days or so. I've had lots of internet access in Holland, but when we get to Africa it's anyone's guess. Thanks for reading everyone, and if I don't respond to your comments it's because I have limited time-- but I do read the comments and I appreciate them a lot.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Roots

We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies. ~Shirley Abbott

This is my first time in Europe. Having explored most of Asia, I am fairly well in touch with my Asian heritage. When someone asks me "Where are you from?" I proudly say "Canada", but that answer has always been accompanied by an undertone of curiosity. What about my Dutch roots?

My curiosity has been largely satisfied by the events of the last three days.

After exploring the village where my grandmother played in the street as a child on Sunday, we visited the Stad, the city of Groningen, on Monday. Since Groningen is the only major city in Northern Holland, city-going people merely say they are headed to "Stad" and are well understood.

Groningen's pride and joy is the Martinitoren, a gorgeous 97-meter high tower built in the 1400s. In the 16th century, the citizens of Groningen defeated invading Spanish and Belgian troops, and to celebrate, they made a huge fire on top of their tower. Unfortunately, this caused the collapse of the top of the tower- the top was later rebuilt but remains 25 meters shorter than the original. Kyle and I climbed the tower, up a narrow stone staircase, and took pictures of the city from the top.

After the climb, we had a couple of Amstels near the base of the tower and were joined by Sander Frans, Annemarie and Harm's son.

We then took a ride in a boat through the canals and learned about Groningen's early history as one of the most well-fortified towns in Western Europe.

In the evening, Harm Frans, Kyle, and I drove up to Middelstum. As we were walking along the road in Middlestum, Harm pointed towards a building which Kyle immediately recognized as his father's childhood home-- he had seen it in pictures. While we were standing in the street looking at the house, the neighbour across the road introduced himself to us and told us that the owner, Henk Aikema, was tending to his horses and would return soon. He directed us to the house of Martje Aikema, Henk's mother, at the other side of town. Once we met Martje, an elderly Dutch woman who spoke "echt grunnegers", the real northern dialect, she immediately recognized us and informed us that she knew we were in the area. She then informed Kyle that she had heard that his parents were going on a cruise to Alaska in a few weeks-- she had just heard that from a friend at lunchtime. News travels fast in small towns, I suppose.

We then returned to Henk's house. Henk was standing in his driveway and required no introduction. He was obviously the Aikema we were looking for (see picture below). We met him, his wife, and three daughters. We sat on his back porch and admired his pigeons (a hobby inherited from his grandfather-- the original Gerhardus Aikema). Henk had the same fidgety mannerisms as both Gary and Kyle.

On Tuesday, it rained. Which was okay, since it was our driving day. We drove to Delfzijl, a port city on the Northeast coast. Delfzijl has a floodwall-- and whoever suggested the floodwall should definitely be the town's hero. In November 2006, the water level reached 2/3 of the way up the wall, and would have inundated the town with about 15 feet of water.

After visiting Delfzijl (and having coffee in a charming hotel on the water), we went up to Eemshaven. At Eemshaven there is a huge wind farm, with windmills as far as the eye can see. The old windmill, dubbed "Goliath" now plays the role of a very small David.

Noordpolderzijl (try saying that five times fast), our next destination, is a large swath of reclaimed land pumped dry in 1811. One one side of the dike is a marshy wetland, on the other, huge plots of farmland.

One gets hungry after such a whirlwind day of exploring, and so we went to the grocery store to buy food for dinner. Many of my friends will be pleased to hear that you can buy a full case of 24 Amstel beers over here for a mere 10 euros ($16 CAD)! Kyle also received a wearable Dutch flag and orange horns with his purchase.

In the evening, we went to Koos and Marijke de Jonge's house, where we had coffee, and then Koos took us to a turkey farm to watch the turkeys being caught. It was hilarious to go into the dark barn and make noises at the turkeys-- it would inspire a wave of gobbling that swept quickly from end of the barn to the other.

On Wednesday, we biked. We explored the graveyard in Middelstum (the hometown of the Aikema clan), and the town of Toornwerd (the Kamstra's homestead). Toornwerd is unique for its lone tower without a church-- the church burned down, but the tower remains at the center of an old graveyard. I felt pensive and introspective as we explored the grounds my grandfather called home for the first 25 years of his life. This is where I am from.

Our next stop was Uithuizen, where we visited the Menkemaborg, the castle of a Dutch aristocratic family built originally in the 1400s. To a Canadian eye, it was amusing to see that a "restoration" of the building was undertaken in the 1600s. In the 1600s, Canada didn't even have any buildings, let alone those that needed restoration! Kyle and I went through the maze-- it was a very good maze that left us hitting innumerable dead ends and creating just enough frustration to make it fun. We met in the middle, and then worked together to figure out how to get out.

We then meandered home on the fiedspads (bike trails) along canals, past windmills and quaint Dutch towns (including Doodstil, a town called "Dead quiet". Kyle regretted not bringing his air horn).

The light drizzle on the return trip reminded us that we were actually in the Netherlands. It still feels surreal sometimes. But it feels like home.

Holland and East Africa