I’ve become brave since my return to Addis Ababa from the gentle, sophisticated idyll of Kenya. Twice now I have risked all to walk the several blocks to Novis, the corner “carry anything we can” store. This morning the benefits of torrential rains were evident – streets looked clean. Used condoms (sorry but this is reality time) and goat heads are not nearly so repulsive when glistening in the rain! Reusable REI bag over my shoulder, rain jacket zipped up and waterproof shoes, I was almost jaunty as I set out on the morning task. A shopping list is pointless because you haven’t a clue what will be in stock. Highlight of the walk was greeting a Mom and little girl whose hair was done up with dozens of bright beads. Her mother told me it was the child’s birthday and on my return I passed them again, this time the child was being serenaded in English with Happy Birthday by a group of young men they all appeared to know.
My haul today was pretty good – tomatoes, oyster mushrooms, garlic, potatoes (exceptionally good here), honey, tea, corn oil and the most precious cargo, fresh eggs, nestled on napkins on the top of the bag – no such thing as an egg container. I also scored a Kg. of freshly ground beef to cook with loads of rice for the dog named Dug, newly acquired by Ben and Annie. Dug is a beautiful longhaired German shepherd whose Australian owners could not take him with them on their next posting. He appears to be settling in well here much to the housekeeper’s dismay – she’s been following him with a mop in an effort to keep the floors clean –lady, it’s a lost cause in this rain season.
In the course of my 15 minute walk I had a close encounter with a herd of goats, kept a respectable distance from a string of nine donkeys carrying sacks full of potatoes and an even wider distance from the three cows with very large, curved horns that adhered to the Masai philosophy that they came directly from heaven and therefore had a right to hog the narrow road. My closest call was reserved for one of the Blue Donkeys – the laboring Lada’s used as taxis. I crossed the main Bole Rd. (not sure where that suicidal thought came from) in a vain effort to get a relatively current newspaper from the vendor. His most recent offering was a Herald Tribune from last week so I passed. I have to admire this man’s initiative. He has a deal going with some of the airline stewards who save papers from incoming flights and pass them on to him for re-sale. Recycling at it’s most efficient.
With Annie pregnant and all of us in revolt over Ethiopian food, I’ve taken on the Herculean task of teaching Yeshi, cook/housekeeper, the art of “American” cooking. Yeshi is a good cook, no doubt, and there is some good Ethiopian food; my quarrel is with the primary cooking method for everything – namely fry in oil and then subdue further by boiling until everything is a uniform brown and homogeneous mush texture. Tastes pretty good though! Yeshi is also a tough cookie. A tiny lady, Coptic Christian (and today is Wednesday, fasting day), she’s unusual in that she’s divorced and raising sons 8 and 10 – with an iron rod too to judge by some of her comments.
First cooking lesson was pastry making and to my chagrin first batch was awful; the flour simply not conducive to the flaky pasty for which I have modest fame in home circles. I bought three different kinds of flour and the third proved to be closest in texture and substance to good old all-purpose flour so we produced a credible and edible crust for quiche. The gods intervened big time later and yesterday was the second day in a row without power. Finally electricity was restored around 8 p.m. and quiche came out of the oven (not without drama, the shelf slipped and it was only an act of sheer heroism or desperation on my son’s part that prevented quiche ending up on the floor) absolutely perfect. Will have to do a repeat act since Yeshi quits at 3 p.m. so was not there to witness the triumph. Today we are making a pasta sauce.
Daily life in Addis despite cooks, housekeepers and gardeners is not easy. The most simple of tasks take forever. There’s no such luxury as “I’m just popping down to Safeway for …back in ten minutes”. We have major roof leaks at the house and contacting the landlord is another lost cause. His very substantial rent (you could rent a foothills palace in Tucson for what they pay here a month) is paid six months in advance and since he’s just been paid, he has no inducement to respond. The only option is for Ben and the gardener to do a patch job and then to call an associate of the landlord’s to shame him into action. The foreign aid worker community here is huge and since properties that even vaguely approximate western comfort and amenities are in short supply, rents have been driven sky high and landlords hold the strings. Gas stations are frequently “out” and that apparently has something to do with bills to Libya, the primary supplier of petroleum products, not being paid because Ethiopia has a cash flow problem. Same goes for the miles of half finished road works. China came in big time with ambitious plans for rebuilding roads and infra structure but with payments behind schedule, they appear to have packed bags and gone leaving massive holes in roads and skeletons of bridge structures.
Gerry
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Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
An Island - Half a World Away
A Manchester type rain pours down and I am sitting of one of maybe ten covered, cushion-filled
patios of Jasmine House on Lamu Island, Kenya. I’m told that the end of June brings the end of the rains – timing is everything.
A mid morning flight out of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi brought us, via Malindi, to a red dirt landing strip, Manda Airport. We disembarked in the rain to a warm, muggy enveloping humidity, sloshed through the mud to the palm covered ‘waiting room’. Perhaps it was tongue in cheek, a touch of tropical humor - an adjoining thatched area was marked “Duty Free” - I could see cans of Red Bull.
Bags came out of the hold, loaded onto handcarts and trundled down to the jetty. Reassuring to note that it was rebuilt and opened in March of this year. We clambered into an open wooden boat for the twenty-minute ride over to Lamu Island on Kenya’s coast. Rain and spray soaked us – memo to self flashed through my mind to forget the carefully cultivated straight bob of the past two years – my hair was going to revert back to curls big time!
Lamu Village on the island is a Unesco World Heritage Site – through the rain we could make out
the distinctive architecture. The island, an important trading post for at least 600 years, retains the culture and structure of what was once a thriving Swahili trading community along the Indian Ocean. The Moslem faith dominates. I awoke this morning to the call to prayer from the mosque. There is a distinctive Moorish feel to the buildings, and mediaeval tangle of narrow alleys. Rain abating somewhat we motored on down the coast to Shela Village. If anything, Shela, has a more time capsule feel to it than Lamu. With its jumble of alleys; multi storied buildings some white plastered others raw grey and brown coral blocks, all crammed in at odd angles into narrow spaces it’s a step back in time and history. Houses are faceless from the outside but hiding wondrous courtyards within. Newly constructed houses for Europeans jostle for space with Swahili owned homes built close to 200 years ago. Ornate carved lintels over equally beautifully carved doors look as though they come from the pages of the latest design magazines.
Disembarking was testimony to several years of strength and agility training not so elegantly hopping from rocking boat to an unstable rowboat used as a gangway to step onto the beach. Thank you Gene at the JCC in Tucson for forcing me to do all those balance exercises with my eyes closed.
Winding our way through narrow alleys (and I’ll concede that I’m not about to go shoeless as the locals appear too, definitely in Africa in terms of garbage etc.) we come to Jasmine House, nothing on the outside to excite, just a white wall with an ornately carved door. Inside the door was a fantasy from Arabian Nights. We stepped into the first of two courtyards, this one focused on an elaborate “dipping” pool, cushioned patio and bar area. Another wooden door brought us to the main courtyard, at the entry a shelf for shoes and foot washing sink low to the ground. Barefoot is the rule within the compound. This inner courtyard houses covered dining and living rooms, ceilings supported by black Mangrove beams, the walls hand-plastered and polished, wide open to the elements on two sides. The house shows some wear and is not luxurious in the five star resort picture perfect sense but it is gorgeous and it is in Africa. All that is incredibly chic in the US – polished, foot-worn concrete floors, plastered walls, hand-smoothed concrete bathroom sinks and wide-open showers is here only nothing is contrived. The teak furniture, massive carved doors, rough yokes used as coat hangers and punched tin light fixtures, reminds me of the imports found in Colonial Frontiers in the Lost Barrio district of Tucson. Here they are in their natural setting and the effect is stunning.
My bedroom is across the courtyard and up perhaps twenty steps on the second floor. A large open patio with built-in cushioned bancos is at the top. Jasmine and red bougainvilleas cover the walls. I can lean out and pick a papaya, and defying gravity, lean even further and reach a coconut.
A low, carved dark wood door invites you to stoop into the bedroom. Romantic, net draped teak four-poster bed, small corner table, nothing elaborate but the simplicity, the view from the glassless windows over thatched roof tops to the Indian Ocean make me wonder what I’m doing here alone. This place is made for a tryst!
The master bedroom equivalent here takes up the entire third floor of one wing. It is totally
open to the elements. White curtains can be pulled around the exterior walls; two swinging beds invite afternoon naps; a huge four-poster offers views of the night sky. There is some debate about who will have this space – tempting, as it is, caution suggests since this is a malaria area and my newly pregnant daughter-in-law cannot take prophylactics, it might not be a wise choice for them. They opt to trust in Deet and mosquito netting but by morning decide to move down to one of the more contained rooms rather than battle mosquitoes.
Breakfast this morning, Richard, the house cook, presented platters of papaya, mango, bananas and poached eggs on toast. Coffee and passion fruit juice rounded out a perfect beginning to the day. The system here is to give Richard money for shopping and to discuss meal preferences with him. We are told that he is the best cook on the island. Later this morning, friends of my son and daughter-in-law arrive with their two young children – perhaps a minimal shattering of peace is in the offing.
The contrast between here on the Indian Ocean and the Masai Mara that we left Thursday could not be more dramatic. I like Kenya! I like Lamu Island. I like the donkeys (even though they brayed throughout the night sounding at times like a demented woman – thoughts of Wuthering Heights came to mind) - there is a British funded sanctuary for the donkeys on the island, they are the transportation, and free vet care is provided. I like the well fed cats that hang around where the fishing boats land and the eclectic mix of people we have met so far. Cool Dude, a fourth generation native, speaks perfect English and works seasonally as a wind surf instructor and all round facilitator of “things to do and get things done”. Yesterday being Friday, he was wearing a long white collarless shirt indicating he told us “that I’ve been to the mosque”. Today he dropped in at breakfast time in shorts and T-shirt, very much a hip young thing leaving us with what I think was the Swahili equivalent of a casual, “Ciao baby” and a snap of his fingers. Betty, who will come to the house to give massages, manicures and pedicures. Monika, native-born Dutch who has lived on the island for 12 years now and has a guesthouse and yoga studio – all make me revive early dreams of opting out of the real world in search of my own paradise.
Gerry.
We booked Jasmine House through http://www.lamuretreats.com/ ~ $200 a day includes cook and housekeeping. Airkenya and 540 (billed as Africa’s Budget Airline) both fly into Manda Airstrip on the mainland. Lamu itself is only accessible by boat. There are no cars on the island.
If you are enjoying this blog and http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, our main website, please help us to continue by supporting our advertisers and affiliates. Click through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
.
patios of Jasmine House on Lamu Island, Kenya. I’m told that the end of June brings the end of the rains – timing is everything.A mid morning flight out of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi brought us, via Malindi, to a red dirt landing strip, Manda Airport. We disembarked in the rain to a warm, muggy enveloping humidity, sloshed through the mud to the palm covered ‘waiting room’. Perhaps it was tongue in cheek, a touch of tropical humor - an adjoining thatched area was marked “Duty Free” - I could see cans of Red Bull.
Bags came out of the hold, loaded onto handcarts and trundled down to the jetty. Reassuring to note that it was rebuilt and opened in March of this year. We clambered into an open wooden boat for the twenty-minute ride over to Lamu Island on Kenya’s coast. Rain and spray soaked us – memo to self flashed through my mind to forget the carefully cultivated straight bob of the past two years – my hair was going to revert back to curls big time!
Lamu Village on the island is a Unesco World Heritage Site – through the rain we could make out
the distinctive architecture. The island, an important trading post for at least 600 years, retains the culture and structure of what was once a thriving Swahili trading community along the Indian Ocean. The Moslem faith dominates. I awoke this morning to the call to prayer from the mosque. There is a distinctive Moorish feel to the buildings, and mediaeval tangle of narrow alleys. Rain abating somewhat we motored on down the coast to Shela Village. If anything, Shela, has a more time capsule feel to it than Lamu. With its jumble of alleys; multi storied buildings some white plastered others raw grey and brown coral blocks, all crammed in at odd angles into narrow spaces it’s a step back in time and history. Houses are faceless from the outside but hiding wondrous courtyards within. Newly constructed houses for Europeans jostle for space with Swahili owned homes built close to 200 years ago. Ornate carved lintels over equally beautifully carved doors look as though they come from the pages of the latest design magazines.Disembarking was testimony to several years of strength and agility training not so elegantly hopping from rocking boat to an unstable rowboat used as a gangway to step onto the beach. Thank you Gene at the JCC in Tucson for forcing me to do all those balance exercises with my eyes closed.
Winding our way through narrow alleys (and I’ll concede that I’m not about to go shoeless as the locals appear too, definitely in Africa in terms of garbage etc.) we come to Jasmine House, nothing on the outside to excite, just a white wall with an ornately carved door. Inside the door was a fantasy from Arabian Nights. We stepped into the first of two courtyards, this one focused on an elaborate “dipping” pool, cushioned patio and bar area. Another wooden door brought us to the main courtyard, at the entry a shelf for shoes and foot washing sink low to the ground. Barefoot is the rule within the compound. This inner courtyard houses covered dining and living rooms, ceilings supported by black Mangrove beams, the walls hand-plastered and polished, wide open to the elements on two sides. The house shows some wear and is not luxurious in the five star resort picture perfect sense but it is gorgeous and it is in Africa. All that is incredibly chic in the US – polished, foot-worn concrete floors, plastered walls, hand-smoothed concrete bathroom sinks and wide-open showers is here only nothing is contrived. The teak furniture, massive carved doors, rough yokes used as coat hangers and punched tin light fixtures, reminds me of the imports found in Colonial Frontiers in the Lost Barrio district of Tucson. Here they are in their natural setting and the effect is stunning.My bedroom is across the courtyard and up perhaps twenty steps on the second floor. A large open patio with built-in cushioned bancos is at the top. Jasmine and red bougainvilleas cover the walls. I can lean out and pick a papaya, and defying gravity, lean even further and reach a coconut.
A low, carved dark wood door invites you to stoop into the bedroom. Romantic, net draped teak four-poster bed, small corner table, nothing elaborate but the simplicity, the view from the glassless windows over thatched roof tops to the Indian Ocean make me wonder what I’m doing here alone. This place is made for a tryst!
The master bedroom equivalent here takes up the entire third floor of one wing. It is totally
open to the elements. White curtains can be pulled around the exterior walls; two swinging beds invite afternoon naps; a huge four-poster offers views of the night sky. There is some debate about who will have this space – tempting, as it is, caution suggests since this is a malaria area and my newly pregnant daughter-in-law cannot take prophylactics, it might not be a wise choice for them. They opt to trust in Deet and mosquito netting but by morning decide to move down to one of the more contained rooms rather than battle mosquitoes.Breakfast this morning, Richard, the house cook, presented platters of papaya, mango, bananas and poached eggs on toast. Coffee and passion fruit juice rounded out a perfect beginning to the day. The system here is to give Richard money for shopping and to discuss meal preferences with him. We are told that he is the best cook on the island. Later this morning, friends of my son and daughter-in-law arrive with their two young children – perhaps a minimal shattering of peace is in the offing.
The contrast between here on the Indian Ocean and the Masai Mara that we left Thursday could not be more dramatic. I like Kenya! I like Lamu Island. I like the donkeys (even though they brayed throughout the night sounding at times like a demented woman – thoughts of Wuthering Heights came to mind) - there is a British funded sanctuary for the donkeys on the island, they are the transportation, and free vet care is provided. I like the well fed cats that hang around where the fishing boats land and the eclectic mix of people we have met so far. Cool Dude, a fourth generation native, speaks perfect English and works seasonally as a wind surf instructor and all round facilitator of “things to do and get things done”. Yesterday being Friday, he was wearing a long white collarless shirt indicating he told us “that I’ve been to the mosque”. Today he dropped in at breakfast time in shorts and T-shirt, very much a hip young thing leaving us with what I think was the Swahili equivalent of a casual, “Ciao baby” and a snap of his fingers. Betty, who will come to the house to give massages, manicures and pedicures. Monika, native-born Dutch who has lived on the island for 12 years now and has a guesthouse and yoga studio – all make me revive early dreams of opting out of the real world in search of my own paradise.
Gerry.
We booked Jasmine House through http://www.lamuretreats.com/ ~ $200 a day includes cook and housekeeping. Airkenya and 540 (billed as Africa’s Budget Airline) both fly into Manda Airstrip on the mainland. Lamu itself is only accessible by boat. There are no cars on the island.
If you are enjoying this blog and http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, our main website, please help us to continue by supporting our advertisers and affiliates. Click through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Breakfast With The Hippos
Breakfast with Hippos
Masai Mara, June 15 2009
I fully intend including more posts from Rwanda including my whole gorillas in the mist experience but right now, sitting on a terrace above the Rift valley in the Masai Mara Preserve in Kenya, my mind is on nothing but what I’m experiencing now.
Arrived in Nairobi from Addis on Sunday morning. Met by a driver, David, from Nigel Archer Safaris and taken to our guesthouse in the Lancata/Karen (Karen Blixen, Out of Africa) suburbs. Immediate impressions of Nairobi were of infra structure in place, rows of shabby, English style council houses interspersed with tin roofed shantytowns and then the suburbs. Narrow, hedge lined, winding lanes. Massive walled estates, a very British order to everything. We passed the sanctuary for the endangered Reticulated Giraffes (will visit next week) and then through the gates to Maclusha – our guesthouse. Gorgeous, former private home built in the sprawling African style of a country house. Dark, polished wood floors, arched wooden ceilings, woven rugs, and the right amount of African artifacts – nothing overdone except for the service, which was extraordinary. Long lunch by the pool, followed by a trip to Nakomat, Africa’s answer to Target! Since there isn’t one in Addis, Ben was anxious to make a trip and stock up on essentials that included a pepper grinder – seemingly non existent in Ethiopia. A monsoon like rain and an early dinner completed a perfect day.
Tea in bed at 6:30 a.m.; full English breakfast and then to Wilson Airfield for our Air Kenya flight into the Masai Mara. Airfield reminded me of the R.A.F. stations of my youth. We boarded a Dash7 40 or so seater for our initial 40-minute flight. Took off over the Nairobi Game park and out over the Rift valley. Miles of nothing! A somewhat alarming touch down on a dirt strip and a hauling of bags from the aircraft hold and clamber onto a 15-seater “shuttle” flight. Masai in red plaid waved us off. 15 minutes later we touched (bumped) down onto the dirt Serena airfield – appeared to be staffed by water buffalo and a three elephants that wandered off as we landed. A very short open Land Rover drive brought us to our “bubble” (when we told the owner of Maclusha that we were staying at a Serena hotel rather than a tent camp – given a 21 month old child it was the only option- she had commented that Masai Mara Serena was a “bubble” - a hotel in the middle of the preserve. Maybe - but it is exceptionally well done and given the rigors of living in Addis, a luxurious “bubble” suites us just fine! Situated on a ridgeline in the trees it is totally invisible and blended into the surrounds. The only thing that stands out is one very tall artificial tree that hides the communication masts.
The hotel uses round Masai huts as inspiration and is tasteful, restrained and elegant. Simple rooms hug each side of the ridgeline with stone walkways between. Emergency buttons are located every 25 feet urging you to press if wild animals are present in the vicinity! Haven’t met anything on the paths but a baboon was insistent in trying to get into my room through the sliding doors. I look out over the valley onto the Masai Mara River – baboons, giraffe, impala, Masai ostrich and water buffalo all visible from my chair by the floor to ceiling window.
We are assigned a driver and Land Rover for our stay and at 4 p.m. yesterday took our first safari drive. This is Africa! Up close and personal doesn’t begin to describe the thrill of being within 5 foot of an enormous wild animal…make that animals. Within minutes we were surrounded by impala, water buffalo (the most dangerous animal in the preserve), topi, waterbucks, bushbucks, Coke’s Wildebeests. And then came the elephants, huge, majestic and so close. A young male trumpeted at us and Maxine (21 months) clapped her hands in delight. I did the same! We watched two cheetah’s contemplating supper and then the prize of the day – the sighting of a lion’s tail waving above the grass and a slow creep up onto three adult females and three cubs taking a pre-dinner nap! I cannot begin to describe the thrill of being so close to such magnificent creatures. Spotted hyenas, saddle backed storks and crested cranes rounded out the drive we headed back up the hill to our bubble as dusk was falling and night sounds began to break the silence.
Meals here are a tour de force … first class doesn’t begin to describe the variety and preparation. We sat in the open lobby with a fire blazing on the patio and were entertained by a young Kenyan in colorful outfit as he played the guitar and sang lullabies to Maxine, which he personalized with her name. She was entranced. Around us we could hear French, German and Japanese being spoken as the Kenyan staff, well trained in hospitality, anticipated every need.
Woken by sunrise we drank coffee before meeting up again with Julius, our driver, for an early morning safari drive. Our first “find” of the morning was a solitary giraffe quickly followed by two families of elephants, tiny chaco (fox like) and another cheetah. We spent some time in search of a leopard but it proved much too smart to allow itself to be seen. “Hippos?” asked Julius. And did we get hippos! We pulled into a clearing by the river where a solitary Masai was standing. “Follow the Masai” we were instructed. We wound through a narrow path between trees to be greeted by a Serena staff person holding a basket of hot scented towels – ah, more than hippos, we began to think. Round the next bush a glass of champagne was proffered and further through the trees to the river we came across a table set for breakfast. Bush breakfast with the hippos. So on the bank of the river whilst hippos snorted and crocs snoozed, we had freshly made omelets, crepes – you name it. Highlight for me as sighting a Fish Eagle catch a fish and realizing that the extra bulge next to a hippos head was an infant hippo – three weeks old I was told.
Think I’ll take a nap before lunch.
Gerry
Tour arranged by Nigel Archer Safaris out of Nairobi. Two nights at the Maclusha Guesthouse (beginning and end of trip) 3 nights at the Masai Mara Serena Hotel, flights between Nairobi and the Masai Mara, driver, two safaris a day and all meals cost around $1,000.00 a person.
If you are enjoying reading this blog and our main site, http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, please help us continue by supporting our affiliates and advertisers by clicking through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
Masai Mara, June 15 2009
I fully intend including more posts from Rwanda including my whole gorillas in the mist experience but right now, sitting on a terrace above the Rift valley in the Masai Mara Preserve in Kenya, my mind is on nothing but what I’m experiencing now.
Arrived in Nairobi from Addis on Sunday morning. Met by a driver, David, from Nigel Archer Safaris and taken to our guesthouse in the Lancata/Karen (Karen Blixen, Out of Africa) suburbs. Immediate impressions of Nairobi were of infra structure in place, rows of shabby, English style council houses interspersed with tin roofed shantytowns and then the suburbs. Narrow, hedge lined, winding lanes. Massive walled estates, a very British order to everything. We passed the sanctuary for the endangered Reticulated Giraffes (will visit next week) and then through the gates to Maclusha – our guesthouse. Gorgeous, former private home built in the sprawling African style of a country house. Dark, polished wood floors, arched wooden ceilings, woven rugs, and the right amount of African artifacts – nothing overdone except for the service, which was extraordinary. Long lunch by the pool, followed by a trip to Nakomat, Africa’s answer to Target! Since there isn’t one in Addis, Ben was anxious to make a trip and stock up on essentials that included a pepper grinder – seemingly non existent in Ethiopia. A monsoon like rain and an early dinner completed a perfect day.
Tea in bed at 6:30 a.m.; full English breakfast and then to Wilson Airfield for our Air Kenya flight into the Masai Mara. Airfield reminded me of the R.A.F. stations of my youth. We boarded a Dash7 40 or so seater for our initial 40-minute flight. Took off over the Nairobi Game park and out over the Rift valley. Miles of nothing! A somewhat alarming touch down on a dirt strip and a hauling of bags from the aircraft hold and clamber onto a 15-seater “shuttle” flight. Masai in red plaid waved us off. 15 minutes later we touched (bumped) down onto the dirt Serena airfield – appeared to be staffed by water buffalo and a three elephants that wandered off as we landed. A very short open Land Rover drive brought us to our “bubble” (when we told the owner of Maclusha that we were staying at a Serena hotel rather than a tent camp – given a 21 month old child it was the only option- she had commented that Masai Mara Serena was a “bubble” - a hotel in the middle of the preserve. Maybe - but it is exceptionally well done and given the rigors of living in Addis, a luxurious “bubble” suites us just fine! Situated on a ridgeline in the trees it is totally invisible and blended into the surrounds. The only thing that stands out is one very tall artificial tree that hides the communication masts.
The hotel uses round Masai huts as inspiration and is tasteful, restrained and elegant. Simple rooms hug each side of the ridgeline with stone walkways between. Emergency buttons are located every 25 feet urging you to press if wild animals are present in the vicinity! Haven’t met anything on the paths but a baboon was insistent in trying to get into my room through the sliding doors. I look out over the valley onto the Masai Mara River – baboons, giraffe, impala, Masai ostrich and water buffalo all visible from my chair by the floor to ceiling window.
We are assigned a driver and Land Rover for our stay and at 4 p.m. yesterday took our first safari drive. This is Africa! Up close and personal doesn’t begin to describe the thrill of being within 5 foot of an enormous wild animal…make that animals. Within minutes we were surrounded by impala, water buffalo (the most dangerous animal in the preserve), topi, waterbucks, bushbucks, Coke’s Wildebeests. And then came the elephants, huge, majestic and so close. A young male trumpeted at us and Maxine (21 months) clapped her hands in delight. I did the same! We watched two cheetah’s contemplating supper and then the prize of the day – the sighting of a lion’s tail waving above the grass and a slow creep up onto three adult females and three cubs taking a pre-dinner nap! I cannot begin to describe the thrill of being so close to such magnificent creatures. Spotted hyenas, saddle backed storks and crested cranes rounded out the drive we headed back up the hill to our bubble as dusk was falling and night sounds began to break the silence.
Meals here are a tour de force … first class doesn’t begin to describe the variety and preparation. We sat in the open lobby with a fire blazing on the patio and were entertained by a young Kenyan in colorful outfit as he played the guitar and sang lullabies to Maxine, which he personalized with her name. She was entranced. Around us we could hear French, German and Japanese being spoken as the Kenyan staff, well trained in hospitality, anticipated every need.
Woken by sunrise we drank coffee before meeting up again with Julius, our driver, for an early morning safari drive. Our first “find” of the morning was a solitary giraffe quickly followed by two families of elephants, tiny chaco (fox like) and another cheetah. We spent some time in search of a leopard but it proved much too smart to allow itself to be seen. “Hippos?” asked Julius. And did we get hippos! We pulled into a clearing by the river where a solitary Masai was standing. “Follow the Masai” we were instructed. We wound through a narrow path between trees to be greeted by a Serena staff person holding a basket of hot scented towels – ah, more than hippos, we began to think. Round the next bush a glass of champagne was proffered and further through the trees to the river we came across a table set for breakfast. Bush breakfast with the hippos. So on the bank of the river whilst hippos snorted and crocs snoozed, we had freshly made omelets, crepes – you name it. Highlight for me as sighting a Fish Eagle catch a fish and realizing that the extra bulge next to a hippos head was an infant hippo – three weeks old I was told.
Think I’ll take a nap before lunch.
Gerry
Tour arranged by Nigel Archer Safaris out of Nairobi. Two nights at the Maclusha Guesthouse (beginning and end of trip) 3 nights at the Masai Mara Serena Hotel, flights between Nairobi and the Masai Mara, driver, two safaris a day and all meals cost around $1,000.00 a person.
If you are enjoying reading this blog and our main site, http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, please help us continue by supporting our affiliates and advertisers by clicking through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Rwanda – Genocide. 15 years later.
June 11 2009
It’s not possible to write about Rwanda without bringing up the genocide of 1994. Neither is it a topic that I have any joy in dwelling on but it’s unavoidable. I’ll try to give an overall impression of the country but in this opening blog on Rwanda I cannot avoid graphic details of the nightmare of 15 years ago. Rwanda is moving on and I suggest a visit to http://www.rwanda15.org/.
I arrived in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital and largest city via Ethiopia Air from Addis Ababa; the contrast between the craziness and chaos of Addis and Kigali was a delightful gift. Kigali is very small compared with Addis with a population of around 800K and a country population of about 8 million – it’s the highest density country in Africa. First impression was of color. The brilliant green of the hills; the even more brilliant batik dresses of the women; the riot of color in baskets of pineapples, mangoes, bananas balanced expertly on the heads of women. Second impression was of cleanliness –no garbage strewn in the streets, no rotting piles of rubbish, no huddles of beggars and no herds of goats. No stray dogs either, something I’ll write about later. Third impression was of a tropical languor in the pace of people, traffic and warm air.
The country slogan is “Land of a thousand hills” and I think 900 of them make up Kigali. Subsequent in country road trips lead me to amend the slogan to “thousands of hills and even more potholes”! It’s setting is spectacular and despite the heat induced sense of slowness, it’s a city hustling with building projects, animated people and a general sense of life - traffic signals are obeyed, walking is easy. I stayed at a small guesthouse “Banana Guest House” in a very quiet residential district. It’s an expensive country compared to Ethiopia and a room with breakfast set me back $160 but I was within easy walking distance of the first genocide site.
Certainly I was aware in 1994 of the genocide here in Rwanda and neighboring Burundi but my understanding of the motivation and history was unclear. In the past few days I’ve learned that tribal differences between Tutsi and Hutu were manufactured. Beginning with Belgian colonization and by 1932, the Belgians had effectively divided the country into two classes – you were a Tutsi if you owned 10 or more cattle and a Hutu if you owned less. Families and villages were divided and the minority Tutsi became the favored group; the division was further developed by the issuance of identification cards. Sporadically, between 1932 and 1994, violence between groups occurred. In the latter part of the last century, the Hutu majority took power and retribution against perceived injustices on the part of the Tutsi increased.
By 1990 a cult of government supported hate radio and sponsored violence toward individual Tutsi was condoned and encouraged. 1993, the then president signed a peace agreement implying an end to internal hostilities; the hate campaign intensified in response. March 1994, the president’s plane was shot down over Kigali. In conversation with Rwandans there is a quiet cynicism about this. The official line, although never proven, is that Tutsi rebels brought the plane down; the facts don’t support this hypothesis as the rockets were fired from a heavily fortified Government Hill and it is thought impossible that rebels would have access to that site. Both the UN commander at the time and other witnesses, suggest that the attack was from within the government inner circle and had one goal – that of inciting the genocide- to that end, the Hutu president was expendable.
The Hutu were ready for genocide. No genocide is spontaneous. Genocide is planned. Gangs of unemployed Hutu youth had been trained in massacre techniques; machetes and guns had been stashed in secret locations; lists of Tutsis were circulated along with instructions on the most effective methods of killing large groups. Hate radio and literature had done their jobs; for 100 days terror beyond my comprehension was let loose. Depravity, cruelty, violence, death reigned. Over two million Tutsi were killed in Rwanda in those 100 days and several hundred thousand in neighboring Burundi. Priests betrayed their congregations; neighbors their neighbors; colleagues their office mates. Children were singled out in a biblical attempt to “destroy the race”; women suffered unspeakable acts of violence. A photo journalist I spoke with recalled a photographer telling him of driving into a village at night, lights out to avoid detection and to their horror discovering that the road was not pot-holed as first thought - they were driving over piles of bodies.
The French UN commander begged for assistance. Kofi Anan, President of the UN and other world leaders including President Clinton, spoke after the event of not understanding the situation and wishing they had made different decisions. The world responded too late to yet another genocide.
My first evening in Kigali I walked the quiet hillside street to Hotel Milles Collones, the setting for the film, Hotel Rwanda. There was nothing there to commemorate that it had been the scene of such desperation. Privately a Rwandan told me that the Hutu manager was “not such a hero” as he had only sheltered those who could pay.
Monday morning my driver took me to the National Genocide Memorial within the city limits. It is a quiet, peaceful place. Interior exhibits lead you though a brief history of the Rwandan people, culture and era of colonization. There is no effort to shock here; it’s not needed. The gravity of events speaks for themselves. Even the display of skulls, many cracked by machetes have a dignity that defies horrific. Photos and heartbreakingly short biographies of children killed fill one room. Other displays eulogize the heroic Hutu men and women who sheltered friends and strangers alike. Two magnificent stained glass windows designed by a child of holocaust survivors bring light and hope into dark rooms. Another area is devoted to a history of genocide throughout time and asks that we learn from this and work to prevent another genocide.
Outside, above a simple pool, a flame burns. It is lit annually for the 100 days of the genocide. A series of gardens lead through a medication on unity and hope. In one, at the edge of a pool of water, an almost comical clay representation of an elephant holding a cell phone is telling us that elephants never forget and that we should, as the memory keepers, alert the world.
Through a rose garden, under blossom-laden trellises you come to a three-tier area of mass graves. Over 250 thousand men, women and children, their bodies recovered from massacre sites, are buried here. It is a solemn, silent place. I left with a feeling of unease and sadness that clouded the rest of my time in the city.
Nothing prepared me for the final genocide site I visited on Wednesday. Initially I resisted visiting the church at Nyamata. I had read a description of what took place there.
About a thirty-minute drive east of Kigali we turned off into the township of Nyamata and parked outside the catholic church under the shade of a plane tree. The fence around the church was draped with pink and purple bunting and a banner over the door translated to “If you knew me you would not have killed me”. Ironic because neighbors murdered neighbors.
It’s a big, brick building, simple, no elaborate stained glass windows, nothing ornate. A few school children walked across the dusty plaza to a row of schoolrooms, they chattered and kicked a plastic bottle. My driver declined to come inside. “I’ve seen,” he said. The iron security door of the church is twisted; the walls and ceiling pockmarked with shrapnel holes from grenade explosions. On May 8th. 1994 more than 10,000 terrified Tutsis from the surrounding area filled very inch of this sanctuary. They crawled under the wood slab, backless benches, they wedged themselves under the altar, they huddled in the crypt, and they pressed themselves into wall niches. It is inconceivable to me that so many could fit into this space. The Hutu mob surrounded the church eventually using a grenade to blow gap in the steel bars of the gate and then began hurling in grenades. They stormed in and hacked, beat, shot to death in an orgy of rape then killing. One woman was singled out (and please forgive this graphic description but unless we hear of such horrors, I fear we will forget) for rape and then killed by a stake that was driven through her vagina to her skull.
It’s still inside the church now. There is a musty, unrecognizable smell. The rows of benches are piled several feet high with the bloodstained, torn clothing of the victims. Colors have faded to a dun brown uniformity but occasionally something stands out and catches the eye – for me it was a crocheted hat still showing some green wool – I imagine it once sitting jauntily of the owner’s head; I noted a pale pink toddler sized tee shirt. The cement floor is patterned with dark stains – blood. Five people survived the massacre.
All ten thousand are buried here and an additional forty-one thousand from massacre sites around the area. Under a large aluminum awning out back the mass graves have open windows and you can look down of satin draped coffins and neat rows of skulls and bones.
No photos could begin to evoke the atmosphere in this place and photographs would not serve to honor the dead. The only images I will be includingd here are of the memorial garden in Kigale and of the roadside signs seen throughout the country that speak of reconciliation and healing.
“We are Rwandans”, we are neither Tutsi nor Hutu” is the word from all you meet.
Gerry
If you are enjoying following this blog and http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, please help us continue by supporting our affilates and advertisers by clicking through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
It’s not possible to write about Rwanda without bringing up the genocide of 1994. Neither is it a topic that I have any joy in dwelling on but it’s unavoidable. I’ll try to give an overall impression of the country but in this opening blog on Rwanda I cannot avoid graphic details of the nightmare of 15 years ago. Rwanda is moving on and I suggest a visit to http://www.rwanda15.org/.
I arrived in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital and largest city via Ethiopia Air from Addis Ababa; the contrast between the craziness and chaos of Addis and Kigali was a delightful gift. Kigali is very small compared with Addis with a population of around 800K and a country population of about 8 million – it’s the highest density country in Africa. First impression was of color. The brilliant green of the hills; the even more brilliant batik dresses of the women; the riot of color in baskets of pineapples, mangoes, bananas balanced expertly on the heads of women. Second impression was of cleanliness –no garbage strewn in the streets, no rotting piles of rubbish, no huddles of beggars and no herds of goats. No stray dogs either, something I’ll write about later. Third impression was of a tropical languor in the pace of people, traffic and warm air.
The country slogan is “Land of a thousand hills” and I think 900 of them make up Kigali. Subsequent in country road trips lead me to amend the slogan to “thousands of hills and even more potholes”! It’s setting is spectacular and despite the heat induced sense of slowness, it’s a city hustling with building projects, animated people and a general sense of life - traffic signals are obeyed, walking is easy. I stayed at a small guesthouse “Banana Guest House” in a very quiet residential district. It’s an expensive country compared to Ethiopia and a room with breakfast set me back $160 but I was within easy walking distance of the first genocide site.
Certainly I was aware in 1994 of the genocide here in Rwanda and neighboring Burundi but my understanding of the motivation and history was unclear. In the past few days I’ve learned that tribal differences between Tutsi and Hutu were manufactured. Beginning with Belgian colonization and by 1932, the Belgians had effectively divided the country into two classes – you were a Tutsi if you owned 10 or more cattle and a Hutu if you owned less. Families and villages were divided and the minority Tutsi became the favored group; the division was further developed by the issuance of identification cards. Sporadically, between 1932 and 1994, violence between groups occurred. In the latter part of the last century, the Hutu majority took power and retribution against perceived injustices on the part of the Tutsi increased.
By 1990 a cult of government supported hate radio and sponsored violence toward individual Tutsi was condoned and encouraged. 1993, the then president signed a peace agreement implying an end to internal hostilities; the hate campaign intensified in response. March 1994, the president’s plane was shot down over Kigali. In conversation with Rwandans there is a quiet cynicism about this. The official line, although never proven, is that Tutsi rebels brought the plane down; the facts don’t support this hypothesis as the rockets were fired from a heavily fortified Government Hill and it is thought impossible that rebels would have access to that site. Both the UN commander at the time and other witnesses, suggest that the attack was from within the government inner circle and had one goal – that of inciting the genocide- to that end, the Hutu president was expendable.
The Hutu were ready for genocide. No genocide is spontaneous. Genocide is planned. Gangs of unemployed Hutu youth had been trained in massacre techniques; machetes and guns had been stashed in secret locations; lists of Tutsis were circulated along with instructions on the most effective methods of killing large groups. Hate radio and literature had done their jobs; for 100 days terror beyond my comprehension was let loose. Depravity, cruelty, violence, death reigned. Over two million Tutsi were killed in Rwanda in those 100 days and several hundred thousand in neighboring Burundi. Priests betrayed their congregations; neighbors their neighbors; colleagues their office mates. Children were singled out in a biblical attempt to “destroy the race”; women suffered unspeakable acts of violence. A photo journalist I spoke with recalled a photographer telling him of driving into a village at night, lights out to avoid detection and to their horror discovering that the road was not pot-holed as first thought - they were driving over piles of bodies.
The French UN commander begged for assistance. Kofi Anan, President of the UN and other world leaders including President Clinton, spoke after the event of not understanding the situation and wishing they had made different decisions. The world responded too late to yet another genocide.
My first evening in Kigali I walked the quiet hillside street to Hotel Milles Collones, the setting for the film, Hotel Rwanda. There was nothing there to commemorate that it had been the scene of such desperation. Privately a Rwandan told me that the Hutu manager was “not such a hero” as he had only sheltered those who could pay.
Monday morning my driver took me to the National Genocide Memorial within the city limits. It is a quiet, peaceful place. Interior exhibits lead you though a brief history of the Rwandan people, culture and era of colonization. There is no effort to shock here; it’s not needed. The gravity of events speaks for themselves. Even the display of skulls, many cracked by machetes have a dignity that defies horrific. Photos and heartbreakingly short biographies of children killed fill one room. Other displays eulogize the heroic Hutu men and women who sheltered friends and strangers alike. Two magnificent stained glass windows designed by a child of holocaust survivors bring light and hope into dark rooms. Another area is devoted to a history of genocide throughout time and asks that we learn from this and work to prevent another genocide.
Outside, above a simple pool, a flame burns. It is lit annually for the 100 days of the genocide. A series of gardens lead through a medication on unity and hope. In one, at the edge of a pool of water, an almost comical clay representation of an elephant holding a cell phone is telling us that elephants never forget and that we should, as the memory keepers, alert the world.
Through a rose garden, under blossom-laden trellises you come to a three-tier area of mass graves. Over 250 thousand men, women and children, their bodies recovered from massacre sites, are buried here. It is a solemn, silent place. I left with a feeling of unease and sadness that clouded the rest of my time in the city.
Nothing prepared me for the final genocide site I visited on Wednesday. Initially I resisted visiting the church at Nyamata. I had read a description of what took place there.
About a thirty-minute drive east of Kigali we turned off into the township of Nyamata and parked outside the catholic church under the shade of a plane tree. The fence around the church was draped with pink and purple bunting and a banner over the door translated to “If you knew me you would not have killed me”. Ironic because neighbors murdered neighbors.
It’s a big, brick building, simple, no elaborate stained glass windows, nothing ornate. A few school children walked across the dusty plaza to a row of schoolrooms, they chattered and kicked a plastic bottle. My driver declined to come inside. “I’ve seen,” he said. The iron security door of the church is twisted; the walls and ceiling pockmarked with shrapnel holes from grenade explosions. On May 8th. 1994 more than 10,000 terrified Tutsis from the surrounding area filled very inch of this sanctuary. They crawled under the wood slab, backless benches, they wedged themselves under the altar, they huddled in the crypt, and they pressed themselves into wall niches. It is inconceivable to me that so many could fit into this space. The Hutu mob surrounded the church eventually using a grenade to blow gap in the steel bars of the gate and then began hurling in grenades. They stormed in and hacked, beat, shot to death in an orgy of rape then killing. One woman was singled out (and please forgive this graphic description but unless we hear of such horrors, I fear we will forget) for rape and then killed by a stake that was driven through her vagina to her skull.
It’s still inside the church now. There is a musty, unrecognizable smell. The rows of benches are piled several feet high with the bloodstained, torn clothing of the victims. Colors have faded to a dun brown uniformity but occasionally something stands out and catches the eye – for me it was a crocheted hat still showing some green wool – I imagine it once sitting jauntily of the owner’s head; I noted a pale pink toddler sized tee shirt. The cement floor is patterned with dark stains – blood. Five people survived the massacre.
All ten thousand are buried here and an additional forty-one thousand from massacre sites around the area. Under a large aluminum awning out back the mass graves have open windows and you can look down of satin draped coffins and neat rows of skulls and bones.
No photos could begin to evoke the atmosphere in this place and photographs would not serve to honor the dead. The only images I will be includingd here are of the memorial garden in Kigale and of the roadside signs seen throughout the country that speak of reconciliation and healing.
“We are Rwandans”, we are neither Tutsi nor Hutu” is the word from all you meet.
Gerry
If you are enjoying following this blog and http://www.connectionsforwomen.com/, please help us continue by supporting our affilates and advertisers by clicking through on their ads to see what they have to offer.
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