Laurel’s Stories for Edmonton Art Exhibit, Global Gallery
Tuesday March 9th, 2010
Art and Clowning
It was Bernadin in Burkina Faso that gave me permission to play. His philosophy is that nothing is a mistake. I once dropped a blob of black india ink in the middle of a painting that seemed to have some potential. I moaned in regret, and he stopped me right away. ‘Do you know what this piece will become- do you know the final product- no? Then how can it be a mistake?’. Then he went outside, got a piece of bamboo from the ground, came back in and drew lines through this black blob of ink, making it the strongest part of the painting
It’s the art of clowning. Do you know that clowns go to ‘clown school?’ Well they do. And in clown school they teach you that when you make a mistake during your performance, you throw up your arms and say, ‘Ta Da!’ And everyone is forced to clap and laugh. And all is recuperated.
This exhibit has been organized and infused with the spirit of Africa:
keep it simple
use what you have
go with the flow
expect the unexpected
it all works out in the end
if it doesn’t, just say, ‘ta da!’
have a party anyway with friends- new and known
Art and Recuperation
In Zambia I learned the art of recuperation. There was nothing that could not be used as an artistic material- plastic bottles, plastic bags, glass bottles, pieces of computer, rusting metal scraps, sand, clay, tree branches, charcoal- things from the earth, things from the garbage, acrylic paintings painted on old flannel sheets and table cloths. Creativity from necessity. We must create, so we find materials.
I guess the concept of ‘archival quality’ is almost irrelevant in a country where the term ‘starving artist’ is in no way a metaphore.
Three kittens have joined us in the studio- I think Joseph found them. When I hold one on my lap I can feel every bone, every vibration. They are so new to this world, their lives so fragile. They could be crushed with one misplaced backward step (and I worry that this will happen).
And what of the fragility and durability of the artists? I am starting to feed kittens and artists, but do they need to find their own way? Do they need to eat lizards and n’chima, and I keep my paws off?
Clarence- who now spells his name ‘Kilarenz’- is a tall, too thin young Zimbabwean man, who wears a straw hat at a jaunty angle, or a black scarf, or black leather pants.
talented, bright, unique, funny, charming. He is vulnerable in so many ways. When I take him to someone’s house he becomes nervous, ‘are my clothes o.k., what should I say?’ He knows that he lives in this studio bubble, which will burst outside of the protective walls, and drop him into this alien space where the air is too thin…. But in the studio he is in his territory. He will suddenly be transported by the music blaring through the studio and start to dance, eyes closed, brilliant teeth flashing a smile.
Kilarenz: What day is it today?
Laurel: Sunday afternoon
Kilarenz: My grandmother has just come home after a very long walk to church, after attending a service that was way too long. The pickaninees are with her. They are fighting right now and giving her grief. She is trying to prepare a meal and Xhosa is helping her. I should be helping her, but here I am, painting. I should be supporting her, and I can’t, and I have to live with that every day. She raised us right. She prays for us every day. God knows her voice well. And here I am, sick- probably from something I smoked.
email from Clarence:
hey little mama'
good to ear from you,well lusaka iz as u left it slow like a f...en' nothing happens here,we ave a nu comminttie at the space which iz way beta than any we ave had before they just started so we yet to see if they iz good for their word besides that it remains the same a the space.Nick iznt working from there no more,you left Rob left its cool i leave too soon if Jah will it,blaka him ok avent sin him in a while im sure him ok'
do your best to smile n enjoy the time we ave under the fire'
Watcha'
Art and Identity
Dec 25th 2007 At the Studio (Lusaka)
In my second year in Zambia, I became an African artist. I did not change my nationality or my skin colour, but I entered in- no, was invited in- to this world.
It is December 25th and the African night is dark and silent. I have just left a Christmas party with Ex-patriate friends, and I am coming to see if any of my artist friends are at the art studio. The studio smells of paint, rain, and the staleness of unwashed clothes. I walk carefully up the broken concrete steps in my italian high-heel shoes, trying to avoid potholes and pools of water from the leaky roof. How silently the cockroaches scurry to darker corners. Rats 'parumpupumpum' in the roof overhead, while an angel choir of malarial mosquitoes hum in the background. My rasta artist friends-Clarence and Nick, Joseph and Chris, Collins and Brian and Dan- are gathered together on the concrete steps, like shepherds looking for a messiah. They are dazzled by my brilliant green silk dress, eyes drawn to the two slits up either leg.
'Yea-bo little mama, you lookin good!', Clarence greets me.
'You look like an African,' Nick announces. (My dress is made from Pakistani silk, sewn by a Bosnian woman in Canada).
'I've come to celebrate Christmas with you; Fear not!' I announce, feeling like the angel Gabriel, ‘I bring you cookies, tarts, and rum punch!' Their interest quickly turns from the slits in my dress to my gifts and an impromptu feast begins -the best kind; pretty much the only kind here.
From that night on when Nick introduces me to his friends visiting the studio he would say, 'she is one of us; she is an African'. It is the highest compliment he could pay me. And yet, it occurs to me now that I don't know any of their African names. So what identity were they revealing to me, and how did I, the white Canadian, become 'African'? How are they part of my identity and how am I a part of theirs? Identity of skin and heart and name....
Art and Determination
This was the theme for the 2008 Harare International Festival of the Arts (HIFA). My friend Serena was driving down from Lusaka, and invited me to join her. I was nervous because it was 3 weeks after the first election in Zimbabwe where Robert Mugabe refused to release the election results. The country was starting into the most recent cycle of violence. It was an agonizing decision, as I really wanted to go, but the timing of a visit to Zimbabwe was not the most propitious: post election with official results still unannounced, destroyed economy, outrageous inflation, racial tensions. Perhaps not the most enticing tourist profile. If this were a post-election period in West Africa, I wouldn’t even consider going. The borders would be closed and if you got in, you would not be able to get out. However it’s not West Africa, it is Zimbabwe, which has this quirky ability to remain relatively stable amidst the most provocative circumstances.
There have to be more artists per square metre in Zimbabwe than any country I know. The theme of this years Arts festival was ‘ Art and Determination’. The background motif at every stage were long banners with X’s in contrasting colours, symbolizing the votes that were cast- the voice of the artistic community to Zanu PF- We have spoken, now you listen.
During the festival I attended a workshop of readings- rap music, poetry. The poets and rap musicians did not mince words, they spoke quite openly about their suffering and the need for change. Lines from different readings
[the reader has taken on the voice of Mugabe: “I am slowly getting tired. I can’t remember who I am or why I lost”. General laughter]
God watches us- not CNN, not FOX, not BBC
Fat chefs sit in the kitchen cooking up pieces of famine, house of hunger…
Rapper: ‘you work and you work and you get paid…[crowd responds] ‘Mahara!’ [means ‘nothing’ in Shona]
Inflation and supplies
The inflation is out of control. The program for the arts festival cost $80 million Zim dollars. Expensive, eh? Not really at 80 cents--- when I arrived. By the time I left 4 days later it cost 55 cents. I got 100million Zim dollars for 1$USD; the official bank rate is $30,000. The currency has an expiry date- printed January; expires June 2008. The money comes in stacks of $1Billion, which is $10. Cash is hard to come by. There are long lines outside every bank. The limit per day of what you can take out of your own account is $4 billion, or $40, which is good for one trip to the supermarket.
I was fishing old Zim bills that were thrown into a pile of trash in a parking lot (I wanted them as souvenirs) when a street kid came along, feeling sorry for me: ‘madame, I will give you some money, you don’t need to take these.
I hitched a ride with a young professional Zimbabwean couple, listened to their conversation from the back seat:
“Bongi found some engine oil the other day.
Amazing!- that’s just like gold; what did she trade it for? Silas has shock absorbers.
And another conversation:
-Come over for a braii [BBQ] on Friday
-Brilliant, what are we having?
-What are you bringing?
Power cuts are regular, and often last 36 hours over the weekend. Buying flowers on the street, my friend tries to bargain. The vendor: ‘Ah sir, what can I buy with this money; some people are sitting pretty, you know.’ The flower seller knows. We drive past people begging on the streets, and past mansions.
“Broken countries, but still they survive; there is something about survival in Africa that beats me, every time.” Anne Paludan
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Lunar rainbow over Victoria Falls
Lunar Rainbow over Victoria Falls
"Tonight I saw the lunar rainbow, as the full moon shone through the spray over Victoria Falls. It was a sideways half-circle, perfectly round, white with pastel shades of gentle colour. There were crowds of people at the first view point, then just a few people 5 metres down, and no one but us on the Knife Edge Bridge. From here the top of the rainbow disappeared into the cliff over Zimbabwe and the bottom disappeared into the chasm of the Falls. In June the spray is so heavy you can't see much and by August there won't be enough spray to create the rainbow. July is the time, and we were there- alone."
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Giving Up- A Refugee Story
Giving Up: A Refugee Story
Today I saw a young cat lying in the shade with its eyes lazily opened, staring off into space. Most cats here are so shy that they run away as soon as they hear my steps, but this cat did not move or blink. I squat down, calling gently with no response, and then I realized that it was dead. I grieve for this no-name kitten.
…. offered me a cup of water, but I refused. “It isn’t water I need; I have water. I am sick; I need medicine.” Another Liberian refugee has found me at my office. A few weeks ago I helped 2 Liberians who came to my door. After they left I realized they likely made up their story in order to get money. Not that they don’t need help- God knows they do- but they have learned the survival skill of how to squeeze water from a stone: how to get some small sustenance in a terribly poor country with no social safety net. I am that stone; or net; or sponge. I soak up their stories, their desperation, and later I wring out uncontrollable sobs of vicarious traumatisation.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Tchad Sketches
Tchad Scenes
November 2004
Arrival
In November I visited Tchad for the first time. Tchad is the central African country where the Sahara Desert meets the semi-desert of the Sahel, and finally turns into the green ‘Sudan’ region. The purpose of this trip was to meet with our local partners, and to gather stories from the distribution of 2 containers of food and non-food items that were scheduled to arrive via Cameroun. The saga of the containers is its own full-length story. This allowed us to visit the two regions of Tchad that host refugees: Central African refugees in the south, and refugees from the Darfur region of Sudan in the central-north.
N’Djamena
We arrived in the capital city of N’Djamena on a November afternoon. As we begin our descent the Ethiopian Airlines steward announces with great conviction and enthusiasm, “They are reporting beautiful weather on the ground of 38 degrees”. It is approaching winter in Tchad.
The streets of N’Djamena are thick with sand, which fills the air at the passing of every car. Open sewers that collect garbage and breed mosquitoes line the streets. There is garbage everywhere. A Tchadien wryly noted, ‘those aren’t black birds you see flying around; they are plastic bags.’
The themes we hear repeated everywhere- with all refugee groups and local populations, and widows and orphan groups: First a deep thankfulness for the small aid that MCC has provided. Second, a plea to provide them with the means to earn a small daily income- to cover the margin that separates them from destitution.
As we met children in different parts of Tchad, who were supported by MCC projects, they would give us their names in French, and Levy would translate the literal meaning in English. The meaning of these names invariably found some connection with the stories we were about to hear:
’My name is Faithful’
‘My name is Destiny’
‘My name is God’s Will’
‘The War Chased Me’.
And the women’s group…
‘Capable Women’
HIV-AIDs Project: (Generations at Risk)
Ardebdjoumbal: ‘Capable Women’
Madame Djikoloum: “When I saw the prevalence of AIDS and its impact in my country, I cried. If I didn’t discover such a passion for this cause, I couldn’t get up every morning to dedicate myself to this work. Sometimes people think I am like a fool in the midday sun! When we go into new neighborhoods, we use a megaphone to announce our community meetings. I have become like a megaphone, making public this very hidden and private scourge.”
Comments from the other ‘Capable Women’:
- If I waited for my husband to solve problems we would all go hungry. I have to feed and clothe my children and buy medicine.
- One day when I was sick someone came to give me a little money. That really touched me. I have received help I never imagined I could.
Goré/Central African Refugees
“My name is God’s Will”
We drive the 750 km from N’Djamena to Goré, visiting farmers and orphans near Moundou on the way. We pass a truck that has overturned on the side of the road, and a caravan of Fulani people with all their earthly goods that lasts for kilometers.
Goré is the area that hosts the Central African refugees. People from the northern region of CAR were forced to flee almost 2 years ago, when the government began a campaign of attacking and bombing the villages. I found the Central African refugee leaders to be most gracious and long-suffering. Despite the fact that they have just come through 10 weeks without food distribution, they expressed their thanks to UNHCR, they spoke of the needs of the women, and they were deeply grateful for our visit.
We have a meeting with the church leaders in Goré that lasts into the night. It is an African meeting: a circle of men sitting on chairs, being served food by women, and the children quietly playing in the background. Their bodies forming a living statue in the shadows- constantly shifting and reforming like the movement of the northern lights across the sky.
Inside the church meeting room is a progressive poster of girls in school, the message on the poster reads, “We need to have education too!”
“-This is in the same village where Melody asks a woman with a baby on her back:
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Nine.’
‘Then maybe the ninth one will be your last child?’
The woman looks at Melody with resignation. ‘Madame, do you not have a husband?’
Words from Central African refugees
A woman cradles a listless child in her arms, in the shade from the hot sun. She feeds him a small glass of milk formula. “My son developed a fever last night” she explains, “and today he is still sick”. Honyo Pauline fled Central Africa with her husband and 5 children. Their village was bombed like so many others. Now they wait for peace. What else can they do but wait for peace?
§ “You are our sister in Christ. We thank you for coming here personally to see us. We have been here for almost 2 years. No one comes to the South.” Koubra Allam, Zone A, President of Refugee Women’s Association
§ We have suffered so much; we wonder, will the suffering diminish one day, or will it continue like this?
§ If you could here directly from our wives and children you would understand that they have the greatest need.
§ “If God didn’t send you, you wouldn’t be here in front of us. So God will guide you in the ways to help us, and He will also guide your return.” Abraham Zaccharia, Zone A
§ “The sun will set again tonight, and we will remain here in obscurity, except that you have seen our faces. You can see that we are human just like you.” Mahamad Mahdou, Zone C
§ We want to find a way to become human again. We have nothing to do, no control over our lives, no way to earn a livelihood. We are completely dependent.
Abeché/Sudanese Refugees
“My name is Destiny”
From Abeché we drive 150 km of potholes and desert sand-road to the closest camps of Sudanese refugees. We pass deserted villages, and then turn one corner to see a huge gathering of all the people from this area in a dry riverbed. Our trip is during the feast of Karem that celebrates the end of Ramadan. And as we enter Bredjing refugee camp, we see row upon row of praying Sudanese men, all in white flowing robes, women in brightly coloured cloth behind them.
Hadjer Hadid
We slept under the stars in the courtyard of the Sub-prefecture. He was the most gracious man I met in this area of Tchad. He brought out all their mats and blankets and pillows, and they themselves went without. And so we slept under a black sky brilliant with stars and galaxies, including the Milky Way.
I interviewed Mahamat Brahim Bakhit, Chef du Canton de Bardi. After our interview, which ends about 10am, he brings out a feast of to and sauce and the tenderest beef we have eaten. I start an impromptu English lesson by teaching everyone there how to pronounce the word, ‘Thursday’ (as opposed to ‘Tuesday’ which is quite easy). They all do very well. This will probably be the name of the next male child.
Bredjing Camp
As of September 2004, UNHCR reports more than 200,000 refugees living in 9 permanent and 2-3 overflow camps located within 50 km of the border. This includes a high percentage of women. These camps stretch along a 600 km frontier, north from Abeché. The expected influx is for 70,000 more in 2004 and 100,000 more in 2005.
Most of the Sudanese refugees left their villages in 2003, in a situation that has been called ethnic cleansing- bombing and firing on villages of black Sudanese by Arabs, confiscating their land and animals, burning villages, raping women and girls, and forced evacuation. ‘The military came with trucks and took all our possessions (including beautiful women) in the trucks into Sudan.’ The refugees report difficult relations with the local population, “they steal our donkeys and won’t let us collect wood or dried grass to build shelters.” The local population reports difficult relations with the refugees, “they come into our gardens and steal our food, then try to sell it back to us in the market!”
As we walk through this camp we are invited to a gathering of men. I gain the status of ‘honorary man’ to be allowed into this all-male gathering. And so there I sit, a lone white woman in a sea of Moslem men- all in loose white robes and head turbans. Laurel’s Harem. One young man shows us his bullet wounds, which precipitates a round of men revealing scars, missing fingers...
Women’s work in Africa is invisible. Women are invisible. If a man’s wife dies, her work will be taken over by another woman. “The women have nothing to do” comments one of theSudanese men, when listing the difficulties refugees face. As I walk around the camp, I see women collecting water at the well and hauling it back to their tents, washing children, washing clothes, preparing meals, heading into the bush to collect wood, and I think to myself, ‘There they are again- doing ‘nothing’!
Interview with Sudanese woman in Bredjing camp (Kadhidja Assane Kerim)
Kadhidja is a 25 year old widow with 3 children- two 8-year old twin girls and a 3 year old boy. As we interview her, all the neighbors gather on the other side of the low woven grass fence. She is from the village of Nabaré. She is living under the protection of her uncle, who translates (and interprets her answers) for her She lives in a small, hot UNHCR canvass tent with her 3 children. Their areas is separated by a small fence of woven dried grass. She collects water with a broken plastic gerry can, and cooks on a very inefficient set of stones in the corner of her courtyard.
Jangjaweed (Arab Sudanese militia) shot her husband. It took them 8 days to reach the Tchadien border, then UNHCR took them in trucks to the camp. The whole village fled at the same time. Those with animals came on their own; it took a further 4 days. What is life like for the women? “We have no way to earn money to buy any extra food. We only have the clothes we are wearing. We can’t find wood. We talk together about our suffering- no land, no work, just depending on others to give us everything. The kids just run around because there is no school. I am concerned.
Arid Blooms
Rocky outcrops
rise out of undulating sands,
supporting thorn bushes
and Acacia trees.
We pass sun-scorched crops,
abandoned by the rains
that never came,
but not abandoned by the grasshoppers
that did come.
We pass ghost villages
with markets empty of people,
full of thatch-roof shelters
on stick legs,
Then- defying this faded ochre
of dried up wadis
and thirsty camels-
brilliant blossoms of pink
flame forth from a
lone scrub bush.
Blossoms of hope in the Sahel,
like the brightly-clothed children we meet,
orphans and refugees all,
their voices proclaiming:
’My name is Faithful’
‘My name is Destiny’
‘My name is God’s Will’
and a last little boy—
‘The War Chased Me’.
Sahel Heat
It is so hot here in the Sahel
that even my shadow drips.
At high noon it drips out of sight
leaving just me, dripping in the desert.
Me dripping, and the riverbeds dry for months.
November 2004
Arrival
In November I visited Tchad for the first time. Tchad is the central African country where the Sahara Desert meets the semi-desert of the Sahel, and finally turns into the green ‘Sudan’ region. The purpose of this trip was to meet with our local partners, and to gather stories from the distribution of 2 containers of food and non-food items that were scheduled to arrive via Cameroun. The saga of the containers is its own full-length story. This allowed us to visit the two regions of Tchad that host refugees: Central African refugees in the south, and refugees from the Darfur region of Sudan in the central-north.
N’Djamena
We arrived in the capital city of N’Djamena on a November afternoon. As we begin our descent the Ethiopian Airlines steward announces with great conviction and enthusiasm, “They are reporting beautiful weather on the ground of 38 degrees”. It is approaching winter in Tchad.
The streets of N’Djamena are thick with sand, which fills the air at the passing of every car. Open sewers that collect garbage and breed mosquitoes line the streets. There is garbage everywhere. A Tchadien wryly noted, ‘those aren’t black birds you see flying around; they are plastic bags.’
The themes we hear repeated everywhere- with all refugee groups and local populations, and widows and orphan groups: First a deep thankfulness for the small aid that MCC has provided. Second, a plea to provide them with the means to earn a small daily income- to cover the margin that separates them from destitution.
As we met children in different parts of Tchad, who were supported by MCC projects, they would give us their names in French, and Levy would translate the literal meaning in English. The meaning of these names invariably found some connection with the stories we were about to hear:
’My name is Faithful’
‘My name is Destiny’
‘My name is God’s Will’
‘The War Chased Me’.
And the women’s group…
‘Capable Women’
HIV-AIDs Project: (Generations at Risk)
Ardebdjoumbal: ‘Capable Women’
Madame Djikoloum: “When I saw the prevalence of AIDS and its impact in my country, I cried. If I didn’t discover such a passion for this cause, I couldn’t get up every morning to dedicate myself to this work. Sometimes people think I am like a fool in the midday sun! When we go into new neighborhoods, we use a megaphone to announce our community meetings. I have become like a megaphone, making public this very hidden and private scourge.”
Comments from the other ‘Capable Women’:
- If I waited for my husband to solve problems we would all go hungry. I have to feed and clothe my children and buy medicine.
- One day when I was sick someone came to give me a little money. That really touched me. I have received help I never imagined I could.
Goré/Central African Refugees
“My name is God’s Will”
We drive the 750 km from N’Djamena to Goré, visiting farmers and orphans near Moundou on the way. We pass a truck that has overturned on the side of the road, and a caravan of Fulani people with all their earthly goods that lasts for kilometers.
Goré is the area that hosts the Central African refugees. People from the northern region of CAR were forced to flee almost 2 years ago, when the government began a campaign of attacking and bombing the villages. I found the Central African refugee leaders to be most gracious and long-suffering. Despite the fact that they have just come through 10 weeks without food distribution, they expressed their thanks to UNHCR, they spoke of the needs of the women, and they were deeply grateful for our visit.
We have a meeting with the church leaders in Goré that lasts into the night. It is an African meeting: a circle of men sitting on chairs, being served food by women, and the children quietly playing in the background. Their bodies forming a living statue in the shadows- constantly shifting and reforming like the movement of the northern lights across the sky.
Inside the church meeting room is a progressive poster of girls in school, the message on the poster reads, “We need to have education too!”
“-This is in the same village where Melody asks a woman with a baby on her back:
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Nine.’
‘Then maybe the ninth one will be your last child?’
The woman looks at Melody with resignation. ‘Madame, do you not have a husband?’
Words from Central African refugees
A woman cradles a listless child in her arms, in the shade from the hot sun. She feeds him a small glass of milk formula. “My son developed a fever last night” she explains, “and today he is still sick”. Honyo Pauline fled Central Africa with her husband and 5 children. Their village was bombed like so many others. Now they wait for peace. What else can they do but wait for peace?
§ “You are our sister in Christ. We thank you for coming here personally to see us. We have been here for almost 2 years. No one comes to the South.” Koubra Allam, Zone A, President of Refugee Women’s Association
§ We have suffered so much; we wonder, will the suffering diminish one day, or will it continue like this?
§ If you could here directly from our wives and children you would understand that they have the greatest need.
§ “If God didn’t send you, you wouldn’t be here in front of us. So God will guide you in the ways to help us, and He will also guide your return.” Abraham Zaccharia, Zone A
§ “The sun will set again tonight, and we will remain here in obscurity, except that you have seen our faces. You can see that we are human just like you.” Mahamad Mahdou, Zone C
§ We want to find a way to become human again. We have nothing to do, no control over our lives, no way to earn a livelihood. We are completely dependent.
Abeché/Sudanese Refugees
“My name is Destiny”
From Abeché we drive 150 km of potholes and desert sand-road to the closest camps of Sudanese refugees. We pass deserted villages, and then turn one corner to see a huge gathering of all the people from this area in a dry riverbed. Our trip is during the feast of Karem that celebrates the end of Ramadan. And as we enter Bredjing refugee camp, we see row upon row of praying Sudanese men, all in white flowing robes, women in brightly coloured cloth behind them.
Hadjer Hadid
We slept under the stars in the courtyard of the Sub-prefecture. He was the most gracious man I met in this area of Tchad. He brought out all their mats and blankets and pillows, and they themselves went without. And so we slept under a black sky brilliant with stars and galaxies, including the Milky Way.
I interviewed Mahamat Brahim Bakhit, Chef du Canton de Bardi. After our interview, which ends about 10am, he brings out a feast of to and sauce and the tenderest beef we have eaten. I start an impromptu English lesson by teaching everyone there how to pronounce the word, ‘Thursday’ (as opposed to ‘Tuesday’ which is quite easy). They all do very well. This will probably be the name of the next male child.
Bredjing Camp
As of September 2004, UNHCR reports more than 200,000 refugees living in 9 permanent and 2-3 overflow camps located within 50 km of the border. This includes a high percentage of women. These camps stretch along a 600 km frontier, north from Abeché. The expected influx is for 70,000 more in 2004 and 100,000 more in 2005.
Most of the Sudanese refugees left their villages in 2003, in a situation that has been called ethnic cleansing- bombing and firing on villages of black Sudanese by Arabs, confiscating their land and animals, burning villages, raping women and girls, and forced evacuation. ‘The military came with trucks and took all our possessions (including beautiful women) in the trucks into Sudan.’ The refugees report difficult relations with the local population, “they steal our donkeys and won’t let us collect wood or dried grass to build shelters.” The local population reports difficult relations with the refugees, “they come into our gardens and steal our food, then try to sell it back to us in the market!”
As we walk through this camp we are invited to a gathering of men. I gain the status of ‘honorary man’ to be allowed into this all-male gathering. And so there I sit, a lone white woman in a sea of Moslem men- all in loose white robes and head turbans. Laurel’s Harem. One young man shows us his bullet wounds, which precipitates a round of men revealing scars, missing fingers...
Women’s work in Africa is invisible. Women are invisible. If a man’s wife dies, her work will be taken over by another woman. “The women have nothing to do” comments one of theSudanese men, when listing the difficulties refugees face. As I walk around the camp, I see women collecting water at the well and hauling it back to their tents, washing children, washing clothes, preparing meals, heading into the bush to collect wood, and I think to myself, ‘There they are again- doing ‘nothing’!
Interview with Sudanese woman in Bredjing camp (Kadhidja Assane Kerim)
Kadhidja is a 25 year old widow with 3 children- two 8-year old twin girls and a 3 year old boy. As we interview her, all the neighbors gather on the other side of the low woven grass fence. She is from the village of Nabaré. She is living under the protection of her uncle, who translates (and interprets her answers) for her She lives in a small, hot UNHCR canvass tent with her 3 children. Their areas is separated by a small fence of woven dried grass. She collects water with a broken plastic gerry can, and cooks on a very inefficient set of stones in the corner of her courtyard.
Jangjaweed (Arab Sudanese militia) shot her husband. It took them 8 days to reach the Tchadien border, then UNHCR took them in trucks to the camp. The whole village fled at the same time. Those with animals came on their own; it took a further 4 days. What is life like for the women? “We have no way to earn money to buy any extra food. We only have the clothes we are wearing. We can’t find wood. We talk together about our suffering- no land, no work, just depending on others to give us everything. The kids just run around because there is no school. I am concerned.
Arid Blooms
Rocky outcrops
rise out of undulating sands,
supporting thorn bushes
and Acacia trees.
We pass sun-scorched crops,
abandoned by the rains
that never came,
but not abandoned by the grasshoppers
that did come.
We pass ghost villages
with markets empty of people,
full of thatch-roof shelters
on stick legs,
Then- defying this faded ochre
of dried up wadis
and thirsty camels-
brilliant blossoms of pink
flame forth from a
lone scrub bush.
Blossoms of hope in the Sahel,
like the brightly-clothed children we meet,
orphans and refugees all,
their voices proclaiming:
’My name is Faithful’
‘My name is Destiny’
‘My name is God’s Will’
and a last little boy—
‘The War Chased Me’.
Sahel Heat
It is so hot here in the Sahel
that even my shadow drips.
At high noon it drips out of sight
leaving just me, dripping in the desert.
Me dripping, and the riverbeds dry for months.
Easter 2005- Monastere de Koubri
Easter 2005
Monastère de Koubri, Burkina Faso
We arrive at the Monastery de Koubri early Easter Sunday morning. We see through a lattice of trees a steady stream of people from the surrounding villages coming on foot and by bike. The chapel is spacious and light and airy. We sit in the men’s section with a few other renegade women. All these babies tied onto their mothers’ backs, and none of them crying. Is it the narcotic of the cola nut passed on through breast milk? Blue trumpet lilies burst out of the patterned shirt of a man a few rows in front.
West African scenes of the Stations of the Cross circle the walls of the chapel. The choir and musicians sit together in the center section of the congregation. They play jembé drums and calabashes with shells, and percussion instruments with chinking metal pieces. The choir responds antiphonally to the song leader. A light breeze blows through the sanctuary. It blows joy through the West African harmonies and percussion.
We are the only non-Burkinabé, but in this sanctuary, we worship along side the village people. The fault lines here are parochial rather than social: Black brothers in white robes sit separated from the rest of us on benches at the front, and the young boys who outside will try to sell me Kleenex or phone cards, sing and dance and pray beside me. My body sways to African rhythms. The metal percussion clangs and changs and rings as women ululate to announce the empty tomb.
The service is conducted in Mooré. I listen in Mooré, and read in French and English, and the Holy Spirit translates all. An old white Father with the bushiest white cotton beard I have ever seen blesses the body and blood of Christ. Father Easter. He lifts the chalice high for us all to gaze upon, like Moses lifting the serpent-stick in the desert.
We lift our palms skyward
to welcome the bread and wine,
We hold our palms upward
to receive the wafer of body.
We join our palms inward
to pass the peace.
Jesus, rise here
in the heat of the Sahel,
hold your palms out to us,
the light of this Easter morning
shining through the pierced holes.
He is Risen Indeed!
Monastère de Koubri, Burkina Faso
We arrive at the Monastery de Koubri early Easter Sunday morning. We see through a lattice of trees a steady stream of people from the surrounding villages coming on foot and by bike. The chapel is spacious and light and airy. We sit in the men’s section with a few other renegade women. All these babies tied onto their mothers’ backs, and none of them crying. Is it the narcotic of the cola nut passed on through breast milk? Blue trumpet lilies burst out of the patterned shirt of a man a few rows in front.
West African scenes of the Stations of the Cross circle the walls of the chapel. The choir and musicians sit together in the center section of the congregation. They play jembé drums and calabashes with shells, and percussion instruments with chinking metal pieces. The choir responds antiphonally to the song leader. A light breeze blows through the sanctuary. It blows joy through the West African harmonies and percussion.
We are the only non-Burkinabé, but in this sanctuary, we worship along side the village people. The fault lines here are parochial rather than social: Black brothers in white robes sit separated from the rest of us on benches at the front, and the young boys who outside will try to sell me Kleenex or phone cards, sing and dance and pray beside me. My body sways to African rhythms. The metal percussion clangs and changs and rings as women ululate to announce the empty tomb.
The service is conducted in Mooré. I listen in Mooré, and read in French and English, and the Holy Spirit translates all. An old white Father with the bushiest white cotton beard I have ever seen blesses the body and blood of Christ. Father Easter. He lifts the chalice high for us all to gaze upon, like Moses lifting the serpent-stick in the desert.
We lift our palms skyward
to welcome the bread and wine,
We hold our palms upward
to receive the wafer of body.
We join our palms inward
to pass the peace.
Jesus, rise here
in the heat of the Sahel,
hold your palms out to us,
the light of this Easter morning
shining through the pierced holes.
He is Risen Indeed!
Thursday, January 27, 2005
West Africa Vignettes
Vignettes from 2004 in Burkina Faso
“Broken countries, but then, how come they still survive? There is something about survival in Africa that beats me, every time.” Anne Paludan
Weather
It is so hot here in the Sahel that even my shadow drips. At high noon it drips out of sight, leaving just me, dripping in the desert. Me dripping, and the riverbeds dry for months.
Climate is not a selling point of this place; there are no good seasons here. There are less-bad seasons, and lateral moves from one meteorological trial to the next. Winter begins in December. We are relieved because November is the month everyone burns dead branches and refuse from streets and fields, and respiratory illnesses abound. December nights and mornings are pleasantly cool (not cool enough to kill the mosquitoes) but it is still up to 36 C in the mid-day shade. Harmattan begins in January. Harmattan is a hot dry wind that blows in off the desert, bringing with it a thick haze of sand and dust (this is a lateral move from the haze of burning garbage in Nov). And just as I am fed up with sand gathering in every crevasse of my house and body, the hot season will begin. This will turn the world from clothes dryer into an oven. The rains will begin in June and hit their apex in August. The rivers of water will be essential to plant new crops, but travel is severely limited, as roads become impassable. Then in Sept-Oct the rain and the wind cease. Because there is no breeze, the number of insects hovering about multiplies. They will congregate in the pleasant confines of my well-lit house, where they drop into my food and wine, and fly down the front of my dress and into my hair. This makes me look forward to the relief that the Harmattan will bring.
Harmattan:
a hot dry desert wind that blows the sand of the Sahara into every crevasse of your mind and body.
I was in my office one afternoon, quietly working at my computer on a peaceful, slightly overcast day. I glanced up from my computer and the sky outside my office window had very suddenly turned an apocryphal, dark quinacrodone orange. The air was completely still. Then a strong wind came howling in from across the savannah, thick with sand from the Sahara. After a few minutes of this eerie preparation, a torrential downpour commenced, complete with thunder and lightening. The noise under a tin roof is awesome.
These thunderous downpours are a foil to the ‘ghost-riders in the night’. That’s what I call the cyclists that ride with no lights. Their shapes emerge like phantoms from the shadows, hardly registering on your optic nerve before soundlessly disappearing again into the darkness. The subtlety of this sight in contrast to the intensity of the downpours is a visual metaphor of life here.
Sound and Light show in Mali
One night we stayed in a village on the top of a high falaise (cliff). The village is built on a wide, flat rocky projection with steep cliffs on three sides, and a rocky peak on the fourth. This location provides a 300-degree view of the cliffs and sandstone pillars across the ravine. A wild electrical storm came in the night we were there. I took my thermarest chair and found a spot alone on a huge sandstone slab outside the village, and watched the storm slowly gather force in the black night.
Lightening started soundlessly in one darkening corner of the sky, and spread to surround the village. Ragged flashes would come from all directions, and for brief seconds would light up the whole sky, revealing the craggy sandstone rock formations and peaks close by. In between flashes the world was completely black. After a half hour of this spectacular light show, the audible elements joined in, like sections in a symphony. Thunder started a slow tympanic grumble in the distance, then came a howling strong wind carrying dust from the Sahel, and finally, with a sense of relief, crashing rains. In my head the orchestra played full blast.
We finally had a major rain this morning. Because there is no sewer system, many side roads turn momentarily into rushing rivers. I was driving down one such road, and decided to turn onto a side road and park just before my destination because I didn’t know how deep the rushing water was. But the shop was on the other side of the street- how to get across the rushing river on foot?? I managed to jump across one stream, but was now stranded on a little island in the middle of the road. Suddenly a 4X4 came rushing right for me, and I was prepared to get completely drenched as he drove by. But instead he stopped right in front of me, opened his driver side door, told me to stand on the doorframe and hold onto the handle above. He then drove me across the rushing river and deposited me safely on the other side, and with a charming smile, drove off. Did I feel like a rescued princess?? And did the Burkina fellows waiting for me in the shop have a good laugh??
Food
I finally made it to a restaurant that specializes in local dishes. How about Rat in tomato sauce served with ‘To’ [pronounced ‘toe’]? To is a thick, tasteless, paste [yes, that’s right- Elmer’s White Glue] made out of maize, and always eaten with a sauce. Rat was one of the most expensive dishes on the menu, as it is a specialty item. These are ‘country rats’ imported from the fields of Ghana, not the ‘city rats’ that eat garbage. How was it, you may wonder?? Never believe people who say of a strange dish, 'it's just like chicken' but decline to order it themselves. I was relieved that the head and tale were missing, but it still had a definite rat form and a gamey aftertaste. If I didn’t know it was rat I probably would have eaten more than a few bites, but it was still….. rat.
I recently visited my very favourite restaurant- Gondwana- which is also an art gallery displaying art from throughout West Africa. One walks from a non-descript dusty Ouaga street through the gate into another world. Three theme rooms, all decorated with original art, surround a courtyard with a beautiful small fountain and many plants. One area is a Tuareg tent, complete with sandy floor and a roof made from 500 goatskins. A West African band plays two nights a week. The free appetizer that night was a dish of sautéed caterpillars. This may seem unusual by itself, but this starter was served to us just before the dark chocolate-pistachio mousse that we came for. All was washed down with a shot glass of strong sweet Tuareg mint tea and a shooter of rum and a syrup made from local flowers.
Traditional West African tea is served in a social ritual that can take most of the evening. Tea is made in petite, colourful ceramic teapots heated over coals in a small wire basket. ‘Gunpowder tea’ from China is used, with lots of sugar, and fresh mint leaves. Once the tea and water boil, the liquid is poured from a height from teapot to cup over and over again, to create froth. There are always three rounds of tea:
First tea is bitter as Life
Second tea is strong as Love
Third Tea is soft as Death
Cultural Vignettes
Greetings
This is a ‘4 kiss’ area of the world, and as many verbal greetings. I am enchanted by this system of greetings- in its detail and inclusiveness. Every morning and every afternoon Mamoudou will ask me how I am, how is my health, how is my family, and if I rested well. Even service people one has never met before and strangers on the phone must be properly greeted before you ask them for help. The guards sitting in front of houses and the men looking after the roadside stalls will loudly shout greetings after me if I forget to say hello as I ride by on my bike.
Women’s Work
Women have such hard lives here. They have enormous responsibilities, but their work is taken for granted. If a man’s wife dies, her work will be taken over by another woman- whether it is another wife, or daughter or sister. Women are keenly aware of this imbalance. The men I speak with (even educated men) seem to accept this as the way life is and must be for women, and assume that women accept this as well. They do not. Most men are completely out of touch with what women think and feel. When a man speaks on behalf of women, I double-check his statement with women friends. Rarely do women agreed with a man’s assessment. They need Tracy Chapman to come and sing about revolution:
“Don’t you know we’re talking about a revolution, it sound… like a whisper.”
Conversation with a village woman with a baby on her back:
*-How many children do you have?
#-Nine
*- Will this ninth one be your last child?
#- [with resignation] Madame, do you not have a husband?
“The women have nothing to do” comments one of the Sudanese refugee men, when listing the difficulties they face. As I walk around the camp, I see women collecting water at the well and hauling it back to their tents, washing children, washing clothes, preparing meals, going into the bush to collect wood, and I think to myself, ‘There they are- doing ‘nothing’ again! Women’s work in Africa is invisible.
Loaves and fish and chewing gum
A package of chewing gum I received illustrates the effectiveness of the social distribution system. An American fellow who had worked with MCC in Burkina Faso in past years gave a package of gum to each of us, among other goodies. When I got back home, I gave the package to my night guard, Ousmane. He immediately split the package of 6 in half, and gave 3 pieces to the guard across the street. Ousmane ate one, but I’m sure the other two were shared when he got home, and also the three pieces that went to the other guard. It was a lovely teaching moment to see this one pack of gum spread out within hours of its first distribution. And I have been trained now that if I bring a drink or some food out to my night guard, I must also bring something for the guard across the street. The difficult side of this distribution system is the enormous expectation placed on anyone fortunate enough to have a job. They are expected to provide support (even if occasional) to their extended family in the village.
Poverty and Privilege and Choice
Poor people have so few choices. They cope with the difficulties of life because they have no other option. Many of them do so with great courage and even the ability to sing and laugh. I had a conversation with a woman who cooks and cleans for one of my colleagues. She said to me, ‘Life brings us so many hard things- too hard for us if we know them beforehand. But God knows, and He gives us the strength and the grace we need. I told her that I did not have such faith. ‘Ah, but you have choices’ she said. When you don’t have choices you need more faith.
Soon after I arrived I had an unexpected chance to visit the house of a local staff person. In our standards he is terribly poor. He has a young wife and baby and they live in one small room- mud walls, tiny windows, tin roof, with no electricity or running water. And even this modest spot was about to be demolished to build a road. But in Burkina terms he is not poor. He’s maybe closer to the bottom than to the top, but he owns that tiny bit of land (albeit as a kind of squatter). I left there with a more concrete understanding of how privileged I am. I have an air conditioner in my bedroom, and ceiling fans in other rooms of my house. Every time I go from my air-conditioned office into the reception area, I hit a wall of privilege.
When I related this to my French teacher, Jacqueline, she was philosophical and pragmatic. She said, ‘It doesn’t help me if you stop using your air conditioner because you have this privilege and I do not. But it is good that you don’t have the illusion that you live as a Burkinabé, and it is also good that you are sensitive to help others.
Pascal- the day guard from another agency- just paid me a quick visit. This is the 6th day of a serious case of malaria. He has come in to the city to visit a health clinic. He received 2 injections, which have made it difficult for him to walk. He is going to his office to give them the note that he is sick, and then he has to cycle 17 km home. I gave him enough money to take his bike and catch a series of local taxies to take him home. Pascal said, ‘life is very difficult for us, but we are used to it. It bothers you because you aren’t used to this kind of difficulty.’ I replied, ‘I know you are used to it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.’ He nodded.
On another visit Pascal told me the story of his baby daughter’s illness. She recently had a medical emergency and so Pascal took her to the public hospital. The staff would not even admit her to be looked at until Pacal paid up front for the examination, the tests, and the hospital room. They were prepared to literally let her die in the waiting room. Pascal left her there and went frantically around town to collect money. He could only manage to come up with half of what the hospital asked for, but time was running out, so he returned with this. The hospital staff admitted her, and proceeded to give her the most basic treatment, which was all the initial funds would cover. Over the next few days as Pascal raised funds, the hospital provided further treatment. This is the publicly funded hospital, which in theory should be free. If you are poor here and you get sick, chances are good that you will die. Pascal is still paying these medical debts.
“Broken countries, but then, how come they still survive? There is something about survival in Africa that beats me, every time.” Anne Paludan
Weather
It is so hot here in the Sahel that even my shadow drips. At high noon it drips out of sight, leaving just me, dripping in the desert. Me dripping, and the riverbeds dry for months.
Climate is not a selling point of this place; there are no good seasons here. There are less-bad seasons, and lateral moves from one meteorological trial to the next. Winter begins in December. We are relieved because November is the month everyone burns dead branches and refuse from streets and fields, and respiratory illnesses abound. December nights and mornings are pleasantly cool (not cool enough to kill the mosquitoes) but it is still up to 36 C in the mid-day shade. Harmattan begins in January. Harmattan is a hot dry wind that blows in off the desert, bringing with it a thick haze of sand and dust (this is a lateral move from the haze of burning garbage in Nov). And just as I am fed up with sand gathering in every crevasse of my house and body, the hot season will begin. This will turn the world from clothes dryer into an oven. The rains will begin in June and hit their apex in August. The rivers of water will be essential to plant new crops, but travel is severely limited, as roads become impassable. Then in Sept-Oct the rain and the wind cease. Because there is no breeze, the number of insects hovering about multiplies. They will congregate in the pleasant confines of my well-lit house, where they drop into my food and wine, and fly down the front of my dress and into my hair. This makes me look forward to the relief that the Harmattan will bring.
Harmattan:
a hot dry desert wind that blows the sand of the Sahara into every crevasse of your mind and body.
I was in my office one afternoon, quietly working at my computer on a peaceful, slightly overcast day. I glanced up from my computer and the sky outside my office window had very suddenly turned an apocryphal, dark quinacrodone orange. The air was completely still. Then a strong wind came howling in from across the savannah, thick with sand from the Sahara. After a few minutes of this eerie preparation, a torrential downpour commenced, complete with thunder and lightening. The noise under a tin roof is awesome.
These thunderous downpours are a foil to the ‘ghost-riders in the night’. That’s what I call the cyclists that ride with no lights. Their shapes emerge like phantoms from the shadows, hardly registering on your optic nerve before soundlessly disappearing again into the darkness. The subtlety of this sight in contrast to the intensity of the downpours is a visual metaphor of life here.
Sound and Light show in Mali
One night we stayed in a village on the top of a high falaise (cliff). The village is built on a wide, flat rocky projection with steep cliffs on three sides, and a rocky peak on the fourth. This location provides a 300-degree view of the cliffs and sandstone pillars across the ravine. A wild electrical storm came in the night we were there. I took my thermarest chair and found a spot alone on a huge sandstone slab outside the village, and watched the storm slowly gather force in the black night.
Lightening started soundlessly in one darkening corner of the sky, and spread to surround the village. Ragged flashes would come from all directions, and for brief seconds would light up the whole sky, revealing the craggy sandstone rock formations and peaks close by. In between flashes the world was completely black. After a half hour of this spectacular light show, the audible elements joined in, like sections in a symphony. Thunder started a slow tympanic grumble in the distance, then came a howling strong wind carrying dust from the Sahel, and finally, with a sense of relief, crashing rains. In my head the orchestra played full blast.
We finally had a major rain this morning. Because there is no sewer system, many side roads turn momentarily into rushing rivers. I was driving down one such road, and decided to turn onto a side road and park just before my destination because I didn’t know how deep the rushing water was. But the shop was on the other side of the street- how to get across the rushing river on foot?? I managed to jump across one stream, but was now stranded on a little island in the middle of the road. Suddenly a 4X4 came rushing right for me, and I was prepared to get completely drenched as he drove by. But instead he stopped right in front of me, opened his driver side door, told me to stand on the doorframe and hold onto the handle above. He then drove me across the rushing river and deposited me safely on the other side, and with a charming smile, drove off. Did I feel like a rescued princess?? And did the Burkina fellows waiting for me in the shop have a good laugh??
Food
I finally made it to a restaurant that specializes in local dishes. How about Rat in tomato sauce served with ‘To’ [pronounced ‘toe’]? To is a thick, tasteless, paste [yes, that’s right- Elmer’s White Glue] made out of maize, and always eaten with a sauce. Rat was one of the most expensive dishes on the menu, as it is a specialty item. These are ‘country rats’ imported from the fields of Ghana, not the ‘city rats’ that eat garbage. How was it, you may wonder?? Never believe people who say of a strange dish, 'it's just like chicken' but decline to order it themselves. I was relieved that the head and tale were missing, but it still had a definite rat form and a gamey aftertaste. If I didn’t know it was rat I probably would have eaten more than a few bites, but it was still….. rat.
I recently visited my very favourite restaurant- Gondwana- which is also an art gallery displaying art from throughout West Africa. One walks from a non-descript dusty Ouaga street through the gate into another world. Three theme rooms, all decorated with original art, surround a courtyard with a beautiful small fountain and many plants. One area is a Tuareg tent, complete with sandy floor and a roof made from 500 goatskins. A West African band plays two nights a week. The free appetizer that night was a dish of sautéed caterpillars. This may seem unusual by itself, but this starter was served to us just before the dark chocolate-pistachio mousse that we came for. All was washed down with a shot glass of strong sweet Tuareg mint tea and a shooter of rum and a syrup made from local flowers.
Traditional West African tea is served in a social ritual that can take most of the evening. Tea is made in petite, colourful ceramic teapots heated over coals in a small wire basket. ‘Gunpowder tea’ from China is used, with lots of sugar, and fresh mint leaves. Once the tea and water boil, the liquid is poured from a height from teapot to cup over and over again, to create froth. There are always three rounds of tea:
First tea is bitter as Life
Second tea is strong as Love
Third Tea is soft as Death
Cultural Vignettes
Greetings
This is a ‘4 kiss’ area of the world, and as many verbal greetings. I am enchanted by this system of greetings- in its detail and inclusiveness. Every morning and every afternoon Mamoudou will ask me how I am, how is my health, how is my family, and if I rested well. Even service people one has never met before and strangers on the phone must be properly greeted before you ask them for help. The guards sitting in front of houses and the men looking after the roadside stalls will loudly shout greetings after me if I forget to say hello as I ride by on my bike.
Women’s Work
Women have such hard lives here. They have enormous responsibilities, but their work is taken for granted. If a man’s wife dies, her work will be taken over by another woman- whether it is another wife, or daughter or sister. Women are keenly aware of this imbalance. The men I speak with (even educated men) seem to accept this as the way life is and must be for women, and assume that women accept this as well. They do not. Most men are completely out of touch with what women think and feel. When a man speaks on behalf of women, I double-check his statement with women friends. Rarely do women agreed with a man’s assessment. They need Tracy Chapman to come and sing about revolution:
“Don’t you know we’re talking about a revolution, it sound… like a whisper.”
Conversation with a village woman with a baby on her back:
*-How many children do you have?
#-Nine
*- Will this ninth one be your last child?
#- [with resignation] Madame, do you not have a husband?
“The women have nothing to do” comments one of the Sudanese refugee men, when listing the difficulties they face. As I walk around the camp, I see women collecting water at the well and hauling it back to their tents, washing children, washing clothes, preparing meals, going into the bush to collect wood, and I think to myself, ‘There they are- doing ‘nothing’ again! Women’s work in Africa is invisible.
Loaves and fish and chewing gum
A package of chewing gum I received illustrates the effectiveness of the social distribution system. An American fellow who had worked with MCC in Burkina Faso in past years gave a package of gum to each of us, among other goodies. When I got back home, I gave the package to my night guard, Ousmane. He immediately split the package of 6 in half, and gave 3 pieces to the guard across the street. Ousmane ate one, but I’m sure the other two were shared when he got home, and also the three pieces that went to the other guard. It was a lovely teaching moment to see this one pack of gum spread out within hours of its first distribution. And I have been trained now that if I bring a drink or some food out to my night guard, I must also bring something for the guard across the street. The difficult side of this distribution system is the enormous expectation placed on anyone fortunate enough to have a job. They are expected to provide support (even if occasional) to their extended family in the village.
Poverty and Privilege and Choice
Poor people have so few choices. They cope with the difficulties of life because they have no other option. Many of them do so with great courage and even the ability to sing and laugh. I had a conversation with a woman who cooks and cleans for one of my colleagues. She said to me, ‘Life brings us so many hard things- too hard for us if we know them beforehand. But God knows, and He gives us the strength and the grace we need. I told her that I did not have such faith. ‘Ah, but you have choices’ she said. When you don’t have choices you need more faith.
Soon after I arrived I had an unexpected chance to visit the house of a local staff person. In our standards he is terribly poor. He has a young wife and baby and they live in one small room- mud walls, tiny windows, tin roof, with no electricity or running water. And even this modest spot was about to be demolished to build a road. But in Burkina terms he is not poor. He’s maybe closer to the bottom than to the top, but he owns that tiny bit of land (albeit as a kind of squatter). I left there with a more concrete understanding of how privileged I am. I have an air conditioner in my bedroom, and ceiling fans in other rooms of my house. Every time I go from my air-conditioned office into the reception area, I hit a wall of privilege.
When I related this to my French teacher, Jacqueline, she was philosophical and pragmatic. She said, ‘It doesn’t help me if you stop using your air conditioner because you have this privilege and I do not. But it is good that you don’t have the illusion that you live as a Burkinabé, and it is also good that you are sensitive to help others.
Pascal- the day guard from another agency- just paid me a quick visit. This is the 6th day of a serious case of malaria. He has come in to the city to visit a health clinic. He received 2 injections, which have made it difficult for him to walk. He is going to his office to give them the note that he is sick, and then he has to cycle 17 km home. I gave him enough money to take his bike and catch a series of local taxies to take him home. Pascal said, ‘life is very difficult for us, but we are used to it. It bothers you because you aren’t used to this kind of difficulty.’ I replied, ‘I know you are used to it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.’ He nodded.
On another visit Pascal told me the story of his baby daughter’s illness. She recently had a medical emergency and so Pascal took her to the public hospital. The staff would not even admit her to be looked at until Pacal paid up front for the examination, the tests, and the hospital room. They were prepared to literally let her die in the waiting room. Pascal left her there and went frantically around town to collect money. He could only manage to come up with half of what the hospital asked for, but time was running out, so he returned with this. The hospital staff admitted her, and proceeded to give her the most basic treatment, which was all the initial funds would cover. Over the next few days as Pascal raised funds, the hospital provided further treatment. This is the publicly funded hospital, which in theory should be free. If you are poor here and you get sick, chances are good that you will die. Pascal is still paying these medical debts.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Cockfight in a Freezer
Cockfight in a freezer
Burkina Faso Nov 2003
In wilting heat of Ouagadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso, I sorted through home videos left behind over the years by MCC workers, picking out one labeled "couple's figure skating competition." I had just put the tape in when Mamoudou, the cook, and the night guard Ousmane came into the house. I tried to explain what was happening — that the floor was covered with ice, and the athletes had ‘special boots’ that allowed them to move on the ice. It is 45 degrees Celsius in the shade here. You have to stick your head in a freezer to experience ice; most people don't have electricity, much less freezers.
So Mamoudou and Ousmane stared at the rink. They watched in awe as skaters twirled and jumped to the music. "If you showed this in a village," Mamoudou said with a serious look, "they would think it was magic."
We missed one section so I rewound the tape, which meant watching the routine in double time and backward!
Unfortunately my limited French vocabulary did not give them the clearest
understanding of the sport. I don’t know how to say the word ‘blade,’ (although I doubt that would have really helped) so I described the bottom of the ‘special boot’ as having a kind of big knife attached to it.
I fear this left them with the impression that figure skating is akin to a human cockfight in a freezer, and that they were wondering why the rink was not covered with blood at the end of the couples’ performance.
A few days later I had a reciprocal ‘Burkina’ moment: We were driving down the dirt road filled with potholes near my office, past the usual stream of bicycles and mopeds, when one particular bike caught my eye.
An old woman was riding a bike with a big load of wood on the back — and a very long bamboo pole balanced on her head — both hands still on the bike. Slowly, slowly, she moved her head to see if the traffic was clear for her
to proceed.
I had the same reaction as Mamoudou did watching the figure skating… "If
she were in Canada," I told the driver, "people would think she was a street performer!"
Burkina Faso Nov 2003
In wilting heat of Ouagadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso, I sorted through home videos left behind over the years by MCC workers, picking out one labeled "couple's figure skating competition." I had just put the tape in when Mamoudou, the cook, and the night guard Ousmane came into the house. I tried to explain what was happening — that the floor was covered with ice, and the athletes had ‘special boots’ that allowed them to move on the ice. It is 45 degrees Celsius in the shade here. You have to stick your head in a freezer to experience ice; most people don't have electricity, much less freezers.
So Mamoudou and Ousmane stared at the rink. They watched in awe as skaters twirled and jumped to the music. "If you showed this in a village," Mamoudou said with a serious look, "they would think it was magic."
We missed one section so I rewound the tape, which meant watching the routine in double time and backward!
Unfortunately my limited French vocabulary did not give them the clearest
understanding of the sport. I don’t know how to say the word ‘blade,’ (although I doubt that would have really helped) so I described the bottom of the ‘special boot’ as having a kind of big knife attached to it.
I fear this left them with the impression that figure skating is akin to a human cockfight in a freezer, and that they were wondering why the rink was not covered with blood at the end of the couples’ performance.
A few days later I had a reciprocal ‘Burkina’ moment: We were driving down the dirt road filled with potholes near my office, past the usual stream of bicycles and mopeds, when one particular bike caught my eye.
An old woman was riding a bike with a big load of wood on the back — and a very long bamboo pole balanced on her head — both hands still on the bike. Slowly, slowly, she moved her head to see if the traffic was clear for her
to proceed.
I had the same reaction as Mamoudou did watching the figure skating… "If
she were in Canada," I told the driver, "people would think she was a street performer!"
Tanzania Travel Notes
Tanzania Travel Notes
Sept 2004
I promised several friends that I would put together some travel notes on my return from East Africa. I had two weeks of meetings and one week of holidays in Tanzania at the end of Aug and early September this year (2004), plus one weekend on the coast of Kenya. It was a fabulous visit, thanks to friends who gave me leads on places to visit and travel companies, and aTanzanian friend who hosted me.
Kilimanjaro
We stayed at a lovely small hotel at the foot of Kilimanjaro called Marangu[1]. We managed a half-day hike up to the first hut (and back down- quite a half day!). Most of the route to this first hut is in lush forest with ferns, vines, and occasional monkeys. The trees get smaller close to the hut. One can hike a further .8 km to a viewpoint where on a clear day you can see the Masai Mara of Kenya, and Mawenzi, the smaller peak of Kilimanjaro.
Kili is not cheap to climb. Park fees are around $75usd per day (this includes staying at the huts), plus the cost of porters and guides. Most routes take 5 days. There is snow all year round at the top, and many people get altitude sickness. Canadians should beware that this is not a lonely backcountry mountain experience. Striking and diverse scenery, but the huts are crowded with people.
Arusha and Game parks
Our Arusha meeting site was outside of town close to another mountain- Mt. Mehru[2]. On the last day I went for an afternoon walk and discovered the loveliest lodge where we stopped to have a drink. Ngare Sero[3] is close to Mt. Mehru, about 10km outside Arusha. Early German settlers established this small family-run lodge 50 years ago. The lodge is decorated with local art, and sits in peaceful and beautiful grounds above a trout pond. One can walk on paths through the trees to nearby villages. Arusha itself didn’t seem particularly interesting- a jumping off point for the game parks. We stayed at a very reasonably priced (and basic) Catholic guesthouse called ‘Spiritan’ close to the International Criminal Courts.
I finally managed to find a tour company who could offer me a group game park tour to join[4], (the price of a game park trip for an individual is prohibitive) and I signed up for a 3-day/2-night camping excursion to Tarangire, Manyara, and Ngorongoro. Due to circumstances I ended up with a guide and cook to myself, which was such a treat. The guide’s name was Amani, and I can highly recommend him- pleasant, knowledgeable, good sense of humour, and most importantly- a good eye for spotting game. You might want to check what kind of vehicle the safari company plans to use, and make sure it is a 4X4 with a roof opening. I saw some folk in vans that only had regular side windows, which is a limitation you should not have when viewing is the priority.
I went the economical way, which was to stay in regular campgrounds outside the parks. The first campground close to Manyara was fine but crowded and uninspiring. The second campground was above Manyara and on the way to Ngorongoro. It was more basic, but was in a peaceful and beautiful setting in the countryside, with a lovely dirt road leading to a view of the valley below.[5] One option to ask about is camping areas in the parks themselves. I was told it is possible to set up a tent in a designated area, if you pay a park guard (with a big gun) to stay with you. This is just a clearing, with absolutely no services. Note, this is in contrast to the luxury tent-camps that can be even more expensive than the luxury lodges. Depends on what kind of experience you are interested in!
Tarangire is two hours from Arusha. It is known as an elephant park but it has a real diversity of animals, and lots of Baobab trees. There is a river running the length of the park and in dry season the animals congregate nearby. Tarangire Safari Lodge sits on a high escarpment overlooking a length of the river. We were extremely fortunate in Tarangire to see two separate prides of lions, both just a few metres from our vehicle. The first pride slowly ambled across the road right in front of us, and the second pride lolled in the bush right at the side of the road, next to their recent kill.
Manyara is 3 hours from Arusha, and close to Ngorongoro and is much smaller, with lush green forest vegetation, but more tranquil, and with more birds. It borders lake Manyara, which is the home of thousands of flamingos, which create a horizon of pink in the distance. Because Manyara is smaller and less popular, there are considerably less vehicles- a pleasant change. One can stop at Gibbs Farm (a coffee plantation with a restaurant and guesthouse) on the way to or from Ngorongoro if you have time.
Ngorongoro Park
Although each game park is unique and worth a visit, it was Ngorongoro that most captivated me. My colleague describes it as:
one of the most dramatic places to visit on the planet. The decent road is a bit harrowing but being on the crater floor is remarkable. The crater wall (actually the mountain ring of a Cordillera) surrounds you. The animal population is rich and fairly stable as there is less migration in and out of the crater. All plains animals are in the crater, and the plain region of the park is home to large herds of wildebeest and zebra.
We got to the park gate quite early to make the most of the day. As we drove the long drive to start the descent into the crater, we were engulfed by a dense fog. It was indeed harrowing, as on-coming trucks would suddenly appear from the mist, barreling toward us. I despaired that we would see anything that day. However Amani, the guide, assured me that it would clear as soon as we started the descent, and he was right. It was a magical moment to turn a corner, stop the car, and watch the mist slowly start to lift, revealing the most dramatic sight of a vast flat plain with a lake shimmering in the distance. Hearing the bells of the cows (calling ‘ngoro-goro’) herded by the Masai boys in their bright red wraps and beads added to the magic. It was breathtaking.
Lushoto
I then took the local milk-run bus to Lushoto. It was a long, hot day in an over-packed bus that had two flat tires and ran almost 3 hours late. But as we left the main highway on the last leg of the journey, and wound our way high up into the lush green mountains, it all became worthwhile. I discovered this stunning region by grace of a Tanzanian friend who has a retreat/home in the area. The Lushoto region is a biosphere reserve high up in the mountains, supporting a diversity of plant and insect life that rivals the Amazon (or so they claim). There are many walks or mountain bike trails through temperate rainforest and local villages. I met a fellow who has started a tour company, and though I did not have time to do any tours with him, he did have some interesting interactive programs.[6] Each plateau of fields grows a different type of crop due to the slight change in altitude. We went to a spectacular viewpoint called Irente that offers a panorama view of the plains below, stretching toward Dar, and in the other direction the mountains and rainforests of Lushoto.A hotel is just being built here. There is also a tiny campground and canteen perched precariously on the terraced mountainside. Lushoto region has several small retreat/lodges in the mountains, used by those escaping the heat and noise of Dar. One particularly charming lodge is the Mullers Mountain Lodge[7] It is fairly secluded, several km from the town (except for its closest neighbor- the president of Tanzania). They can bring you there from the town of Lushoto, and they will also organize local sightseeing (walks in the mountains, rainforests, bird-watching…).
Zanzibar
I took a 15 minute flight from Dar to Zanzibar (rather than a 1.5 hour ferry- same price) Zanzibar is called the ‘Spice Island’ and is known for the diversity of spices that grow. It is also infamous for being the East Africa gateway for the slave trade. It was controlled by a Sultan from Oman until recently.
I thoroughly enjoyed the spice tour. A young Zanzibaré man generally accompanies you, in addition to the tour guide. The young fellow brings flowers and spices, leaves to smell and fruit to taste, and makes amazing baskets and hats out of the Coconut leaves.
The second day I went up Island on a boat trip to 'swim with the dolphins'. That was a trip highlight. Our small boat would approach a school of dolphins as close as it could, and we would jump over the edge with scuba gear, and swim toward them. During one foray a mother and baby were curious about me and let me get so close I almost touched them. They then swam off and led me toward a school of 15 or so dolphins. It was magical!
It is important to note that Zanzibar is 99% Moslem, and fairly conservative, so women should keep this in mind when selecting travel clothes. It would be a nice combination to spend a couple of days in Stonetown, which is a fascinating and historical place, and a couple of days up-Island at a beach resort closer to snorkeling and diving. I stayed at the Tembo House Hotel[8], which I found absolutely charming- a former residence of a wealthy trader that has maintained the Arabic architecture (and the Moslem prohibition on alcohol). It appears to be the best value for money in its category. It is half the price of the famous Emerson and Green[9], less than the Serena and considerably more interesting. But do your souvenir shopping in Dar if possible- much cheaper.
Tanzania is increasing in popularity, and so prices are also increasing and availability decreasing. Package tours may be cheaper to organize from Nairobi. Masaii Mara Game Park adjoins the Serengeti on the Kenya side of the border, which means tours from Nairobi can cover both parks; Zanzibar package trips are definitely cheaper to book from Nairobi. All in all it was a remarkable (but not cheap) vacation, with a great diversity of experiences.
Kenya
For game parks, Maasai Mara has the best game, and Amboseli is beautiful with Mt. Kili.
The Mt. Kenya area is gorgeous and I'd recommend the Aberdare Country Club and the Ark (combined places around an hour apart; the Ark a lodge built over a watering hole).
Then for the coast, Jadini is a reasonable hotel on the South Coast,
Diani Beach,and Lamu is certainly worth seeing if you can do it.
We stayed at the Galu Sea Lodge (Diani Beach- about an hour from Mombassa)
Hugh and Magdalena Rule are the delightful managers.
galusealodge@hotgossip.co.ke
cell- (+254) (0) 734 63 23 37
Travel Agent: Daniel at Maniago Travel (+254) (0) 20 444-9461 Cel: 0733-22 94 84
Animals we saw in Tanzania Game Parks:
Of the Big 5:
Elephant
Lion
Cape Buffalo
[and Cheetah- not one of the Big 5, but rare to spot]
the little 5 (I made this up)
Dwarf antelope (Dik Dik)
Thompsons’ Gazelle
Mongoose
Marita lizard
Baby baboons
And herds/groups of…
Giraffe
Hippo
Wildebeest
Zebra
Impala +harem
And…
Ostrich
warthog
reebuck
waterbuck
Bushbuck
Baboons
Jackal
Hyena
Wild boar
Colobus monkeys
Vervet monkeys
[1] Marangu Hotel, Kilimanjaro
email- marangu@africaonline.co.tz
They also equip for Kili treks
Africaonline is also a good website for travel info
[2] TCDC, or the’Danish’ mstcdc@mstcdc.or.tz ph (+255) 27 2553472
[3] Ngare Sero Mountain Lodge: (+255) (0) 27-255-3638
ngare-sero-lodge@habari.co.tz
www.ngare-sero-lodge.com
[4] Wonders of Creation email: info@wonderfultours.com Simon or Edger
[5] Dotcom Moyo Hill Camp (Paulo William Moyo) ph (+255) 27-275 4104
email kiran@dotcomsafaris.com
[6] Usambara Company, Active Safaris: gonnah2003@yahoo.com ph (+255) 748-696731
[7] Mullersmoutainlodge@yahoo.com ph (+255) (0) 27 264-0204
[8] Zanzibar: Tembo House Hotel, email- tembo@zitec.org www.tembohotel.com $95 usd for a double room
[9] Emerson and Green: emerson&green@zitec.org anything@emerson-green.com www.emerson-green.com $165usd per double room
Sept 2004
I promised several friends that I would put together some travel notes on my return from East Africa. I had two weeks of meetings and one week of holidays in Tanzania at the end of Aug and early September this year (2004), plus one weekend on the coast of Kenya. It was a fabulous visit, thanks to friends who gave me leads on places to visit and travel companies, and aTanzanian friend who hosted me.
Kilimanjaro
We stayed at a lovely small hotel at the foot of Kilimanjaro called Marangu[1]. We managed a half-day hike up to the first hut (and back down- quite a half day!). Most of the route to this first hut is in lush forest with ferns, vines, and occasional monkeys. The trees get smaller close to the hut. One can hike a further .8 km to a viewpoint where on a clear day you can see the Masai Mara of Kenya, and Mawenzi, the smaller peak of Kilimanjaro.
Kili is not cheap to climb. Park fees are around $75usd per day (this includes staying at the huts), plus the cost of porters and guides. Most routes take 5 days. There is snow all year round at the top, and many people get altitude sickness. Canadians should beware that this is not a lonely backcountry mountain experience. Striking and diverse scenery, but the huts are crowded with people.
Arusha and Game parks
Our Arusha meeting site was outside of town close to another mountain- Mt. Mehru[2]. On the last day I went for an afternoon walk and discovered the loveliest lodge where we stopped to have a drink. Ngare Sero[3] is close to Mt. Mehru, about 10km outside Arusha. Early German settlers established this small family-run lodge 50 years ago. The lodge is decorated with local art, and sits in peaceful and beautiful grounds above a trout pond. One can walk on paths through the trees to nearby villages. Arusha itself didn’t seem particularly interesting- a jumping off point for the game parks. We stayed at a very reasonably priced (and basic) Catholic guesthouse called ‘Spiritan’ close to the International Criminal Courts.
I finally managed to find a tour company who could offer me a group game park tour to join[4], (the price of a game park trip for an individual is prohibitive) and I signed up for a 3-day/2-night camping excursion to Tarangire, Manyara, and Ngorongoro. Due to circumstances I ended up with a guide and cook to myself, which was such a treat. The guide’s name was Amani, and I can highly recommend him- pleasant, knowledgeable, good sense of humour, and most importantly- a good eye for spotting game. You might want to check what kind of vehicle the safari company plans to use, and make sure it is a 4X4 with a roof opening. I saw some folk in vans that only had regular side windows, which is a limitation you should not have when viewing is the priority.
I went the economical way, which was to stay in regular campgrounds outside the parks. The first campground close to Manyara was fine but crowded and uninspiring. The second campground was above Manyara and on the way to Ngorongoro. It was more basic, but was in a peaceful and beautiful setting in the countryside, with a lovely dirt road leading to a view of the valley below.[5] One option to ask about is camping areas in the parks themselves. I was told it is possible to set up a tent in a designated area, if you pay a park guard (with a big gun) to stay with you. This is just a clearing, with absolutely no services. Note, this is in contrast to the luxury tent-camps that can be even more expensive than the luxury lodges. Depends on what kind of experience you are interested in!
Tarangire is two hours from Arusha. It is known as an elephant park but it has a real diversity of animals, and lots of Baobab trees. There is a river running the length of the park and in dry season the animals congregate nearby. Tarangire Safari Lodge sits on a high escarpment overlooking a length of the river. We were extremely fortunate in Tarangire to see two separate prides of lions, both just a few metres from our vehicle. The first pride slowly ambled across the road right in front of us, and the second pride lolled in the bush right at the side of the road, next to their recent kill.
Manyara is 3 hours from Arusha, and close to Ngorongoro and is much smaller, with lush green forest vegetation, but more tranquil, and with more birds. It borders lake Manyara, which is the home of thousands of flamingos, which create a horizon of pink in the distance. Because Manyara is smaller and less popular, there are considerably less vehicles- a pleasant change. One can stop at Gibbs Farm (a coffee plantation with a restaurant and guesthouse) on the way to or from Ngorongoro if you have time.
Ngorongoro Park
Although each game park is unique and worth a visit, it was Ngorongoro that most captivated me. My colleague describes it as:
one of the most dramatic places to visit on the planet. The decent road is a bit harrowing but being on the crater floor is remarkable. The crater wall (actually the mountain ring of a Cordillera) surrounds you. The animal population is rich and fairly stable as there is less migration in and out of the crater. All plains animals are in the crater, and the plain region of the park is home to large herds of wildebeest and zebra.
We got to the park gate quite early to make the most of the day. As we drove the long drive to start the descent into the crater, we were engulfed by a dense fog. It was indeed harrowing, as on-coming trucks would suddenly appear from the mist, barreling toward us. I despaired that we would see anything that day. However Amani, the guide, assured me that it would clear as soon as we started the descent, and he was right. It was a magical moment to turn a corner, stop the car, and watch the mist slowly start to lift, revealing the most dramatic sight of a vast flat plain with a lake shimmering in the distance. Hearing the bells of the cows (calling ‘ngoro-goro’) herded by the Masai boys in their bright red wraps and beads added to the magic. It was breathtaking.
Lushoto
I then took the local milk-run bus to Lushoto. It was a long, hot day in an over-packed bus that had two flat tires and ran almost 3 hours late. But as we left the main highway on the last leg of the journey, and wound our way high up into the lush green mountains, it all became worthwhile. I discovered this stunning region by grace of a Tanzanian friend who has a retreat/home in the area. The Lushoto region is a biosphere reserve high up in the mountains, supporting a diversity of plant and insect life that rivals the Amazon (or so they claim). There are many walks or mountain bike trails through temperate rainforest and local villages. I met a fellow who has started a tour company, and though I did not have time to do any tours with him, he did have some interesting interactive programs.[6] Each plateau of fields grows a different type of crop due to the slight change in altitude. We went to a spectacular viewpoint called Irente that offers a panorama view of the plains below, stretching toward Dar, and in the other direction the mountains and rainforests of Lushoto.A hotel is just being built here. There is also a tiny campground and canteen perched precariously on the terraced mountainside. Lushoto region has several small retreat/lodges in the mountains, used by those escaping the heat and noise of Dar. One particularly charming lodge is the Mullers Mountain Lodge[7] It is fairly secluded, several km from the town (except for its closest neighbor- the president of Tanzania). They can bring you there from the town of Lushoto, and they will also organize local sightseeing (walks in the mountains, rainforests, bird-watching…).
Zanzibar
I took a 15 minute flight from Dar to Zanzibar (rather than a 1.5 hour ferry- same price) Zanzibar is called the ‘Spice Island’ and is known for the diversity of spices that grow. It is also infamous for being the East Africa gateway for the slave trade. It was controlled by a Sultan from Oman until recently.
I thoroughly enjoyed the spice tour. A young Zanzibaré man generally accompanies you, in addition to the tour guide. The young fellow brings flowers and spices, leaves to smell and fruit to taste, and makes amazing baskets and hats out of the Coconut leaves.
The second day I went up Island on a boat trip to 'swim with the dolphins'. That was a trip highlight. Our small boat would approach a school of dolphins as close as it could, and we would jump over the edge with scuba gear, and swim toward them. During one foray a mother and baby were curious about me and let me get so close I almost touched them. They then swam off and led me toward a school of 15 or so dolphins. It was magical!
It is important to note that Zanzibar is 99% Moslem, and fairly conservative, so women should keep this in mind when selecting travel clothes. It would be a nice combination to spend a couple of days in Stonetown, which is a fascinating and historical place, and a couple of days up-Island at a beach resort closer to snorkeling and diving. I stayed at the Tembo House Hotel[8], which I found absolutely charming- a former residence of a wealthy trader that has maintained the Arabic architecture (and the Moslem prohibition on alcohol). It appears to be the best value for money in its category. It is half the price of the famous Emerson and Green[9], less than the Serena and considerably more interesting. But do your souvenir shopping in Dar if possible- much cheaper.
Tanzania is increasing in popularity, and so prices are also increasing and availability decreasing. Package tours may be cheaper to organize from Nairobi. Masaii Mara Game Park adjoins the Serengeti on the Kenya side of the border, which means tours from Nairobi can cover both parks; Zanzibar package trips are definitely cheaper to book from Nairobi. All in all it was a remarkable (but not cheap) vacation, with a great diversity of experiences.
Kenya
For game parks, Maasai Mara has the best game, and Amboseli is beautiful with Mt. Kili.
The Mt. Kenya area is gorgeous and I'd recommend the Aberdare Country Club and the Ark (combined places around an hour apart; the Ark a lodge built over a watering hole).
Then for the coast, Jadini is a reasonable hotel on the South Coast,
Diani Beach,and Lamu is certainly worth seeing if you can do it.
We stayed at the Galu Sea Lodge (Diani Beach- about an hour from Mombassa)
Hugh and Magdalena Rule are the delightful managers.
galusealodge@hotgossip.co.ke
cell- (+254) (0) 734 63 23 37
Travel Agent: Daniel at Maniago Travel (+254) (0) 20 444-9461 Cel: 0733-22 94 84
Animals we saw in Tanzania Game Parks:
Of the Big 5:
Elephant
Lion
Cape Buffalo
[and Cheetah- not one of the Big 5, but rare to spot]
the little 5 (I made this up)
Dwarf antelope (Dik Dik)
Thompsons’ Gazelle
Mongoose
Marita lizard
Baby baboons
And herds/groups of…
Giraffe
Hippo
Wildebeest
Zebra
Impala +harem
And…
Ostrich
warthog
reebuck
waterbuck
Bushbuck
Baboons
Jackal
Hyena
Wild boar
Colobus monkeys
Vervet monkeys
[1] Marangu Hotel, Kilimanjaro
email- marangu@africaonline.co.tz
They also equip for Kili treks
Africaonline is also a good website for travel info
[2] TCDC, or the’Danish’ mstcdc@mstcdc.or.tz ph (+255) 27 2553472
[3] Ngare Sero Mountain Lodge: (+255) (0) 27-255-3638
ngare-sero-lodge@habari.co.tz
www.ngare-sero-lodge.com
[4] Wonders of Creation email: info@wonderfultours.com Simon or Edger
[5] Dotcom Moyo Hill Camp (Paulo William Moyo) ph (+255) 27-275 4104
email kiran@dotcomsafaris.com
[6] Usambara Company, Active Safaris: gonnah2003@yahoo.com ph (+255) 748-696731
[7] Mullersmoutainlodge@yahoo.com ph (+255) (0) 27 264-0204
[8] Zanzibar: Tembo House Hotel, email- tembo@zitec.org www.tembohotel.com $95 usd for a double room
[9] Emerson and Green: emerson&green@zitec.org anything@emerson-green.com www.emerson-green.com $165usd per double room
Flying Pygmies and Electrical Storms in Dogon Country, Mali
Flying Pygmies and Electrical Storms in Dogon Country
Aug 5-8, 2004
I write this while sitting on my thermarest chair on the mud roof of a small ‘campement’ in a Dogon village in Mali. Dogon country is (deservedly) a UNESCO world heritage site. The Dogon built their houses, granaries, and worship places high up on the steep edge of the cliffs of Mali. The cliffs or ‘Falaise’, rises up dramatically for a 200km stretch out of the sahelian plains of southern Mali.
Beside the small mud houses and granaries, one can see very small structures with windows- some so small they could be large bird nests. These tiny places were alleged to be the homes of the Tellem people (pygmies), who were displaced by the Dogon and fled to central Africa. Tradition also claims that the early Dogon had magical power, and could fly, or transmit their bodies from plain to cliff. Otherwise it is an extremely inconvenient place to live!
Dogon wise men called ‘Hogons’ lived in these cliff dwellings. Once they were chosen, they would go up to live in the cliffs and never come down again. The Hogon could only eat food prepared by a virgin girl, and they were not allowed to wash. According to Dogon mythology, a snake- sacred animal for the Dogon- would come each night and lick the Dogon clean.
The Dogon still live in villages that dot the top of the Falaise, and along the base. They still make their houses out of a mud and stone mix.
The mosques in this part of West Africa have a unique and stunning architecture. They are constructed with the same red earth as the houses and granaries. Soft edged cones surround the walls and lead up to a central spire in a pyramid shape. Large pieces of wood sticking out of the walls facilitate reconstruction after each rainy season.
Typical of Sahelian West Africa, the village people greet visitors graciously. Children with the most engaging smiles play freely around the village, women continue in an unending flow of exhausting work, and old men sit under the Togu-na to pass the time of day.
The Togu-na is a low structure with large rocks or beautifully carved wooden posts supporting a low thick thatch roof. This is where the Dogon elders pass judgment on village disputes. An example of traditional West African mediation practices, the low roof means that the contrary parties can’t stand up, and so they are physically constrained to discuss rather than to fight.
At the charming campement at the base of the cliff, we were treated to a late-night Malian jam session. Malian music is the root of American blues; it still produces some of the best music in Africa. This soirée was lead by an awesome blues guitarist and accompanied by jembé drum, whistle, and a traditional stringed instrument that was once a goat.
One night we stayed in a village on the top of the Falaise. The village is built on a high, flat rocky projection with steep cliffs on three sides, and a rock peak on the fourth. This location provides a 300 degree view of the cliffs and sandstone pillars across the ravine. A wild electrical storm came in the night we were there. I took my thermarest chair and sat alone in the dark outside the village on a huge sandstone slab, and watched the storm slowly gather force in the deepening night.
Lightening started soundlessly in one darkening corner of the sky, and swiftly spread to surround us. Ragged flashes came from all directions, and for brief seconds would light up the whole sky, revealing the craggy sandstone rock formations and peaks close by. In between flashes the world was completely black. After a half hour of this spectacular light show, the audible elements joined in. Thunder started a slow tympanic grumble in the distance, then came a howling strong wind carrying dust from the Sahel, and finally, with a sense of relief, crashing rains. In my head the orchestra played full blast.
Aug 5-8, 2004
I write this while sitting on my thermarest chair on the mud roof of a small ‘campement’ in a Dogon village in Mali. Dogon country is (deservedly) a UNESCO world heritage site. The Dogon built their houses, granaries, and worship places high up on the steep edge of the cliffs of Mali. The cliffs or ‘Falaise’, rises up dramatically for a 200km stretch out of the sahelian plains of southern Mali.
Beside the small mud houses and granaries, one can see very small structures with windows- some so small they could be large bird nests. These tiny places were alleged to be the homes of the Tellem people (pygmies), who were displaced by the Dogon and fled to central Africa. Tradition also claims that the early Dogon had magical power, and could fly, or transmit their bodies from plain to cliff. Otherwise it is an extremely inconvenient place to live!
Dogon wise men called ‘Hogons’ lived in these cliff dwellings. Once they were chosen, they would go up to live in the cliffs and never come down again. The Hogon could only eat food prepared by a virgin girl, and they were not allowed to wash. According to Dogon mythology, a snake- sacred animal for the Dogon- would come each night and lick the Dogon clean.
The Dogon still live in villages that dot the top of the Falaise, and along the base. They still make their houses out of a mud and stone mix.
The mosques in this part of West Africa have a unique and stunning architecture. They are constructed with the same red earth as the houses and granaries. Soft edged cones surround the walls and lead up to a central spire in a pyramid shape. Large pieces of wood sticking out of the walls facilitate reconstruction after each rainy season.
Typical of Sahelian West Africa, the village people greet visitors graciously. Children with the most engaging smiles play freely around the village, women continue in an unending flow of exhausting work, and old men sit under the Togu-na to pass the time of day.
The Togu-na is a low structure with large rocks or beautifully carved wooden posts supporting a low thick thatch roof. This is where the Dogon elders pass judgment on village disputes. An example of traditional West African mediation practices, the low roof means that the contrary parties can’t stand up, and so they are physically constrained to discuss rather than to fight.
At the charming campement at the base of the cliff, we were treated to a late-night Malian jam session. Malian music is the root of American blues; it still produces some of the best music in Africa. This soirée was lead by an awesome blues guitarist and accompanied by jembé drum, whistle, and a traditional stringed instrument that was once a goat.
One night we stayed in a village on the top of the Falaise. The village is built on a high, flat rocky projection with steep cliffs on three sides, and a rock peak on the fourth. This location provides a 300 degree view of the cliffs and sandstone pillars across the ravine. A wild electrical storm came in the night we were there. I took my thermarest chair and sat alone in the dark outside the village on a huge sandstone slab, and watched the storm slowly gather force in the deepening night.
Lightening started soundlessly in one darkening corner of the sky, and swiftly spread to surround us. Ragged flashes came from all directions, and for brief seconds would light up the whole sky, revealing the craggy sandstone rock formations and peaks close by. In between flashes the world was completely black. After a half hour of this spectacular light show, the audible elements joined in. Thunder started a slow tympanic grumble in the distance, then came a howling strong wind carrying dust from the Sahel, and finally, with a sense of relief, crashing rains. In my head the orchestra played full blast.
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