tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69828848553086402992024-03-12T15:43:08.605-07:00Denis in AfricaDenis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-58346729865648251342011-12-04T22:24:00.001-08:002012-03-10T23:06:52.567-08:00Rwandan wrap up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Nearly a year has gone by in a blink. The Rwandan adventure is drawing to a close. On Monday I sat in an austere mud home in a remote part of Ngoma district talking to three old men about their lives as youngsters under the Rwandan monarchy which ended in 1962 when the country became independent. Those were days of lions, leopards, antelopes and warthogs and all three men were glad that every last one of them had been locally exterminated either because of the danger they posed or the damage they did to crops. This was one of the success stories of Belgian colonialism and their powerful guns - that and the introduction of Christianity and cutlery! They discussed, unsentimentally, the pre-Christian belief system of Guterekera its potions made of tree flowers, cow fat and urwagwa (banana beer). Ubupagani (paganism) said Justin, our guard, with derision when I mentioned it to him afterwards. I was with a Japanese student from Edinburgh University doing research for her PhD and friend Theo was the translator. I felt sad on the way home to think that this would be the last time, at least for the foreseeable future, that I would career through the Rwandan countryside on the back of a moto with shouts of 'muzungu', from raggedy squadrons of children, ringing in my ears. It made me think about the things that I would miss (or not) about living here.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/NTFgDZrZg4QvqYYLTHXmldMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="186" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-YCzBt4Vs8RM/TtvC2McMU3I/AAAAAAAAI3Q/TqK8YoSos3Q/s320/2011-11-28%25252009.57.54.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">75, 81 and 91 respectively</td></tr>
</tbody></table>What you miss may also be linked to what you dislike about a place. I will miss the simple life and slow pace of doing things but not the time keeping at meetings and workshops. Four teachers waltzed into a workshop last week at 11 o'clock when it started at 9 - and one was a presenter. No excuses, no apologies just normal behaviour in a country that aspires to be the Singapore of Africa by 2020. I love the mobile phone coverage and the cheapness of making calls yet get frustrated at the addiction to them. Nobody turns off mobiles during a workshop so you just have to try to mitigate the impact with pleas to be as sparing as possible, please leave the room if you must answer a call and don't start a private phone conversation while addressing the class or answering a workshop question. Yes, that actually happens because a mobile phone call always trumps any other kind of discourse. The arrival of the new technology - with about 80% population coverage from next to nothing at the beginning of the century - has not been matched by new protocols relating to interpersonal behaviour.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Ghghp9adhOaBSglp7Obmd9MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WoyWI0q9duQ/TtvTMnFNAsI/AAAAAAAAI6Y/vFv_d3GW7rg/s320/DSCN1770.JPG" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home made scooter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I will miss the waves and smiling faces of children, who make toys out of sticks, wood and piles of dirt. Participating in the UK Xmas extravaganza is going to be interesting. I will not miss the relentless stares of passers by who find minutes of blank fascination in my peelywally presence. Better, I think, to be prodded and probed in good humour the way that some children touch or rub against you when passing. Mostly children get into your slipstream when walking and suck up the muzungu vibes - either that or they've put some Sticky Willie on my back and are having a good laugh. An alternative to tailing is 'parallelling', usually a young male phenomenon, where he insists on walking right next to you for the duration of the stroll. Frequently no words are exchanged but attempts to speed up or slow down are often responded to equally by the 'parallellor'. Call me weird but I might miss that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1PCVynkfnhBeC4wMR37D-tMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-BXdWogzTAgU/TtvTxfV08FI/AAAAAAAAI6c/3f4tATFuXi4/s320/DSCN1777.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking with a 'parallellor'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I am definitely going to miss the climate which is never too hot or cold. Rude shocks await in the British winter and then the Far North Queensland summer. It is so easy to forget how painful the latter can be and how dependent most people are on air-conditioning. Trips to national parks and into the nearby valley for picnics and birding will linger. Ross's and Purple-crested Turacos feeding in the same fig tree next to the path was a special moment. There have been many others in Rwanda and countries we have been lucky enough to visit while here - Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda and Ethiopia. Getting around is so easy, with a bus or moto almost at your beck and call. The moto drivers are my particular favourites with a good and loyal friend in Janvier (guess when we was born) and the ever-smiling Tuyisenge who unfortunately didn't know where the schools were and so didn't get so many rides. I will miss Janvier's patience and good humour on dusty roads with frequent long waits outside schools. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_KvY20KTDYL1IsF-yhHcM9MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LkGkn7c8DHI/TtvPCMXXL0I/AAAAAAAAI6I/ISF3ac7zs20/s320/DSCN1756.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janvier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I will not miss the passivity of so many people I have worked with and their lack of initiative and imagination. The inclination is to say yes to everything. But this is a very controlled society and the reluctance to express an opinion or idea may also have its roots in the genocide. Who knows what complex inter-personal or power relationships, as well as individual suffering, may be at play? A Rastafarian - very unusual in Rwanda - got picked up with 120 others in a Kibungo evening police and military sweep about six weeks ago to remove the streets of so-called undesirables. Families were not informed. He has his own business as a sign writer, is educated and speaks four languages. The authorities locked him (and the others) up for a month in the local prison, depriving him of his livelihood and shaving off his hair. Now we know which group was loudly chanting and running up and down the street at 5 a.m. for a while recently. If he gets picked up again, he could be sent to Iwawa Island in Lake Kivu for as much as two years of re-education and training. I won't miss hearing these kinds of stories.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2KOYbIkJMoR1ipmfimTfNNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-awpJ2_1edVw/TtvPiQTNfxI/AAAAAAAAI6M/kLXkc8OBGAI/s320/DSCN1763.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuyisenge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Naturally I will not suffer withdrawal symptoms from lack of the Evangelical Restoration Church and their manic hallelujahing pastor; nor will I develop a craving for the six kinds of starch presented at melange meals; but Rwandan coffee I will miss, and pineapples and avocadoes are very fine especially the avos off the garden tree. It's much easier to grow vegetables in Kibungo than Cairns and Stella has produced some outstanding beetroot and broccoli, funny shaped carrots and passable cauliflower. I will not miss the slow Internet and the wretched 'your message has failed' seemingly always when you have forgotten to save the text beforehand.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/N5Ci2cWLhmcGpkOEVpYUe9MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-M_f28gXei4I/TtvDi3jnMHI/AAAAAAAAI3g/TayNvZ8pVf0/s400/DSCN1663.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justin doing a 'hygienic activity'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rwanda has an obsession with 'hygienic activities'. It's taught in different school subjects. If the downside of this is chopping off a poor Rasta's hair then the upside is the simple fact that Rwanda must be (visibly at least) the cleanest country just about anywhere. Armies of blue-uniformed street sweepers and a home yard brushing addiction make sure of that. It doesn't mean that people litter less given the chance. You should see those fizzy bottle tops fly and mandazi (fried bread) serviettes dropped whenever I throw one of my famous workshop Fanta parties. It's just that there will always be someone to sweep up afterwards. There is the entertaining story of the Rwandan customs officer who, on catching sight of a tourist's plastic bag on crossing into the country from Uganda by bus, said 'those are banned here' opened the window and threw it into no man's land. It is advisable not to litter because it's a rule but over the fence will do if no one is watching. Ah, I will miss these contradictions, although I know there are plenty to look forward to back in Australia!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ZQwgWt8Gx0k3t8EFw5TrVdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-MtjYeHmc4bU/TtvDyDqOoTI/AAAAAAAAI3k/BcwJABIUwEs/s320/DSCN1667.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bike boy and Theo with beer and fanta supplies arriving for party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But most of all, I will miss Theo and Justin my two best Rwandan friends. We chuckle a lot. Apparently mooning to Big G is guaranteed to bring good weather for our farewell party. It's amazing what's in the catechism! Rwanda has just beaten Djibouti 5-2 so that will also bring good luck. I didn't even know that Djibouti was big enough to have a national football team. Theo is possibly the kindest and most helpful person I have ever met. Nothing is too much trouble. (Nassim, seemingly the only Pakistani in the whole south eastern region of Rwanda and our chef for the party, says that he couldn't go back to Pakistan because people are not obliging enough there.) We will follow Theo's progress through life very closely. It will be harder with Justin because he doesn't speak French or English and has no email but we will keep in touch through Alice a British volunteer who arrived in September and is moving into our house. Justin will therefore keep his job which is good news in a society where guards are often unceremoniously dumped when the occupants leave. Overall, the year has been a blast. Thank you for reading this blog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Pg97z-P3HWJg_ek0S8TX3dMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZopA1s0G1Nw/TtvCRPcTxFI/AAAAAAAAI3M/aAfRrF0DTDU/s320/DSCN1735.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The party rave up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>p.s. True to our weather arrangement with the Big Lady upstairs, the rain stayed off for most of the day with just a sharp shower and a bit of drizzle to start off the dancing. You can view the pictures on<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls"> https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls</a>. </span>It was a fantastic day, with great food and a real festive atmosphere. We hope to put a couple of the videos on YouTube when we reach London.<br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-88067471967045504062011-11-29T11:23:00.001-08:002012-03-10T23:05:14.219-08:00Southern Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Before continuing southwards there was time to visit Mount Entoto outside Addis, the highest nearby peak at 3200 metres and the site of the first palace of Emperor Menelik II, the founder of Addis Ababa (New Flower in English). The mountainside is almost entirely eucalyptus forest and many of the impoverished local women make a scant living by strapping huge bundles of wood, weighing as much as 35 kilos, on to their backs to trudge down to the city and sell as firewood. (The men prefer weaving apparently and I wonder why!). For the first time in Ethiopia I observed the complete and utter brutalisation of a group of people - seldom evident in the bucolic scenes we drove through outside the towns. There were no smiles or attempts to return 'salaams', only pleading and despairing faces with hands out for a few coins.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/XMrrLVlIGM5DnsEMpZgFXdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-lX-zFQrqdl4/TtOlYBgyxII/AAAAAAAAI1k/P1Bu2iZgpNM/s400/DSCN1590.JPG" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wood carrier</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Addis merkato (market) is a wonderful if edgy experience given the mud, the narrowness of the lanes and the number of hawkers and touts. It has the biggest recycling/junk section I have ever seen with mountains of used plastic containers for sale and lines of people crouched down selling broken and often ancient electrical parts for a few birr. There was a right/left shoe street where you could get a matching partner for the one you had lost or worn out. Talk about waste not, want not; it puts western societies to shame. Donkey gear street was one of my favourites with all appurtenances available for the equine aficionado. It was a leather sniffer's heaven. Basket bend had a particular fondness for circular injera containers of various designs. The cheesy spot did not have much variety - most of it a bit like fetta - but honey comb corner was fun and the coffee selling lanes seemed endless with massive sacks of it and nary a customer in sight. It is always sold unroasted and prepared at home. In one of the restaurants, we were regaled with frying pan roasting of the coffee as a precursor to Ethiopia's coffee ceremony, often presented at the entrance to restaurants or even at airports. We went to Tomoca to taste the finished product in what is considered to be the best coffee shop in the world. I love Rwandan Maraba coffee but have to admit that Ethiopia is still numero uno.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/241N0NboUMcwX2dI7fXKQdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="249" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-qhpSwtWLQv0/TtTjLBqE8xI/AAAAAAAAI20/IAuIPn4dFgc/s400/DSCN1566.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee ceremony</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Heading south to Awassa we passed through the town of Shashemene where, in 1963, land was given by Haile Selassie to the many Jamaicans who came to Ethiopia to live believing the former emperor to be the chosen one. The traditional version of the Rasta story is that at the time of his coronation in 1930, Marcus Garvey's 'return to Africa' movement had been established in Jamaica and many saw the new emperor as fulfilling a biblical prophecy that 'kings would come out of Africa'. Selassie was given divinity - the messiah of African redemption - and the new faith bore his former name, Ras Tafari (Prince Tafari). That may be true but another version elaborates. Haile Selassie visited Jamaica in the early 1960s after a long period of drought there. As he arrived it started to rain heavily thus proving his godliness. From that point on the faith really grew in Jamaica (which would perhaps explain the date of the Rasta community's establishment at Shashemene). Most agree, however, that it was only after Selassie's death in 1975 that the Rastafarians really took off aided and abetted by a certain Mr Bob Marley.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/SouthernEthiopia?feat=embedwebsite#5680416273603992434" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="208" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-IjdIndd1LkM/TtTkgTSDm3I/AAAAAAAAI28/JylngenlVGM/s320/DSCN1468.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some Jamaicans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our new guide was called Mohammed, an irreligious Muslim fond of a beer. It's always interesting to travel in countries where Islam is the minority faith, like Ethiopia, as practitioners are not then subjected to the diktats often applied when it is the state religion. In the Bale Mountains area, however, the majority are Muslim but, said Mohammed, can't complain about the night-time racket created by the Orthodox churches! He had been given as guide for this part of the trip because it was his home patch and was supposed to know the wildlife hot spots. He was certainly a very good animal tracker and great, in particular, at finding the rare Ethiopian Wolf in its favoured hunting grounds on the Sanetti Plateau, the highest part of the Bale Mountains National Park. We saw eight in total with maybe a couple of repeat offenders. It was only on the bird front that he was clueless. He ended up being my pupil which is not really the way it's meant to go when you arrive in a new country and employ a local at some expense. (Kiprom in the north had been an outstanding guide and companion excelling in the skill of cultural interpretation).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/SouthernEthiopia?feat=embedwebsite#5680066264557389922" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qdw4llkNGXc/TtOmLF-fiGI/AAAAAAAAI10/RaxSy3lhB8k/s320/DSCN1592.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top of Sanetti Plateau</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are reckoned to be about 500 Ethiopian wolves in the entire country, effectively the world's rarest canid, with maybe 250 of them on the Sanetti Plateau surviving at around 4000 metres They live in family groups but usually hunt alone or in pairs. They interbreed with dogs and catch the same diseases like canine distemper and rabies from which 30 died last year. They feed predominantly on Giant Mole-rats which grow to 28 cm and, comically, spend their day periodically sticking their gopher like heads out of their holes and then disappearing quickly back down them again to feed on the roots and tubers which form the main part of their diet. We sat down in a sunny, wind-free spot and watched a wolf fruitlessly attempt to snare a mole-rat. I wonder what their success ratio is. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/SouthernEthiopia?feat=embedwebsite#5680065697953610834" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="188" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kdswr_Db2Ik/TtOlqHNn_FI/AAAAAAAAI1s/LLFQGzKr_5E/s400/DSCN1594.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethiopian Wolf</td></tr>
</tbody></table>To maintain the viability of the wolf population - also known as the Simien Fox from the area where it is also found but much more difficult to see - it has been necessary to curtail human activity in the park. Unlike the Simien Mts National Park, a lot of cattle and sheep, and the dogs that accompany them, have been removed from the plateau although many farm animals are still present. It was not uncommon to see a man on horseback riding across the moorland landscape presumably to check on his livestock. The scene was reminiscent of Scotland apart from the Giant Lobelias, the cowboys and the absence of haggis.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/SouthernEthiopia?feat=embedwebsite#5680067028500281138" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kju3-ILyaRo/TtOm3j4q9zI/AAAAAAAAI18/WODIqveTQuQ/s400/DSCN1596.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanetti Plateau moorland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We reached the bitterly cold plateau summit at 4377 metres where we saw two species of hare, a rock hyrax and a wee man sheltering behind a walled wind break and whose job it was to protect the transmitter at the top from falling into enemy hands; he was a kind of Ethiopian lighthouse keeper I suppose. There were raptors galore including a Golden Eagle in one of its few African haunts. Who can blame them as it must be a bird of prey paradise? Everywhere we went small rats and field mice scurried for cover or chased each other for cuddles. We also saw one of Africa's rarer crane species - two pairs of the exquisite Wattled Crane which is also one of the world's biggest at 120 cm. The lakes (or lochs!) were full of European ducks on holiday including Shoveler, Pochard, Teal and (my favourite) Ruddy Shelduck. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/avGoRhDPw7NJDcVX3Itc0NMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-iU6SkiiBtIo/TtOn1DbFVVI/AAAAAAAAI2Q/N4cUHfeYRLY/s400/DSCN1602.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional hut dwelling near Sanetti Plateau</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Down on the other side of the plateau is the Harenna Forest, the largest intact forest block in Ethiopia and the largest protected Afro-alpine forest on the continent. The lichen-draped trees, some hundreds of years old, look much like the beech forests of Victoria and Tasmania. Wedged between the plateau and the forest is a remote Muslim village dependent of stock farming and wood collecting, and living in round mud huts thatched with straw and protected from the elements by bamboo fencing. The government, it is said, wants to move the whole village to a location lower down because of the threat they pose to the fragile Sanetti Plateau and Harenna Forest. On the way back over the plateau we stopped to look at those charming little antelopes known as klipspringers which are unique for walking on the tips of their toes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jHDcJ3Ua-CaeaZOhOj0WydMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="212" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-akkuIIlcUM0/TtOnTNuTEGI/AAAAAAAAI2E/0o1E8vRhKA8/s400/DSCN1599.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Klipspringer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Elsewhere in the Bale Mts we got to see the very rare (that word again!) and striking indigenous antelope known as the Mountain Nyala as well as Menelik bush buck, Mountain reedbuck, warthog, olive baboon and bush duiker (a kind of dwarf, forest antelope). The birds were good but it was frustrating because, with very few exceptions, unless I knew what it was or could work it out from the family and its 'jizz', then Mohammed was of no help. He had the habit of interrupting when you were looking at or trying to decipher something interesting to point out one of the few common birds he knew. (By the way, there's nothing wrong with that in the right circumstances!) This is disappointing as birdwatching in Ethiopia is a significant tourism industry and yet there are apparently only three professional birding guides in the whole country! At Wondo Genet, well known for its birds and its hot springs, there is a cooperative of nearly 20 young bird guides who have, mostly, trained themselves to identify and show birds like Yellow-fronted Parrot, White-cheeked Turaco and Spotted Creeper to passing tourists. Their initiative is helping to protect the large trees of that area, under tremendous threat from de-forestation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ACmTv-4ha3zd1KB_tOBTiNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iwbksqJdpAA/TtOoNdXWUYI/AAAAAAAAI2U/7X-FBIG3Qns/s320/DSCN1603.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mohammed, bird guide (right) and child helper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We visited several lakes including the very popular Lake Awassa next to the eponymous university town. Young couples walked hand in hand by the lakeside in displays of affection not seen in other parts of the country. Hotels are springing up in Awassa to appeal to the middle classes of Addis keen to get away for a weekend. Blue-breasted Bee-eater, Northern Carmine Bee-eater and Abyssinian Roller were highlight birds from this part of the trip. The Rift Valley lakes of Langano (where we stayed), Abijatta and Shalla are all very different from each other. Lake Langano is medium depth and reddish brown in colour; Abijatta, which was where most of the shore birds were, is shallow and brackish and entices lots of Greater and Lesser Flamingos; Shalla is extremely deep and blue and was once a volcanic crater. It has several bubbling sulphuric hot springs which the cattle know to avoid.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/zP8g_uHeU0Ba9MZVOwWEiNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="203" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-qZlcW2L3xFw/TtOld22CZgI/AAAAAAAAI1o/dDrw1VdVky0/s400/DSCN1591.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back walking prayer leader in Awassa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The rift valley is the bread basket of Ethiopia. Everywhere were almost biblical scenes of agricultural activity as oxen moved in circles to thresh the wheat. Elsewhere people winnowed the grain by throwing it in the air to discard the chaff; and always little children came rushing out of fields of wheat, barley and tef to wave and smile (and, yes, to occasionally throw stones which I chose to interpret as another form of greeting not necessarily aggressively intended). And then there were the animals. They completely dominate the roads, always in mixed bevies (I've already concocted the word 'flerds') of donkeys, horses, sheep, goats, cows and oxen. Life - energy - action. Table football ruled the roadsides (so much livelier and less sleazy than pool) and Rastafarian centre Shashemene even seems to have secured a lot of ping pong tables for street use. Apparently Bob Marley was a good player or did I just make that up?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/lPoqaJUZQvAEPsVGIp1pn9MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="156" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fpZrt2AOF08/TtOo5qelpWI/AAAAAAAAI2k/IZ7zn9hLW4I/s400/DSCN1610.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haystacks in Rift Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our last night in Addis was a beauty with an outstanding Ethiopian meal at the Habesha 2000 restaurant which locals as well as tourists frequent. The dancing and music were excellent and participatory although Stella did all the hard work. The evening was not at all tacky as some of these events can sometimes be and which I had worried about beforehand. I really like Ethiopian music - just as long as it's not the variety coming out of an Orthodox church at 3 o'clock in the morning! <br />
<br />
p.s. We saw over 20 of the endemic or semi-endemic (includes Eritrea and Somalia) bird species.<br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-54619236017541533242011-11-26T02:25:00.001-08:002012-03-10T23:03:14.365-08:00Northern Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Most people on short visits to Ethiopia usually decide to visit the north and/or south of the country. The west is considered pretty but unspectacular; the jewel of the east is the walled city of Harar - the fourth most important site in Islam but far to reach. We decided that a week of predominantly cultural attractions in the north followed by nature hot spots in the south would provide the right balance for a first visit to the country. The remote and famous tribal region of Omo in the south west would have to wait, along with Harar, for a return trip to the country.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Ept-LbeKKgxKxaKD2aW3LtMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ehPSHkbekUk/TtC2QB6TxPI/AAAAAAAAI0M/_0cQM2xFTzw/s320/IMG_3491.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lada taxi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On arrival we spent a day in Addis visiting churches and the national museum, and enjoying the omnipresence of that great Soviet relic the Lada car which, heavily imported at the time of Mengistu's communist dictatorship, is still the standard taxi in the capital. The urban poor seemed to prefer lying on the verges of the roundabouts and groups of blind beggars chanted for their dues on busy streets. I was called Kenny Rogers two or three times which slightly disturbs me musically, although I can't think of a single song he's sung. (On the physical front, isn't he a chap who likes his food?) <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/tbLh9j8xu80G1hnKKcJU29MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="187" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-n8LKsaTkNAs/Ts9iu7-34nI/AAAAAAAAIw4/cTmAeX7itLM/s320/DSCN1429.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from plane</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Flying north to Gondar, the 17th century capital of Ethiopia, it is astonishing to look out on such a heavily cultivated landscape, even on steep slopes and high plateaux. Every parcel of land seems to be neatly carved into tidy shapes for the growing of barley, wheat and <i>tef</i>, the indigenous grass whose tiny grains are made into <i>injera</i> the staple cereal of the Ethiopian diet. I'm not a huge fan but the accompanying dishes and sauces presented in a large, circular, basket - on top of <i>injera</i> as a base - are simply delicious. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/8z23WPB9DOeB6tI6j1wB1dMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-n9fL8-gLAhs/Ts9nstln2bI/AAAAAAAAIzc/OPWPb7CkQ_c/s400/DSCN1582.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the injera base dishes - my veggie only favourite</td></tr>
</tbody></table>According to the airport clock and Kiprom's watch, the flight had left at 1.30 in the morning instead of the 7.30 on my timepiece and on the ticket. They were operating on Ethiopian time which, like Swahili time, begins with daybreak at 6 o'clock. This can work quite well in countries near the Equator with virtually 12 hours of night and day all year long. Somehow I don't think that Ethiopian or Swahili time would work so well near the Poles where there would be no time at all during the dark mid-winter or for that matter in the perpetual light of summer! Ethiopians also have their own calendar. It became 2006 on 1st September so they're not too far behind although it's depressing to think that George Bush might still be in power. Another source of national pride is Amharic, the uniting Ethiopian language, which has a funky, complex script and alphabet - and I have the T-shirt to prove it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ZcHFuF855MYlbvUcTjLiYNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9gl1dcvgfqs/Ts9omWlfwMI/AAAAAAAAI0E/ztMkgk-9hjU/s320/IMG_3538.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amharic script</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After our exploration of the castle city of Gondar, its expansive market and that famous night listening to the dreary guy with a lot to get off his chest (see the last episode), we drove to the town of Debark at the base of the Simien Mountains. Even that dusty, little place was not immune from English Premier League mania and, in our restaurant bar, an excited crowd of what looked mostly like sheep herders were rooting for a Fulham come back against Spurs on a wide screen TV. The game was a cracker but two St George beers on a cold night had done the trick and a waiter offered to show me to the loo. After a lengthy hike he pointed me to a dark and dangerous den - smell and appearance wise that is - and thrust what looked like a token into my hand. I could just make out the face of a woman. I wasn't quite sure what this had to do with the toilet dungeon. The door was wide open and I didn't see a slot to drop the coin. I was looking around for a tree, wall, ditch anything rather than go into that dire dunny. "Mother Theresa", he muttered. "Excuse me". "You want Mother Theresa". I was perplexed. Was there some kind of Mother Theresa cult in the remote Simien Mountains? I declined his offer of the token and braved the dunny.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/8T1A_GoXDUPmStyMre7iedMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="202" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-HT9U1BaCMuE/Ts9kaM7oMhI/AAAAAAAAIxo/8wNoei28U9A/s320/DSCN1496.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street scene in Debark</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On raising this strange matter with Kiprom back in the safety of Premier League land, he told me that a lot of Ethiopians have coins of Maria Theresa, the only female ruler of the Hapsburg Empire (40 years long in the 18th century), Grand Duchess of Tuscany and Holy Roman Empress to boot. She also found time to have 16 children, one of them Marie Antoinette! Turns out that one of the Menelik Emperors at the end of the 19th century was a big fan and minted a pile of coins with her mug shot as Ethiopian currency. Lots of local squirrels secreted their coins in the back bunker of their homes for a rainy day or until a bunch of rich tourists turned up to flog them to. I was one such and it makes me feel kind of sorry that I didn't spend more time - admittedly difficult in the dark outside a smelly lavvy - to check the coin out thoroughly. I might even have been tempted to buy it, as I love the story so much, although I'm not sure about the ethics of buying up Ethiopian heritage. I wouldn't sell the Queen Betty 1953 silver coronation crown - five pre-decimal shillings to the uninitiated - given to me by my mum for all the proverbial tea but then I am not dirt poor. See, sentiment overcomes my royalist antipathy! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/cjpUEAA4JN-nn7AlnFbmSNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-k6SKn8NYuwI/Ts9i7c8iT5I/AAAAAAAAIxA/NuGGiaHNM9U/s320/DSCN1482%252520contrast.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spec view in Simien Mts with fields everywhere</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Simien Mountains are just outstanding. The scenery is spectacular as is the wildlife of Gelada baboons (which are apparently monkeys), Walia Ibex and Lammergeier vultures (they are the raptors that pick up bones and drop them over rocks to get at the marrow). We had to have a 'scout' and his rifle with us although there is no threat from ferocious animals, nor are there any dangerous bandits. His main purpose appeared to be to chase away children selling trinkets, fortunately without shooting at them. It was about 3300 metres high and cold, yet most of the children had no shoes. We asked one why he wasn't at school and he said that he'd sent his brother instead! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jTumsy_0Cf3WKWCrahPGltMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-eoVDRkED4TA/Ts9k8HHUnYI/AAAAAAAAIx8/QoU7CpK3Lak/s400/DSCN1515.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our scout lived where the far mountains are - 3 days' walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's certainly a different concept of a national park to the western idea. All human and farm animal life and activity was there; large community meetings on bleak hillslopes, bric-a-brac for the tourists - grass woven ear flap hats, little cups and baskets - and the copious flerds (flocks and herds) of sheep, goats, cattle, horses and donkeys often driven by children barely off their mothers' backs. The one thing that might define Simien as a national park - apart from collecting significant income from the tourist trade - is not being allowed to kill the fauna although judging by the stories many would dearly love to. Geladas are blamed for virtually everything that goes wrong in the park - the disappearance of a goat, the theft of a treasured item, even the rape of a woman! The males are horny dudes but they do tend to stick to their own missus. Gelada live in groups of up to 400 and the sexes form regular partnerships spending their lives grazing on herbs and grass on the mountain plateau, grooming each other especially after sex and occasionally having male hissy fits where they chase each other and bare the massive teeth that seem to serve no other useful function. The males look like mini-lions as they move purposefully forward on all fours shaking their shaggy manes. As the day draws to a close, Geladas retreat down the edge of the escarpment to shelter from predators that may include Spotted Hyena and Jackal. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/C0sbHIaoCuKzXg53bpSbmtMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-MEsWaHfpkgs/Ts9jv2X7rDI/AAAAAAAAIxY/ANdWPvwzou0/s400/DSCN1494.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Gelada bares his teeth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Walia Ibex are delicious but denied tucker for the locals. They are endangered with a population of about 250 in this the only place they are found although numbers are slowly increasing from the lows of previous years. We were very lucky to get as close to them as we did, helped no doubt by the overhanging mist that may have deprived them of their normally acute and fearful senses. Heading back from the high plateau which the ibex frequent, we asked if we could pick up some of the shepherds who were hitchhiking. One even had a hand out while holding a donkey with the other! Maybe he thought we could put it on the roof. Apparently there was no point because, according to Kiprom, all they wanted was to ride in a car and then walk back to their animals! Our scout had walked three days from a distant mountain village to reach Debark for the two and a half days' work that we provided for him (he had a wife and six children). Work is given to scouts on a rota basis and he would walk back to his village only to return to Debark when his next work opportunity came round in maybe six weeks' time. We tipped him liberally for protecting us from the children and herbivorous lions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Da3YPy4khH5saZupsGTxwtMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-0kbra22H8dA/Ts9m8e0RgNI/AAAAAAAAIy8/8vgSkCDjr-c/s400/DSCN1550.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Misty Ibex (using contrast- see picasaweb for others)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On the way back to Gondar we stopped at a Falasha village. The term means stranger, foreigner or exile; they are the original black Jews of Africa who trace their descent from the so-called Son of Solomon, Menelik 1, back in 950 BC. (See previous post) They survive nowadays, mostly, by selling souvenirs to passing tourists. Readers may remember the Israeli rescue operations (Moses 1984, Sheba 1985, Solomon 1991) during the Mengistu dictatorship when large numbers of Falasha were airlifted to become Israeli citizens under that country's Jewish right of entry policy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/NorthernEthiopia?feat=embedwebsite#5678871450752585778" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/--ZJBXfbxlPc/Ts9nfxs3EDI/AAAAAAAAIzU/Fpsxim1Bf6g/s320/DSCN1565.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Persistent Falasha children selling souvenirs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At 2800 metres in Lalibela, we ate at the brand new, open air, space age restaurant of a 75 year old Scotswoman from Motherwell who wants to keep busy in her old age and provide hospitality work for disadvantaged girls. Shepherd's pie, pancakes and that other great Scottish stand by, fresh guava juice were on the menu along with local <i>injera</i> dishes. When the rain came down on some omelette eating French she channelled my mother, "Och, it's just a wee spit". Maybe I'm biased but I think the architecture works well in the grand Ethiopian landscape.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TCpdgHzzk_jYAqmGel7g89MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-MgZ_nHHsP_s/Ts9nmeknoGI/AAAAAAAAIzY/lPnCWcPjC88/s400/DSCN1567.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The restaurant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We wrapped up our northern week with flagons of honey wine in, you guessed it, a honey wine bar. Cheers!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/P0AOtO6NpAHEqttls5vgYtMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-S1l6b827nYw/Ts9nw4_QuFI/AAAAAAAAIzg/QYpocW-t9b8/s320/DSCN1588.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honey wine flagons with Kiprom</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-65803716518646336422011-11-21T05:00:00.001-08:002012-03-10T23:00:40.121-08:00Exploring Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Arriving in Addis Ababa the feel is completely unlike the East African countries of Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania and Rwanda. In Ethiopia the mix of varying ethnicities presents a pot pourri of facial characteristics - diversity on display, reflecting the country's geographical location at the confluence of different religious and cultural worlds. This may surprise Lonely Planet, which goes on about how tough it is being a <i>faranji</i> (foreigner) in the country, but I found it refreshing to be, relatively, ignored compared to the incessant attention of being white in Rwanda. (Not one single shout of <i>faranji</i> or 'you' did I hear, whereas there were many cries of <i>muzungu</i> on the way back home from Kigali airport to Kibungo.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GRxF1n7yodf41Ej6_X-MFw?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-GMjH4btHaqM/Tso9W11CuVI/AAAAAAAAIus/PExDxl-3Ubc/s320/DSCN1471.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Gondar castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Ethiopia is a huge country with the second biggest population in Africa, at about 83 million, after Nigeria. Our first guide Kiprom ('you saved us'* in Amharic) said that whites were considered just another tribe, albeit a rich one, to be incorporated into the national melting pot. As the only country in Africa that had never been colonised (note that the Italians only 'occupied' the country from 1935 to 1941), the Ethiopian people, he stated, had greater self-assurance when dealing with outsiders. Correct or not, there are certainly plenty of <i>faranji</i> around with burgeoning NGO and tourism industries. Trade liberalisation has led to foreign investors planting hotels like the ubiquitous barley. Half completed edifices are a feature of the landscape, as elsewhere in the world where free market policies encourage a go/stop cycle of ready credit followed by frequent collapse. I was assured, however, that many of the buildings were just 'resting' waiting for the dry season to fully arrive before work continued.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2sPqjf4mWjNT5Zcd0pB4Dg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ZX-zBu0H86s/Tso77LlT2JI/AAAAAAAAIts/Ka0U5SjBrPw/s320/DSCN1444.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street in Gondar</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
European tours are proliferating with Italians, French and Germans at the forefront. Germans are the guides' favourites, apparently, because they don't question the itinerary and are all present and waiting outside the buses at the appointed departure times. (I don't know if they leave their towels to keep a special seat on the bus!). Some Italians, French and Spanish are the complete opposite, with an individualistic and instinctive distrust of the guides' judgment and authority. " Why can't be leave 15 minutes later and go down that bumpy road instead of this bitumen one?" More examples of truth in stereotyping it would seem.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/9p92rn3rgoy8a7BegGPYAQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="177" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-xZd5WrchSlw/Tso7MxbwH_I/AAAAAAAAItM/LqOVEEj2tK8/s200/DSCN1414.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solomon and Sheba making hay!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Ethiopians are immensely proud of their history and who can blame them. Bipedal Lucy (locally known as Dinknesh or 'wonderful'), at 3.2 million years of age, is still considered, I believe, the oldest and most complete hominid ever found. My doubt is simply because almost every science section of the Guardian Weekly seems to present some startling new evidence with the potential to change the whole equation. Lucy, by the way, was discovered in 1974 in a dried up lake bed in the north east of the country and her reconstruction is nestled in Addis Ababa's National Museum where she looks very sweet.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/x_Es8EXeMpCeZ4v3MPVwmQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iUTmBm-BWno/Tso66IJMDLI/AAAAAAAAIs4/IqYxmfPOGE0/s320/IMG_3477.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
However, it is in Ethiopia's religious history that most pride resides. Indiana Jones shouldn't have bothered searching. Orthodox Christians, the majority of the population, believe that Our Lady Mary of Zion church in Axum in the north of the country holds the original Ark of the Covenant that Moses carried with the Israelites during the Exodus. Legend has it that Emperor Menelik 1, the son of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon, brought the Ark from Jerusalem to Axum in about 950 BC. There he settled and established one of the world's longest known, uninterrupted monarchical dynasties - nearly 3000 years and 225 generations - which only ended with the dethroning of the Lion of Judah, Emperor Haile Selassie, in 1974 by the military Derg. (Wise King Solomon was a busy man because, according to the Bible, he had 700 wives and 300 concubines!)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/EthiopianHistoryCastlesChurches?feat=embedwebsite#5677415539127080658" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-fEjNCZkL_PM/Tso7WkPz1tI/AAAAAAAAItU/Duy8hs7DS2E/s320/IMG_3482.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haile Selassie's tomb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Every Orthodox Church has a replica of the tablet with the Ten Commandants in its inner sanctuary or 'holy of holies' that lay people are not allowed to see. Very frustrating. I really wanted to open the curtain for a quick peek but was worried about joining Harrison Ford in the snake pit. You need to learn Ge'ez, the ancient classical language, from which Amharic is derived, to become an Orthodox priest and have a chance of touching the sacred, covered icon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/mPHryCH7SbBXsfOazjeNXg?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-yyhk6rqXNcg/Tso99P_NhFI/AAAAAAAAIvQ/VGEfs7hIn2Q/s320/DSCN1577.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Priest with 900 year old book in daily use</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Large numbers of Ethiopians want to be priests and deacons, the preceding step. Neither is a paid position but in a society where struggling on the land with the other 85% agrarian population is the major alternative, a position in the clergy has high status and, frequently, practitioner supplied food. That is how the many monks and nuns get by - with food donations left outside the monasteries although others make a living selling artefacts, like prayer shawls, baskets and religious symbols, to passing tourists. We climbed up to one of the magnificent rock-hewn churches at Lalibela on mule-back (mine was called Molla!) and I got Kiprom to ask a young nun what had made her join the order. Secular life was full of lies, arguments and an obsession with money in which she wanted to play no part. And no, her parents did not know where she was. Gradually, according to the norm, she would retreat further and further from the outside world and its exacting demands but was free to leave the order at a later date if it no longer suited her. The longer she stayed, of course, the harder that would be. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/avkTa6A3YAnWCqJJUDDwBA?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-25y1KKHLgb8/Tso821VbtGI/AAAAAAAAIuU/0jaDc9gddAI/s320/DSCN1461.JPG" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Priest with cross</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It struck me that Ethiopia is a society far more deeply imbued with the Christian religion than, even, Rwanda where, for the most part, Monday to Saturday is God-free. Ethiopian Orthodox churches, on the other hand, seem to sound off at top loudspeaker volume at all hours of the day and night with particular emphasis on the fasting days (no meat eaten) of Wednesday and Friday and with a midnight kick off on Saturday/Sunday. It's important to know the proximity of the local churches for Saturday night hotel bookings as we found to our cost in the castle town of Gondar despite the wearing of super strength earplugs. One foreign tourist, said Kiprom, practically broke down his hotel door one night telling him to get that Muslim to shut up. When K explained that it wasn't Islamic and that there was nothing he could do about it, the tourist refused to believe him insisting he knew the sound of a mosque. Some <i>muezzins</i> (who call Muslims to prayer) are better sounding than others but having lived in different Islamic societies, I can attest that the call of the mosque is regular, relatively short and often beautiful in marked contrast to the incessant and repetitive day and night dirge emanating from the Orthodox churches. And when I see you, I'll tell you what I really think!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/d_kRbJTNo2k7qrZCbEJFQw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-5xqjAQK04Cg/Tso-J1U7DEI/AAAAAAAAIvY/6Iooo3y3Cp8/s320/DSCN1581.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ride that hoss (actually mule)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Ethiopian Orthodoxy believes in the literal truth of both the old and new testaments simply seeing the latter as an upgrade of the former. Where Lucy and evolution, so proudly displayed in the museum, sit in this context is not clear but the religion appears to absorb contradictions easily. (So what's new?) Angels and saints abound as the church considers that it would have been impossible for Jesus to have performed all the miracles himself and must have had help. Church tableaux are an assortment of biblical and esoteric references none more puzzling than the significance of St George and his slaying of the dragon. He crops up everywhere, next to the Holy Trinity, to the left and right of Mary, King Solomon or the Queen of Sheba or below the wise men. He even has the nicest rock-hewn church in Lalibela named after him.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/VPsqoaz0QKy1acihXI13CQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MDZlXH1ezxk/Tso-fC_I-7I/AAAAAAAAIvk/3G4lIUaHw-4/s320/DSCN1586.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St George's rock-hewn church at Lalibela</td></tr>
</tbody></table>* Kiprom was born on Ethiopian New Year's Day - 1 September 1982 - when the troops of communist regime leader Colonel Mengistu were going around killing dissidents in his village. The occupants of the houses on the street front were shot but Kiprom kept quiet as he was born behind the protection of a row of eucalyptus trees. Go Aussie!<br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-34512963078958231062011-10-26T03:11:00.001-07:002012-02-29T15:37:05.563-08:00From Nyamata to Ngoma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You may remember my article from earlier this year about the new, dirt Road to Burundi in the valley opposite our place in Kibungo. Well the real McCoy is the one from Kigali via Nyamata because it is fully 'macadammed' as our house owner might charmingly say. (When <i>did</i> that famous Scotsman Tar McAdam lose his mojo to Bob Bitumen and Andy Asphalt?) This is one of those mysterious roads, built as usual by the Chinese, that reflects big aspirations - a future of ever expanding commercial exchange between a burgeoning Burundi and a resurgent Rwanda. Maybe so, although I think the excellent road serves a strategic purpose in the event of increasing border problems, as Burundi is far less stable than Rwanda. There is a big military base in the nearby acacia scrub (one of the reasons for the protection of this rare ecology from human intrusion) and soldiers could be quickly deployed in the event of tensions between the two countries. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0rl3H5EZ7SZRyNd1o6yLqg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="88" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-NM0K4Z-Ly8E/TqexoHuS01I/AAAAAAAAIkY/b3YjotFBjNk/s400/IMG_2008.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new, dirt road to Burundi near our house</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
In truth, saying 'built by the Chinese' is like stating the pyramids were built by the pharaohs. There is always one Chinese supervisor sitting by the roadside when you pass constructions in Rwanda. Usually he is texting and looks immensely bored while masses of muscular, sweating, black bodies do the hard yakka. There has also been talk for a few years of building a new international airport near Nyamata about 40 minutes from Kigali with promises of investments and windfalls to follow for the area. A fancy new hotel has sprung up on one of the lake shores further south and it was there that we wanted to head for a pot of delicious Rwandan coffee. (I hear that Ethiopia is still supposed to be just edging Rwanda as number 1 in the world coffee quality charts but will believe that when we visit and drink their local brew in about two weeks' time.) <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UVDjtjW6v4flX18wJcl6sw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="133" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-wskPls-9BPY/Tqe7jxy6JTI/AAAAAAAAIk0/a49fdUToRpg/s400/IMG_3840.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The state of the art bitumen road to Burundi</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
On the way, we drove to the Burundi border just for the experience. There were a few cars parked but all the customs officers and passport controllers had apparently been abducted by aliens, though unfortunately not the toilet johnnies who always miraculously appear demanding amafaranga the minute you emerge from the cesspit they are task to clean for your peeing pleasure. No clean pee, no 20-cent fee I'm afraid. It was the most deserted, modern outpost of its ilk I've ever visited and we felt emboldened to go for a wander into Burundi to see if there be dragons. Actually, it wasn't our intention to stray, simply that I turned round at one point and observed on a signboard that we had indeed been welcomed into the Burundian bosom. Suddenly anxious that there might be a show cause when the missing officials had been sufficiently probed and returned to earth, we hastened back into Rwanda. With the kind of camera equipment that Liam was packing there could have been serious questions about subterranean motives for our cross-border incursion.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/oWXq0J09lxsJftijQcGMaA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qjJOm1VI1gQ/Tqe78A3mpFI/AAAAAAAAIlE/0oItX9VgTo8/s400/IMG_3877.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the lake with thermos of coffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>One must assume that most visitors to the posh hotel have drivers who know the way because the signage sent us off down the wrong dirt track. Eventually steered in the right direction by bemused locals, we reached the hotel and sat down at a table on the lake edge where we were eventually served with a battalion-sized thermos of coffee by one of the many bored and underemployed restaurant staff. How do these places make a quid? Or did our coffees (~$6 for the thermos) and the two lunches of the only other guests in the whole hotel help sustain the place until that big Kigali weekend wedding money-spinner? I will clearly never understand how the business world operates.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/lSdyAupSmZjo09JYySiyzQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-6fGxhwjKOgk/Tqe8Iuq7hbI/AAAAAAAAIlM/0D0n0JB7VoY/s400/IMG_3894.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bugesera/Ngoma wetlands</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Time was pressing and we had a long way to go through the back roads between the Bugesera and our home district of Ngoma. As we crossed the marshy lowlands separating the two districts I kept imagining the thousands of Tutsis who sought shelter in the papyrus during the pogroms against them. The exquisite Papyrus Gonolek will henceforth conjure a darker image. Joining the geographical limits of my school visits coming from the other direction brought a satisfying connection to the district in which I live and work. It really is an under appreciated and little known, watery part of the country. The heavens duly opened before we arrived to pick up our friend Jen at Zaza, the first catholic settlement in Rwanda and where she works for VSO in the local teacher training college (TTC). <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/YFAs6OUf8t_Ibxx7Xjm4Ow?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-mTXPuu1ratw/Tqe8eIcWcEI/AAAAAAAAIlY/nFEnxLARyTs/s400/IMG_3898.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The landscape with rice in the valleys en route to Ngoma</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was then, as Capt Cook might have said if he'd driven a motor car, that our trials and tribulations began. Hitting a slight rise on the rocky road out of Zaza there was the sort of rattling noise that brings instant dread to the mechanical ignoramus (moi) whose reaction is to pretend nothing's seriously wrong and keep going. Facing reality, however, Liam and I looked under the vehicle to observe a broken and trailing exhaust pipe. Not a good look for a vehicle that was to take us through some of the roughest terrain in Rwanda, in Akagera NP the next day. Something would have to be done though stuck in the middle of nowhere, the ground a mudbath after the rain and in dwindling light, it was hard to imagine what. My memory flashed back to one of the cars I drove in Malaysia all those years ago, its engine hanging up on a meat hook on the far side of the country after I had left it for days to be fixed and ready for departure on our return. I'm well past this nonsense I moaned internally. New cars, these days, may be a scientific and electronic mystery but they do, by and large, tend to work. This particular junk heap with about 300,000 km on the clock had obviously been stuck together with blutack. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/p9gQJmwrYGkwnZ12ozpslg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-3oSGXi26K90/Tqe8jE2lgmI/AAAAAAAAIlc/o7_RHGS7M7k/s400/P1010040.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Fixit under the car</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's at times like this that having children really bears fruit. A large crowd of night watchers had by now gathered and Liam was immediately thinking of ways to tie the pipe up using wire. There was none in the vehicle of course and we were in an area without electricity. Nevertheless, with persistent questioning some electrical wire appeared whereupon Liam stripped off and was under the car in a flash like the mythical Slippery Man. For your interest, this is the African equivalent of Asia's Oily Men who sneak into houses at night, hypnotise the occupants (usually women) and make off with all the goods.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DTYFPXoiHIaX2X_fzeSsug?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ebSckRmT8Ic/TqfFPofygYI/AAAAAAAAIl4/gJYaip3Gxt8/s400/IMG_4031.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The connection</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After tightening the exhaust pipe wire back in Kibungo under night guard Justin's worried gaze, we risked the massive trip on shocking roads from north to south Akagera roaring off before 6 the following morning and limping back at 7.30 in the evening. Sticking hands out of the window in torrential rain to get the windscreen wipers to move added to the excitement and a nasty puncture after leaving the park left us struggling in another downpour without the right tools but fortunately with a working spare tyre. We managed, eventually, to find a flat rock to put under the small jack to lift the car high enough.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/AkageraCarTrip?feat=embedwebsite#5667717589740453234" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-q5WfDC-qw5o/TqfHHne2fXI/AAAAAAAAIm8/lAAIOIKIRqA/s400/P1010057.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jen, me, Liam, Stella, Theo near the hippo pool in Akagera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We met only four other vehicles in the park the whole day. That is how under-visited Rwanda's biggest NP is compared to those in other East African countries. The Akagera critter pics tell their own story. The giraffes, in particular, were magnificent. <br />
https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/AkageraCarTrip<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/AkageraCarTrip?feat=embedwebsite#5667716477264583298" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-mFsCdXpe86Y/TqfGG3L72oI/AAAAAAAAImY/qpHLgi5NOmo/s320/IMG_4150.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-73711423722696080172011-10-15T03:49:00.001-07:002012-02-29T15:28:54.892-08:00Into the Valley of Death<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">South of Kigali and west of Kibungo is a flatter, marshy region with rivers and lakes known as the Bugesera. Until recent times the area was isolated. Now there is a fast, bitumen road to the Burundi border which takes an hour by car and the population of its main town of Nyamata is increasing rapidly. It still has the most extensive area of native acacia bushland in the country outside Akagera National Park. In days gone by there were lions and elephants in the region with the remaining 26 pachyderms finally being moved to Akagera in 1975.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/NgZDon74anBR2MoyJWGi3w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-FyzXcvAAKk8/TphFl4_e79I/AAAAAAAAIjw/jFjeuCJLdXg/s320/IMG_3830.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ntarama Memorial</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Before the genocide in 1994 Bugesera was a very ethnically mixed area. At the time of the death of the last great Tutsi king in 1959 the area had been very underpopulated due to its scrubby terrain, poor soil, irregular rainfall, wild animals and tsetse flies but the killings and turmoil that followed the king's death led to large number of Tutsi from areas like Gitarama, west of Kigali, fleeing to seek better lives elsewhere. Displaced Hutus from northern areas also came. By April 1994 there were around 60,000 Tutsi, the majority cattle farmers, living and working together with their Hutu neighbours most of whom cultivated the viable fields.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/LP2xfxp8sKtcQDrpo_CGHg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-E1CwIADvM68/TphFeuE3KbI/AAAAAAAAIjs/uop8EJf6lyg/s320/IMG_3825.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clothes of victims</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Then "<i>between eleven in the morning on Monday April 11 and two in the afternoon on Saturday May 14</i> (after which the Rwandan Patriotic Front army arrived to send the killers scurrying across the border into Congo), <i>about 50,000 Tutsis were massacred by machete, murdered every day of the week, from 9.30 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, by Hutu neighbours and militiamen, on the hills of the commune of Nyamata</i>." This is the powerful beginning of <i>Into the Quick of Life</i> (2000) the first in a series of three books written by the French author Jean Hatzfeld and based on testimonies of survivors of the Bugesera slaughter. If there is one set of books that should be read on the Rwandan genocide then this is it. The second book <i>A Time for Machetes</i> hears the testimonies of the killers themselves from inside the Bugesera penitentiary where they were being held at the time of the book's publication in 2003. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/z7xx63Ai2_HhTT5TqoxTMQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LXMt8eUdaa0/TphOKbVRUgI/AAAAAAAAIj4/LnFk05vXYCc/s320/IMG_3410.JPG" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The banality of evil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The third book is titled <i>The Strategy of Antelopes</i> (2007) and covers the period in the mid 2000s when the killers were pardoned and allowed to return to their homes. The attitudes of the returning killers and the feelings of the survivors about their return make for a gripping narrative. Imagine giving WWII gas chamber operatives their freedom and allowing them to settle next door to holocaust survivors whose relatives they had murdered! Yet, prison space limitations for the sheer number of killers detained, untended fields creating food shortages and a burning desire to move on and reconcile the nation has led to vast numbers of journeyman killers being pardoned provided they have admitted to their crimes and displayed some, often mild, form of contrition for their actions. (This does not apply to the big wig genocidaire leaders who are tried at the international court in Arusha, Tanzania.) The long-suffering and still traumatised survivors have to accept this decision for the greater good often obliged to be polite and shake the hands that may have borne down on their loved ones.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Sn0PEIiBuN8mEFwXUfIKog?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-kOlsAukl_pk/TphE_cLQ9TI/AAAAAAAAIjU/d51sByYH9Us/s320/IMG_3812.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the Ntarama victims</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was in this context that we visited the two main memorials in the Bugesera district - Nyamata and Ntarama, the latter slightly more to the north. Both were churches where large numbers of Tutsis had sought refuge after the killing started in Kigali on 7 April. To no avail. Two days later blue-helmeted UN soldiers turned up and whisked away the five white priests and nuns who constituted the abazungu community in the district. Local Hutus rejoiced as the killing could now begin in Bugesera away from the prying eyes of westerners. On 11 April, Nyamata church was stormed by the Interahamwe militia and army, killing all 10,000 people who had gathered in the grounds. The two underground crypts there contain over 40,000 bodies of those who died in the church massacre and elsewhere with the victims' personal belongings and clothes piled on every pew. At Ntarama around 5,000 died and many of their clothes have been left hanging from the church rafters. The guide was at pains to show us the blood stained wall where babies were smashed to death. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/lm2ZuhCO32Q8e4nb6MuBbw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-QxYrBeDnaRA/TphFEEldacI/AAAAAAAAIjY/tS1AzUXx_0s/s320/IMG_3814.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Many died in the Bugesera marshes where they were hunted down among the papyrus reeds. Their bodies were often never recovered, either rotting in the swamps or floating all the way along the Akagera River as far as Lake Victoria. However, most of the survivors also came from the marsh areas as it was much easier to stay out of sight than elsewhere. Of the 6,000 who fled to the eucalypt forests only 20 survived. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/LUzrYUpTzdamezZMC68o2A?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ef3HGWHEYj0/TphFOY16wVI/AAAAAAAAIjg/D9d_P9e3Mwo/s320/IMG_3821.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the victims' property</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
It is said that the killing rate of around 10,000 a day, average, for the less than three month duration of the Rwandan genocide is the highest ever for any war or genocide and, unlike most 20th century atrocities which were mechanised, this one was done almost entirely by hand. <br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-10863612215706369232011-10-13T06:59:00.001-07:002012-02-29T15:26:52.078-08:00Rocking it in Rukira<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The visit of Liam led to a flurry of activity. Trips into our favourite valley were refreshed by our son's enthusiasm and camera fearlessness. He would just go up to strangers, ask permission and within seconds have everyone laughing at the snaps he had taken. It always helps, of course, when you don't understand the meaning of the occasional 'amafaranga' (money) request, or pretend not to! <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/devQ3thdcEKlCslNZWa09Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-doq3JoRDRwA/Tpa3ixtZpII/AAAAAAAAIgo/9M-VZeAtgOc/s400/IMG_3201.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeking a bit of the action</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A major party had been planned for his arrival at our guard Justin's village in Rukira sector, half an hour from Kibungo and we duly turned up in our Sunday best for an afternoon of food, drink (that included Mutzig beer and fanta), speeches, juggling, singing and dancing. A large crowd of senior relatives, Kinyarwanda teacher Theo and the abazungu glitterati of Stella, friend Jen, Liam and me crammed around the table in Justin's living room. The front door had to be shut to keep out any uninvited encroachers which then forced all the room's heat into my near-exploding cheeks. A few children managed to get a peek into the inner sanctum via the one, tiny window. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2XFWRr190lxqv_ieH7CXWg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-hyfinMrHd9A/Tpa3yXjZ_6I/AAAAAAAAIg0/alYHZHQaRUg/s320/IMG_3222.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The big feed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It is amazing how coordinated these affairs are. An MC is always appointed to run proceedings in a very serious way. Roughly translated the spiel was: "first of all we shall hear from the leader of our abazungu guests, then the rest of the abazungu will say a few words, followed by Justin's father and father-in-law, then by anyone else who would like to speak, followed finally by the host Justin himself." A special preliminary agenda item was telling us the ingredients of the strong tasting gravy which accompanies meat dishes in Rwanda. We had all been effusive in our appreciation. One of the cooks came out from the secret nook where the brewing had occurred and intoned the recipe while we nodded sagely. I really should have written down Theo's translation but fustling around for pen and paper somehow seemed undignified.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/yhDtApuJ2KW-Y-vxO1uhYA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LJz5fqKel-I/Tpa4GhRKyqI/AAAAAAAAIhE/NXOPV1TRc5M/s320/IMG_3247.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justin's speech</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Turns out I was the abazungu leader so went first in my very best Kinyarwanda. It was all recorded by Liam so you may be able to discover some time in the future, when Kinyarwanda becomes the world language, the scale of my repetitions (too many to count probably), deviations (praise, wonder, peace and human bonding were pretty much the themes) and hesitations (I just slowed right down until the <i>mot juste</i> - usually a deviation of a repetition - miraculously manifested itself). The Rwandans were very attentive to my discourse breaking periodically into applause at each cheesy but heartfelt utterance. Abazungu tend to be more cynical so instead of going on for another five minutes about the oneness of humankind (I was just warming to the theme), I pre-empted any catcalls and suddenly sat down.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TiWlKmG6ItKbL5hSZMHPWw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tFXoqWW6kkA/Tpa5J0kpYWI/AAAAAAAAIiA/ZF6sVY9OvdM/s320/IMG_3307.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old jugglers never die, they just can't see the balls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Justin's speech was particularly lengthy and included details of a night he got wet when we showed empathy and gave him a cup of tea and some clothes to keep warm. No Rwandan boss would do this apparently. Must be character forming to shiver the damp out of a night guard! (Not that we're saints; for example it's not done for him to come into the house and use our facilities.) All this apple-polishing could have gone on forever so it was time to bring out our secret weapon - Liam's juggling skills. Shame they haven't been recorded because he is much better than me. I even, rather pathetically, needed glasses to be able to see the small lemons in the photo. Ageing and juggling don't go well together. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/JfPK3x0vCuINFc8KnQ43mg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3Lc-cxOGrJ0/Tpa4NIIzARI/AAAAAAAAIhM/6eHuTEWvRKw/s320/IMG_3254.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting funky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The inhibition wall had been breached and if the abazungu could show off then why not their Rwandan hosts. Justin started it up and within no time the whole room was a rhythm of African singing and dancing in which we happily participated. Gee, it was a fantastic afternoon. We had to have more beers and fanta, more speeches (yes, I got to be even more cheesy) and more juggling which eventually left the confines of the small mud living room and became part of a street carnival with many bemused onlookers. We lined up for a final group photo, avoided what looked like an imminent downpour, shook many hands, hailed a passing taxi-bus, yelled farewell to the crowds and were gone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-qfI82ZHj8szSr9lXXittg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-VBd6e7joBMA/Tpa46rIfbEI/AAAAAAAAIh0/rEeXaODE3lg/s320/IMG_3302.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justin's mother-in-law, Justin, Liam, me, Stella, J's wife Emmeline, the MC with Theo in front</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/J4nGsMgsrkzt2CJHsxCSdw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-x-ICuuBlt1I/Tpa4sqMGY9I/AAAAAAAAIhs/PNV6RGrcLwI/s400/IMG_3293.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mixed crowd of guests and onlookers</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-69066042286603526932011-09-23T06:33:00.000-07:002011-09-23T06:51:12.642-07:00Sensitisation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A remark from a friend shortly before leaving Australia sticks in the mind. I asked how her elderly father fills in his time and she said that he washes the dishes. I said, "that can't take too long surely" to which she replied, "he washes the dishes VERY slowly." I think of that sometimes when I walk up and down the road to my office. Most people walk at a snail's pace compared with the high octane 'muzungu walk'. I'm sure Rwandans think it's hilarious but I tell you what, it's a great way to shake off a squad of demanding kids from Les Hirondelles school. Watch them try to keep up with Usain Walls!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Sensitisation?feat=embedwebsite#5655525673002234418" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="238" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-wnTGkHSaDMw/Tnx2oqVmcjI/AAAAAAAAIb0/5XAxDjBlaHg/s320/IMG_3288.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Misses Inatek 2009 and 2010 (see story below)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Once in the office the first person to come and shake my hand is Guido who was brought up and educated in Uganda and who returned to Rwanda in the mid 1990s, like thousands of others, after the genocide. He is often referred to, at 63, as <i>the</i> old man as there appear to be no other people of his age working for the district. He is two years from retirement and as a good English speaker is responsible for that modern day essential, the district website. (http://www.ngoma.gov.rw/) Having left Rwanda as a school boy in the early 1960s, shortly after the first major post second world war conflict in the country, his outgoing manner reflects his many years away from the much more subdued culture of Rwanda. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Aal-jOINF6NsfTRPeQ3PSw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="256" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jGk7WCsW-U4/Tnx2YBAZVVI/AAAAAAAAIbo/m1f8O8sdE0g/s320/IMG_3349.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange group performing tribal singing at Kigali-Up music festival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rwandans are not the chattiest of people but Guido likes to know what I get up to at the weekend although he now avoids asking about church after the praying saga recounted in a Question of Faith. (http://deniswalls.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html). I told him that I had played a full 90 minutes for the Kigali Kougars (my scorched face and scalp were evidence), been to a music festival (mostly rained out) and taken part in a VSO celebration party to welcome new volunteers to the country (I got down and funky with the Intore dancers). "What about you?" I ventured in return. Turns out his five adult sons had come all the way down from Kigali so he could treat them to a fanta. (I know there must have been other benefits but that's what he said.) I am in awe of the powers of the coca cola company in this country. Imagine enticing western offspring homewards with the promise of a sticky drink at the end of it! But you've got to love that simplicity.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/8eX9542OosBPhZAd7iOueA?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="249" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wk429oNfR9g/Tnx2e91jhUI/AAAAAAAAIbs/n1ZbXOShCiM/s320/IMG_3366.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Office taboos</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I couldn't continue my sugary chat with Guido as I had an appointment upstairs with the Executive Secretary of the district to discuss details of an upcoming meeting on VSO's annual performance review to which 20 people had been invited - important stuff like where we would be having lunch and whether drinks would be provided. As I waited I studied the five taboos and values for Vision 2020 pinned to his door. (See adjacent photos) That is the year by which Rwanda aspires to be a middle-income country, or the Singapore of Africa, whichever you prefer. I'm not quite sure how invulnerability relates to lack of trust but it is interesting to observe how often the meetings I attend use the jargon of western bureaucracies. 'Effective and efficient', 'continuous improvement', 'transparency', 'quality outcomes' and even (heaven forbid) 'moving forward' are present in documents in all their obfuscatory glory. When I am listening to a speech in Kinyarwanda I will suddenly hear one of these beauties casually dropped into the spiel. I sometimes trot them out myself when I am doing a presentation and forget the extent to which I have been drugged by clichés.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/fxn4CnL5_D0fJV4vvclVyA?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="224" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-MBG2ij2bawU/Tnx2krpu04I/AAAAAAAAIbw/VgPTfl2yFM4/s320/IMG_3367.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">National values to aspire to</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
One of the most popular verbs in English language documents is 'to sensitise', roughly meaning to inform people or make them aware. "We must sensitise society/schools to the education of girls" is typical. It's a direct translation from the French 'sensibiliser' and I never know whether to change the word to something more globally familiar, in documents that have been badly translated from the French, or just accept it as new Rwandan English. Ah, decisions! Interestingly, Taboo 4 (fear of conflict: artificial harmony) invites Rwandans to be less sensitive and more frank with each other.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/sSre0IO7ju5JmeesHIpLhg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="400" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-42-L9-aJ3wE/Tnx3LFSzY5I/AAAAAAAAIcU/zJXp752tW8w/s400/IMG_3337.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warthog and topi on skewers with poacher</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was 'sensitised' to a very important problem recently when coming back from Akagera NP. We got a lift with some rangers who were taking three poachers to the police station to be locked up (they would get six months we were told) for killing a warthog and a topi. They had been smoking the meat on long skewers over an open fire in the national park when the fire spread and alerted the rangers that folks were up to no good. It is a measure of the increasing confidence of poachers in the NP and, also, their desperation such is the problem of exploding population, land encroachment and lack of alternative employment opportunities. Bush meat is cheap too compared with beef or even goat. The above photo does not, of course, convey the stench and the flies engulfing these less than tasty looking kebabs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/D5lFgPXGG1QHcwOmJRAfXg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WmfqmJbVsuE/Tnx3G4bPrrI/AAAAAAAAIcQ/Y92cq7lXryY/s320/IMG_3318.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Inatek 2011 and the two runners up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sensitised to equality for girls in schools we may be but some things remain the same the world over when it comes to beauty pageants. There is clearly a sensitisation imperative to male inclusion! Miss Inatek (Institute of Agriculture, Technology, Education of Kibungo) was the event and the main hall of the district was packed with an expectant crowd. It started fashionably late, featured top musical performers from Kigali, who accepted the numerous power outages with stoical good grace, and eight female students from Inatek who slinked on stage wearing four different sets of clothing. The handicraft ones were the best. The finale was when they had to answer two questions in either Kinyarwanda, French or English. None choose their native tongue one can assume because there were extra points for talking in a foreign language. Most chose to struggle in French over their even weaker English. The first question was what they would do for Inatek if they won (everyone wanted to be une ambassadrice for the college) but the second was a little unequal. One girl was asked how long the Miss Inatek competition had been running (since 2009) whereas two others were asked to comment on relations with France in light of Paul Kagame's first official visit there since the genocide and, bizarrely, on the role of football in Rwandan society. I'd like to see some man hunk being asked seamstress questions to decide who was best qualified to be Mr Inatek. The audience seemed to have decided who the winner would be well ahead of time and sure enough she was. I reckon Miss Photogenic deserved it. She is the one in the bad photo below, catwalking the handicraft part of the contest, who looks like she enjoys a square meal.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/U5pEmf7ogv_oYQRn5gVzJQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-soiuSDarHTk/Tnx2x8qA68I/AAAAAAAAIb8/G-gPz6MbWOE/s320/IMG_3307.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ms Photogenic</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-63460712419605478592011-09-15T04:12:00.000-07:002011-09-15T04:29:13.523-07:00Return to Kibungo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"Hey old man, what is your motherland?" asked the youngish chap next to me on the Kibungo bus. Well, truth be told, I didn't quite know how to respond to this delightful inquiry. "Actually it's fatherland old bean, and don't you know that 60 is the new 40," was, of course, only a belated reflection. Actually the only countries with parenthood I can think of at the moment are Russia, Germany and France. (Your job is to remember which one(s) have a mother and which one(s) a father.) <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/xUEnVCUBNqtIDBtyFElf9Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Iz5p8ACV_hQ/TnCOZk07wxI/AAAAAAAAIZs/YJ7fmNMoSkw/s200/IMG_2593.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Head teacher training</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Then I thought a bit more. What am I, Australian or British/Scottish? I'm working with lots of Poms, I'm geographically closer to Europe and practically on the same time zone, AND I look up the Guardian website more than the ABC one! Traitor! However, I am working and travelling here on an Aussie passport and I was really pleased that Cadel Evans won the Tour de France even though I don't much care for him. But he's an Aussie, oi, oi oi! Then, when the Scotland football team were cheated by the referee in the last minute of the game against the Czechs to drop two crucial points in the European Championship qualifiers I was almost apoplectic. That ref deserved to die. The mixed up migrant, right?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0JA2U7zTV3aylmsDlty37A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qaBpv0bnXyY/TnCO7VbtrJI/AAAAAAAAIZ0/rKsGiYavWZw/s200/IMG_2597.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The smoking ground (see story below)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Anyway, back in bus-world, I was wearing my quizzical expression, eyes upwards and finger over mouth, and the poor bloke was probably wondering if I was ever going to answer what he thought was a straightforward question. Finally, I said Aus...tral...i...a - four clear syllables in order not to confuse it with a small European country. I think, strictly speaking, I was wrong as your mother/fatherland surely means where your mater and pater brung you up, innit?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Electricity?feat=embedwebsite#5652177573735224194" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-xTEWaZUFcoY/TnCRjonq04I/AAAAAAAAIaA/6iLYYmVySYg/s200/IMG_2601.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theo and Renata at the electricity party!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The level of English in Rwanda is pretty wretched so all power to the guy on the bus for at least trying to communicate albeit in a rather unusual way. There is no polite form of request in Kinyarwanda and no 'please' so the English equivalent usually tends to be pretty abrupt. Common utterances are 'I want, or give me... chalk, pen, paper, money' instead of the dressed up English ' I'd like, please may I, could I, can I, would you mind, could you possibly' locutions of our normal discourse. Recently, when I was watching a football match, a guy came into the bar and said 'would you mind if I sit here' referring to a neighbouring chair. I looked around to see if I was dreaming but he was real and had seemingly learned the expression from listening to tapes. Needless to say, in my educational role here, I try to emphasise expanded forms of English communication...... but not usually when the footie's on.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0b8_tySpgAk0IpPkknjj-g?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-amKMW_I3KcM/TnCRIJbyBjI/AAAAAAAAIZ4/Uq8WWdeyf8I/s400/IMG_2599.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The source of the smoking ground</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was waiting for all the head teachers to arrive for a training session (a '<i>formation</i>') out in the boondocks one day (a 9 o'clock meeting is lucky to start before 10). Weather is always an interesting subject so I thought I would broach it. "You certainly have a great climate here in Rwanda," I averred. "Yes," said the team leader, "this is proof of God's goodness. We are poor but he gives us good weather. You are rich but he gives you hurricanes and floods." I like the idea of a supernatural Fair Play Dude but think that Somalia and a few other places might be questioning the even-handedness of the Umpire's decision making.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/VwqGj62aPRD4HVS4mmLRzw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-tqvR7J-IiJU/TnCR54TSncI/AAAAAAAAIaE/pOBFBCnNZjU/s400/IMG_2602.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowds gathering for the electrical event of the week including a classic head wearer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rwanda, which is almost completely Christian, has undergone a fairly recent historical switch from animism. The first of the old kings to convert was only in 1943 and was part of a Belgian colonial policy that called for mass conversions. Christianity soon became a prerequisite for membership of the Tutsi elite and three days of celebration followed the decision in 1946 to dedicate Rwanda to 'Christ the King'. Nowadays, this is such a religious society that even the authorities are worried. A recent nutrition report expressed concern that too many Rwandans spend too much time in 'prayerful activity' to the detriment of work. Consequently family diet suffers. There is also a big push for increased agricultural productivity as part of the land consolidation program and excessive praying won't put extra food into the market place. But some of the charismatic and evangelical churches that are springing up say that becoming a devoted member can make you rich and the preachers themselves are often exemplars with their smart clothes, car and well-fed look. If them, then why not us?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TTaP-EPrZMhYZLS7z4zzPQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="265" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-yv-Vh75C24I/TnCS9pLSBuI/AAAAAAAAIaY/rf-ZlIYCku8/s320/IMG_2608.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How electric cables are wrapped together</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The religiosity of the people may be one of the reasons that no one seems to know much if anything about dinosaurs. After my exchange with the Ugandan hotel receptionist (recounted in Into Uganda - Part 1) it has been tempting to probe deeper into Rwandans' knowledge of the Terrible Lizards. So far the scorecard is not promising with only one person Stella asked having the vaguest idea about them. I don't suppose it really matters in the daily scheme of things but is indicative of the constant search for explanation which lies at the heart of an enlightened educational system. Most people here still believe that God made everything in a trice so dinosaurs and their links to the evolutionary cycle get in the way of pat answers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Electricity?feat=embedwebsite#5652180200879007090" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Lbv9XKvHAtM/TnCT8jfjpXI/AAAAAAAAIak/z2wxF2t7KO4/s400/IMG_3354.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Electricity arriving in our yard</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
'Satan' and 'hell' are widely used religious terms in Rwanda and with the history of the 1994 genocide and previous slaughters over more than 50 years it's easy to understand why. When smoke started to come out of the ground outside our house I thought, too, that Old Nick was up to no good. The first clue that something was wrong was when friend Theo came rushing into the yard with a concerned look on his face. There had been a heavy downpour and something odd was happening to the ground outside. Out I went to see three men staring at something more interesting than me. "They're cooking in hell," said one ominously. It certainly looked like it. A trail of smoke emerged from a depression in the ground. Eventually repairmen came and the crowd grew in size. The pictures show the smouldering electric cables that were the cause of the problem. A bit Heath Robinson don't you think? Our guard Justin summed it up amusingly when he said, "all this underground stuff will be the end of us." After the huge hole that appeared in our back garden and now this, I'm inclined to agree.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/9npFUhfiiMzwJVadoxP_JA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-P2H-ihurxEE/TnHLt0Vs2xI/AAAAAAAAIas/zkXSHf5w4qk/s200/IMG_3364.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The back garden hole being reclaimed by vegetation</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-21888804489631709522011-09-07T02:47:00.001-07:002012-02-26T22:38:01.667-08:00Into Uganda - part 4, the wildlife<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">One of the main reasons for being in Uganda, of course, was to see the wildlife. The trip proper started at Entebbe after a long bus trip from Kigali via Kampala. First port of call was Entebbe Botanical Gardens and a meeting with a young guide called Lawrence who spent a year in the US and has come back to set up an environmental group titled Green Youth Conservation - Uganda. Its constitution is worthy of any grand NGO in seeking to maintain and promote environmental sustainability in the country. Good luck to him and the organisation because it is only through the efforts of locals like Lawrence that nature stands a chance. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/UgandaPart3?feat=embedwebsite#5647046400480561986" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-I1lY0z7U6Ko/Tl5WyCrKy0I/AAAAAAAAIWQ/nCr5aalQRio/s400/IMG_2796.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Lawrence in Entebbe Botanic Gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
One of the heartening things about the trip was hearing about, and seeing first hand, the good work done by VSO (who I am working for in Rwanda in case you have forgotten) which has trained guides who have often gone on to start their own successful businesses. At Mabira Forest (which as I wrote previously is under threat from sugar cane growing) and Fort Portal, companies had benefited from VSO training, in particular through the work of Andrew Roberts who still lives in the country and now makes a living in Kampala as a mapmaker. They are the most exquisite maps and an absolute prerequisite for anyone planning to tour Uganda. By the way, Broad-billed Roller and Black-and-white Shrike-flycatcher were highlights in the gardens.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/hUtpB0kw7j3WKM7O_csK-w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-M8RRkB_H1zI/TlJk-8J3REI/AAAAAAAAIP8/uMi9GeUivWY/s400/IMG_2812.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We stayed three days in Entebbe, 40 minutes south of Kampala, not just to hang out with the Kampala Kool Crowd at their trendy Lake Victoria playground, but because it is an excellent gateway to some key wildlife destinations. We took a boat to the Ngamba Island Chimp Sanctuary from where the picture of the handsome grey-haired chappie was taken. Rehabilitating abused and orphaned chimps can be tough work judging by the racket they make at meal times and the troubling, rock-throwing habit of one particular fellow with his liking for tourists as target practice. We also visited the Zika Forest Reserve for our first sightings of the charming, white-nosed Red-tailed Monkey and plentiful, locomotive-sounding Black-and-white-casqued Hornbill. The Reptile House, set up by an entrepreneurial local in his property down a dusty, winding lane, was an unexpected delight. The pictures of snakes and chameleons (in picasaweb) were taken there. He is trying to create the special kind of watery habitat at the foot of his garden conducive to the lungfish loving but scarce Shoebill which is the prize bird of Uganda. It is also the easiest country to have a relatively good chance of seeing one. He'll be able to charge at least double entry fee if Shoebill start turning up in his backyard!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/mp_OndVm66bHp8Ha1NPgwg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XCRWoUQUuJ0/Tl5YCWMT0tI/AAAAAAAAIXA/fEyUzEy4w_4/s400/IMG_2856.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Mamba</td></tr>
</tbody></table>However, our destination for a possible sighting of this strange bird was the Mabamba Swamp to the east of Entebbe on the shores of Lake Victoria. They had disappeared from the swamp for a while and headed east but we had heard that a handful had returned and if we were lucky we might get to see one. It turned out better than expected. The weather, which had been wet in previous days, started fair. After passing a returning fisherman we entered the reed-lined channels and saw a family of what were most likely Spot-necked Otter. Lakes Victoria and Bunyonyi are two of the remaining strongholds of the species. Then almost immediately the guide spotted the sentinel shape of a distant Shoebill. We approached slowly. They can stand for hours in the same pose before pouncing for the kill. That's why it's important not to startle them. Imagine having to fly off after a three hour stint on the same spot and start all over again just because of some stupid photographer's hunger for the perfect snap. Our guide was very clear about how close we were allowed to get. After all, his livelihood depends on it. He doesn't want them heading back to the swamp on the other side of Kampala where some poor bugger was making a crust out of them until a tourist got too close and sent them back to Mabamba. Maybe! <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2Mb71fza_6BO8uGff6RFsg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-o2XPAgTQ5Q0/TlJlpcwsH3I/AAAAAAAAIQM/CoiTV5i_XSI/s400/IMG_2921.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoebill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was one of those wildlife moments where you fear disappointment after seeing so many images of a spectacular creature. Fear not! They are stupendous birds with their outsized bill and kinky little quiff at the back of the head. We saw three birds in total, one quite permissibly close, and each looked as though it would have us for breakfast given half a chance. If I might anthropomorphise for a moment, they do have a slightly evil and very determined look. In the course of our marshy meanderings a long sought after Papyrus Gonolek made a brief appearance, its golden-yellow crown winking at us through the dense papyrus growth. Goliath and Purple Heron also showed up, as did a splendid Saddle-billed Stork.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/dDMJV1dsMFtpVT0uZF43uQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="108" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-7yzawp6xikA/TmcaP7GnwLI/AAAAAAAAIYk/WVL-SXz0DUo/s400/IMG_3342.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papyrus Gonolek</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Mpanga Forest Reserve (briefly) to the west of Kampala then Mabira Forest (the next day) west of Jinja, were followed by Budongo Forest in the north west just south of Murchison Falls National Park. These are magnificent and now, sadly, rare environments. As always in rainforest, sightings are difficult but some things stand out; at Mabira, the uncommon, brown-headed Forest Wood-hoopoe foraging above our heads giving a bad case of birders' neck ache and the African Crowned Eagle, perched to expose its splendid rufous, barred front. That came as a wondrous shock, the most impressive chest I've ever seen in a raptor. Budongo revealed its delights slowly along its famous Royal Mile, a journey that the old kings of Bunyoro took to a retreat deep in the forest. Chocolate-backed Kingfisher was the dessert here. What's not to love about a bird with a name like that? The 4-inch African Dwarf Kingfisher came out of a nest hole in a bank to sit prominently on a nearby branch, the wonder being that its disproportionate bill didn't topple it over.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0Ut5L94uruO29OLvLkbz5g?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="164" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-iEswrGbW1HU/TmcZ9PxYWFI/AAAAAAAAIYg/Z46aIdBzvzU/s400/IMG_3280.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dwarf Kingfisher</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Waterways in African national parks usually have abundant wildlife and Murchison NP is no exception. The Nile flows into Lake Albert at Murchison Falls and the sides of the lake have hippos, crocs, buffalo and heaps of birds. A boat goes near the bottom of the falls where you can get out and climb up to the top for a refreshing spray. We lorded and ladied it for a night at the Paraa Lodge which turned out to be a lot less expensive than the equivalent in Kenya or Tanzania. It maybe pays to just turn up at the hotel door because I don't think anyone else had ever done it. It looked like Silvio Berlusconi's glam set, with hair, breast and shoulder implants, had all decided that Uganda was the new Big Thing. Stella and I joined them, minus the face-lifts, and turned into a pair of ravenous carnivores to compensate for possible protein deficiency in our Rwandan diet.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/CVcCH-YWBtg1Y2xlfMldfA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="230" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Z3hntxr786g/TlJoGwQ94HI/AAAAAAAAIRQ/TdOg1uXqAg8/s400/IMG_3060.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leopard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The game drive around Murchison the following day turned into the usual manic lion and leopard hunt. Forget about Where's Wally or Gaddafi, there should be cartoons and children's games with a lion or leopard secreted among the plentiful other fauna. But hooray, we saw a leopard so that means we've seen the Small Five (remember Tanzania blog) and, at last, the Big Five. Our guide was furious that people were getting out of their cars to take pics of the tree lounging leopard as the Murchison variety is very prone to dashing off at the first sight of a tourist. Gee, I'm glad to have seen them all - buffalo, rhino, elephant, lion and leopard - because now I never again have to charge around with other 4x4s willing our vehicle to be the magical one that finds the beasts. It can get very competitive but once you've had a decent sighting, hopefully in relative calm, cooperation kicks in and you're supposed to radio in the other vehicles so that they too can share in the photo-snapping action. By the way, we did bump into a few lions as well (seen them before so what!) and the Rothschild's Giraffes in the park are lovely. Favourite birds were Northern Carmine Bee-eater (wow!), Red-breasted Bee-eater, Red-necked Falcon, Denham's Bustard and the wonderful Abyssinian Ground-hornbill. Mammals seen were Spotted Hyena, Elephant, Hartebeest, Delassa waterbuck, Uganda Kob, Oribi, Bushbuck, grassland dwelling Patas Monkey and Warthog as well as the previously mentioned. Oribi are very pretty dwarf antelopes and the attractive Kob (a medium sized antelope) is the national animal of Uganda. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/VI4LmCeEK0whzF5rOYbQIg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="179" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-xo8yCbvmWbc/Tl5Zz3V4auI/AAAAAAAAIYQ/vMN1GGPPPMo/s400/IMG_3033.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denham's Bustard and Oribi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After taking another of life's many roads from hell, this one 10 hours' drive from Murchison to Fort Portal (see pic), it was time to relax for a bit and plan the next stage of the trip. FP is the launch pad for visits to Semliki NP near the DRCongo and Kibale NP but, as the road to Semliki was under construction and promised long delays, we decided that the Crater Lakes and Kibale were the better options followed by a stop at Queen Elizabeth NP further south. The main attraction at Kibale is chimp tracking, which we weren't particularly interested in. <br />
<a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UqLPnHJgREJTaEmEE6pGvA?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-pLpv4RsgwxY/TlevkDIJfWI/AAAAAAAAISo/zXCPI2yf2sI/s200/IMG_3131.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
However, there is a very special bird found in the forest. Ever since living in Malaysia 30 years ago, the Pitta family of beautiful ground dwelling birds has fascinated me. Once they were called Jewel Thrushes because of their magnificent colours. But they can be buggers to see, nearly always choosing dense rainforest as their habitat. At present there are 33 species in the world although that is changing as species like the Red-bellied Pitta, a race of which is found in Australia, are split following DNA analysis. There are two species found in Africa and the one in Kibale is the extremely rare Green-breasted Pitta. We had to leave well before sparrow-fart from the lovely Chimpanzee Guest House, with its terrific view over the forest, to try and nail the elusive blighter. (That's just jokey birder tough talk!) It is also an unusual species in that it doesn't respond to calls, the normal way of locating pittas. Rather it is necessary to find a possible location and wait for it to call or, in this case, hopefully make an appearance on a preferred branch which it only does at dawn. Then it spends the rest of the day on the ground scuffing through the leaf litter.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/rNxT79nmeGrYzPY6PFFP3w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="200" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-HCFiLMJXQqM/TmcZaEQAyLI/AAAAAAAAIYY/j7QH-MQO2b4/s400/IMG_3276.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green-breasted Pitta</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our guide was a local pitta expert and we set out in the dark into the forest before deviating down a narrow path where we waited for daybreak. We had been joined on the outing by an English birder, Charles, who was staying at the same guesthouse and works for the UN in Nairobi. If the bird was going to show up it would do it at 6.45. This particular pitta wore a Rolex. Except the battery must have run out because we waited.....and waited........and waited until the bird had no further excuse and dejectedly we made our way back to the main track. We continued to walk along in silence when suddenly the guide heard a noise. "Pitta", he said instantly. Stevenson and Fanshawe's 'Birds of East Africa' describes the call as 'unknown', so saying it sounded a bit like a frog will have to do. Once again, but this time very cautiously, we headed off the track towards the call. This is another curious feature of the Green-breasted Pitta. Finding them depends on luck and skill but, unlike other species, it is not as easily scared once located. The three of us were told by the guide to wait patiently while he attempted to find the bird. This is always a nerve-wracking moment, binoculars at the ready, fearful of breathing let alone stepping on a twig the crack of which invariably sounds like a nuclear explosion.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/3rH_UQ46S2X4xzMH1B6GWQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mk_7KopfdB0/TlJnqXg7sqI/AAAAAAAAIRA/8L3zvCptk_0/s200/IMG_3037.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugandan Kob</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"It's there, through the fork in the tree in front, can you see it?" The guide was insistent. "Quick, quick." Stella could, Charles could, but muggins couldn't. I didn't want to lift my head in case I blocked Charles's view. He was taller, was behind me and I knew he was keen to take photographs. But that was the problem. The tree trunk was obscuring my view. I raised my head a tad and immediately saw the pitta quietly perched on a log with its distinctive black and white face markings and brilliant green breast. What a moment. Then it hopped down flashing its bright red belly as it disappeared out of sight. That was it. We weren't blessed with a longer view. We tried to see it again and nearly did, but my brain has had to re-construct the experience out of that brief though wonderful moment. So I may have exaggerated!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/T9XybroRDO4nTIqRSZvCoQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-OWJX0JM1Hto/TmcZroogNaI/AAAAAAAAIYc/-Q6nj-3R594/s400/IMG_3279.JPG" width="130" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red-chested Owlet</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
As we were wandering through the forest trying to locate the call of a scarce Red-chested Owlet, the familiar screeching of chimps erupted. I looked up and saw one in a tall tree. Who needs to pay over $100 a head when you can stumble across them birding. Stella and Charles didn't see it but to oblige, another chimp appeared in full view brachiating in the general direction of the owlet. That'll be the end of owl spotting we thought. But no, it was still calling although why it does that during the day I don't know as it just encourages other birds to mob it. Eventually we could make out the owlet's red chest high up in the canopy. A troop of Italian chimp trackers with massive cameras and bright yellow clothing bustled past struggling to catch a glimpse of our closest simian relatives. The morning highlights concluded with great views of a Red-bellied Paradise-flycatcher, the rainforest cousin of the much more common African Paradise-flycatcher.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/re5fzsTNLl5fgpsvtpwclQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="101" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-SHVVStczldw/TlJpYQrJd0I/AAAAAAAAIRo/B8eJ9KdgV8A/s400/IMG_3221.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lappet-faced Vulture</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
We headed southwards getting reasonable views of the Rwenzori Mountains (Mountains of the Moon) to the west. Mt Margherita, at 5109 metres, is the highest peak in the range and the third highest in Africa after Mts Kilimanjaro and Kenya. We were on our way to Queen Elizabeth NP or rather the savannah part of it because it is so big that you would need a week to properly explore its diversity including forests and gorges. The Kazinga Channel between Lakes Edward and George is truly spectacular with more buffaloes and hippos than you can shake a stick at. There were elephants in the water and even lions on the slopes but you needed binoculars to see them. The park itself is still recovering after the animal slaughter of the Idi Amin years so numbers were low on the game drive. A striking Lappet-faced Vulture attacking a carcase was the highlight. There was another lion which once again couldn't be seen well without binoculars. I don't really understand people - the vast majority I'm afraid - who spend a small fortune visiting game parks and don't bring binoculars. What's the point? I would rather do without my camera. In chimp tracking at Kibale, watching the leopard at Murchison and lion spotting at Queen Elizabeth people missed out really seeing the creatures because they were too far away.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/7QDiU4GY8y9pr1aEZOO8DA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-zWhrQGQlOBE/TlJpr6T3tbI/AAAAAAAAIRw/xouUaDXGJTE/s400/IMG_3231.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flamingos</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
We went to see the flamingos in a lake just outside the park. That's always beautiful but the most interesting part was the visit to the nearby saltpans of the Lake Katwe depression where temperatures can soar to 45 degrees C. Many hundreds of people make a living excavating massive rocks of sodium carbonate from the lake bed which they then drag back to shore from where they are later sent for transformation into a variety of products including salt. The money is good by Ugandan standards at $100 a week so the men are even prepared to sacrifice their manhood for the dosh! Despite wearing protective leggings against the burning astringency of the water, it still causes impotence when immersed in the water for the nine hours a day that they work. Even then they can work no more than three days a week or their health would suffer catastrophically. Who says that men only care about one thing!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jIZlLUPsP_G2PtqTBiJYjQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MqMWPByXBPs/Tl5XIGe4VqI/AAAAAAAAIWg/6UmLPlvQoFk/s400/IMG_3240.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sodium Carbonate rock pullers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Finally we relaxed at Lake Bunyonyi for a few days as you will have seen from last week's blog pictures. This is definitely to be recommended but just remember to bring lots of warm clothes.<br />
<br />
The wildlife top three for the trip were as follows: 1. Pitta 2. Shoebill 3. Leopard.<br />
<br />
And that'll have to do for Uganda folks.<br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-2279388556707289272011-09-01T09:42:00.000-07:002011-09-01T09:42:33.670-07:00Into Uganda - Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We were in Uganda during a period of social unrest. Museveni has been in power since early 1986 and won a fourth term in government in February after a fiercely contested election which the opposition say was fraudulent. Since then inflation has spun out of control with the prices of some basic commodities skyrocketing. Rice, sugar and petrol have all roughly doubled in price and the Ugandan shilling has collapsed in value against the US dollar. An exchange rate of $1 = 1500Ush two years ago has now become $1 = 2800Ush. East Africa is one part of the world where the US currency remains very strong. Some places we stayed had decided to stick with previously advertised shilling prices which hurt them relative to the current dollar exchange rate, whereas others had chalk boards scratching the shilling daily rate as it escalated upwards. Unlike Kenya or Tanzania where some payments, especially those into National Parks, must be made in US dollars, Uganda has always been proud of accepting its own currency for tourist transactions. Not any more. Some operators were openly talking of all future tours and accommodation only being in US dollars. And the moral of the story is that unless you book from overseas, when it's usually done in $US anyway, remember to bring lots of greenbacks on your travels to Africa. Applies to Rwanda too. I wish I'd brought a whole lot more instead of relying on money changers at dodgy rates and of dubious character. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Ct_r2Ad-wL1w09TCOd4_zQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Lt-pcdRSxzM/TlewGBYqG2I/AAAAAAAAITM/GGGaLfy-f2A/s400/IMG_3256.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Bunyonyi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As an aside, I nearly got rolled trying to get some street $$ in Kigali shortly before leaving for Uganda. It was a Sunday afternoon and all the official exchange places were shut when a nice, smiling fellow offered to help me out at a decent rate. Suddenly two other men appeared and blocked my way when the changer altered the agreed price. After trying to bamboozle me with zeros, the blight of all East African currencies - even pocket calculators get confused - I burst through their cordon with my cash like a front row rugby rucker. Out of the blue a well-dressed, fluent French speaker was at my shoulder. "I have just witnessed something terrible, monsieur. These are very bad men. Now can you reward me for helping you by sponsoring me in my studies for I am in reality but an orphan of limited means?" How much should I have given him: a) $2 or b) short shrift? I chose the latter but needed a Bex and two strong coffees back in the sanctuary of Café Bourbon. It has shattered my faith in Kigali's impeccable safety reputation!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/mQSFs-MKlxa4xlNL6MQFBw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ZAt0Ic45kEI/TlewMras-tI/AAAAAAAAITU/zuwFsK1cl6M/s320/IMG_3258.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Byoona Amagera island retreat. It means 'the whole life'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Back to Uganda and the upshot of the cost of living increases has been a series of Walk to Work marches, led by the opposition leader Dr Besigye, highlighting the strain Ugandan families are under. Museveni has called demonstrators terrorists and wants to fast track an anti-bail law which aims to deny 'suspected rapists, rioters and economic saboteurs' bail until they have served at least six months in prison. There seems no doubt that this authoritarian measure is directly aimed at stopping any kind of protest to his increasingly dictatorial rule.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/u9GPk9kJU3_O15K4m0QaTQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-vOPo7W8nz3U/TlewTCeUEUI/AAAAAAAAITc/cCoVVkO9h24/s320/IMG_3260.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luxury outside our geodome</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Ordinary Ugandans were very outspoken about Museveni's 25 years at the helm. "Corruption is everywhere" was heard again and again. Certainly his NRM (National Resistance Movement) party mantra of 'stability and security", as an offset to the unstable years of Obote and Amin, is wearing a bit thin. "Give someone else a go" was commonly heard. But in keeping with other African countries, retiring doesn't seem to be in the Strong Leader's Manual. In fact, the African Big Men Elders Club reads like a list from Geriatrics Anonymous. Nguema from Equatorial Guinea, dos Santos from Angola and Mugabe in Zimbabwe are all in their dotage after an average of 30 years each in power. Ben Ali in Tunisia, Mubarak in Egypt and now Gaddafi in Libya have all exited the club and a journalist in the Ugandan Daily Monitor thinks that Museveni may be positioning himself to become the new Executive Elder of this less than illustrious club. He was only number 9 in the longevity hit parade two years ago but soon he may be a chart topper! <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/rxPtCp48_jOl41iH_J5Hkw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mnaOHCio3c8/TlewcqnFi6I/AAAAAAAAITk/WDephaqcRQA/s320/IMG_3262.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Geodome from behind</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A series of mysterious street market fires broke out during our visit, at least two in Kampala, one in Jinja and another in the east of the country. Traders argued that they were started by mafia henchmen wanting their stalls removed to allow for the establishment of new development precincts. No one was caught for these crimes, or many similar previous ones, and it is testimony to the tenacity of the people that the next day, in all cases, they were back at their market locations rebuilding their flimsy stalls to start all over again despite losing billions of shillings worth of goods, without any kind of insurance cover.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uku5vsCFajieP89Qh8Nvzg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-JY-1YSgv4wo/TlewPHNOnUI/AAAAAAAAITY/CVdh0oogQWA/s320/IMG_3259.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our veranda across Lake Bunyonyi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's a tough life by any measure in Uganda and it was natural to compare it with Rwanda. Judged by the number of motor vehicles Uganda is way ahead in the development stakes. From the stare factor perspective it also wins hands down. By that I mean there is a lot less of it! Ugandans are definitely more used to seeing white people around. When it comes to shoes, Rwanda wins. There is a law forbidding bare feet in the streets whereas nearly all Ugandan children in rural areas are shoeless. On the litter front, it's another win for Rwanda. Even Ugandans who had never been to Rwanda had heard how clean it was. This is certainly both a triumph for the banning of plastic bags and for the endless street and courtyard sweeping that goes on. On prices, however, Uganda is the victor. Despite the escalating cost of living, food, drink, accommodation and transport are still cheaper than in Rwanda. There aren't many places in the world where you can get a large bottle of beer in a fancy hotel for just over a dollar. In fact this was one of the arguments used by Museveni supporters in criticising the Walk to Work demonstrators - that things are a lot less expensive in Uganda than in Rwanda and you don't see people protesting there. On the friendliness barometer I'd like to call it an honourable draw. People are pretty welcoming in both countries. But I think the Ugandan kids may win with their chorused chanting of 'HOW...ARE...YOU' as you pass grinning gaggles of them by the roadside.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you don't want to use the crowded minibus taxis (as in Kenya sometimes called matatus) to get around you can take motor scooters known as boda boda. Unlike safety conscious Rwanda, however, helmets are not compulsory, nor is one provided for the passenger. The word boda boda has a very interesting etymology. It turns out that in the early days of motorised transport between Kenya and Uganda, crossings between the two countries were known as going 'border to border' and one of the means of transport became a modified new word.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DZimfNcFlc67ycX5QXjJxg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-qCPTG77sSeg/Tlewi9Q-DCI/AAAAAAAAITo/RhaYRGHTSGU/s200/IMG_3263.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the geodome</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-39055483681270239742011-08-27T07:33:00.000-07:002011-08-27T07:33:01.481-07:00Into Uganda - Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Kampala is a traffic nightmare but, in one of those development paradoxes, mainstream economists often argue that this is good thing as it demonstrates the spending power of a growing middle class. It certainly makes Kigali, despite its surge in 4x4s, look like toy town in comparison. There are 33 regional languages in Uganda with English as the official one and the medium of instruction in schools and universities. It was odd being in a country again where you don't have to make any effort to speak a local language although many of the Bantu-related ones in the south bear a striking resemblance to Kinyarwanda. There is also a large number of Rwandan émigrés who have settled there as farmers following the many conflicts across the border. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/UgandaPart2?feat=embedwebsite#5645173427672296530" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W7jbjuHDqes/TlevUrPhrFI/AAAAAAAAISY/iLIAgfmy6m0/s400/IMG_2949.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kampala</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Prior to the arrival of the British, Uganda was a series of autonomous kingdoms and during the colonial divide and rule period it was convenient to allow each kingdom a degree of authority. After independence this arrangement collapsed and although the kings of Buganda (known as the Kabaka), Bunyoro, Toro etc still exist, they are ceremonial positions. They get to have a nice big house and carry out cultural maintenance duties for their government stipend. In Masindi in the north west near Murchison NP, the beautifully restored Masindi Hotel is the hang out of the Bunyoro king who comes into the Ernest Hemingway bar most nights for a Nile Special. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/QBMDjSIUpiBLBpRNbVKvJg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KdjQQgvlrDQ/TlevYLWHrrI/AAAAAAAAISc/1y7N4w6inz0/s400/IMG_2969.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goat and chicken brochette sellers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unfortunately, the night we were there was his evening at home with the missus so I got to join a group of fanatical Manchester United supporters instead watching the team come back from the dead to beat Manchester City in the Charity Shield season opener. The love affair with English football in Africa continues to grow apace. The Ernest Hemingway story is an interesting one as the famous writer, adventurer, womaniser and heavy drinker, not only propped up the Masindi bar in the early '50s, but suffered a horrific plane crash in Murchison sustaining the injuries and lasting pain that some say led to his eventual suicide in 1961.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wyLv6_SAS5kDvV2hAqgyLw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-McmYnpwK3PY/TlewCSnGTfI/AAAAAAAAITI/WDLvxZGVKuw/s400/IMG_3180.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Eduardo and Simone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was rare to meet someone travelling in Uganda who was purely on holiday. Nearly everyone seemed to be there, at least in part, on some form of goodwill or volunteer tourism. Nick, an English/Aussie, was trying to set up a viable fair trade coffee enterprise in East Africa; Maria from Madrid wanted to help orphans in Gulu in Northern Uganda brutalised by Joseph Kone and his egregious Lord's Resistance Army; hilarious Jeff, who ran a bicycle shop in New Orleans, was visiting to help kick start a bike rental business in Jinja; two young Brazilians, Eduardo and Simone, wanted to get involved in refugee issues but hadn't been accepted into the Somali camps in NE Kenya so were looking for someone worthwhile to do in Uganda; an Indian optometrist who had been kicked out by Idi Amin in 1972 and now lived in Canada, had come back to work with a group of expert volunteers on eye and ear related problems in remote eastern Uganda. In two weeks 10,000 people had been treated.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/HmCWFiDJLBlsUCwKAzCKHQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="147" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-kVP2xWJlSVs/Tlevfemx-VI/AAAAAAAAISk/lLSjwGzRGXg/s400/IMG_3129.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Village bandas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It wasn't all one way. A group of Dutch social entrepreneurs were visiting to learn from Ugandan small-scale traders on how to bring the human dimension back into the Dutch work environment. One of them, Jasper, was the most incredibly precocious 21 year old I have ever met. He was tutored privately from the age of three by his rich parents, started his own business at 12 and currently earns $1000 a day doing training workshops for large corporations in Holland. Wow! Imagine having the confidence to lay it on to a bunch of middle-aged suits at that tender age. And better still the suits seem to want it! I think I was just working out my arse from my elbow at 21. I would love to be the proverbial fly at one of his sessions as, despite my sociological background, a deep fog descends on my brain when someone starts rattling on about the intrinsic, value adding, capacity building merits of constructing social capital. One thing is sure; I bet the Ugandan traders they were learning from didn't use PowerPoint. And yet, Jasper wasn't achieving enough according to his super demanding dad, especially compared to his sister, who at 19 was only two years short of graduating as a doctor. They had become estranged and Jasper was soon going off to the US to study for a year at an Ivy League university financed by his own acumen. Initially, I thought of my early 20s - a lot of which seems, with hindsight, to have been spent sitting around listening to Dark Side of the Moon, Tubular Bells and the like trying to work out the meaning of it all - and felt envious of his rapid maturity. This is what happens when the mortality clock imposes a new appreciation of the preciousness of time. But, hey, gradual learning has its upside and at least I'm still on good terms with my two sons!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/5sqnVeobWZ7R9aF2FbNOsw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-X9I4zTiHr4c/TlevoI-dl3I/AAAAAAAAISs/e7WhQtJdcFg/s400/IMG_3140.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crater lake pic on the 20,000 shilling note</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At one of the many beautiful crater lakes near Fort Portal in the west we came across an interesting volunteer programme where two Canadian women were helping plant native vegetation on the lake hillsides as well as set up a local library in the nearby village. A group of Spanish girls, each one more gorgeous than the other, were lounging around the lakeside reading fat novels. They had come for two weeks to teach (heavily accented) English to small children in an orphanage. We took a trip through the community protected forest with its plentiful Red Colobus and Black and white Colobus Monkeys, and bevies of Great blue Turaco until we reached the impoverished village where the library was located in a small roadside shack. Raggedy, barefoot children appeared out of the mud to stare at the pictures of snow-capped peaks and ancient temples in well-thumbed National Geographic magazines. The library door has to be kept locked otherwise the contents would all disappear and the Canadians, who were leaving the next day after a two month stint, said that a small amount of funding had been found to pay someone to supervise the library for an hour or so daily.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kmXoyqcQSJiFigIyKrq4Zg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HxOo2aLcntg/TlevzQQe6vI/AAAAAAAAIS4/sNEDpcdPWLM/s400/IMG_3145.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rave up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Their imminent departure meant that we had arrived on the noisiest night ever experienced in crater lake country as a massive sound system was brought in from Fort Portal at the Canadians' expense and a goat slaughtered to celebrate the occasion. There was nowt else to do but join in and I danced non-stop for a couple of hours protocol dictating that I should hold hands with the African men and not the Spanish girls. That would have been too weird. And, by the way, I can assure you that not all African men have rhythm. I eventually went back to our Banda and crawled in under the mosquito net to join Stella who had retreated much earlier and was gamely attempting, by torchlight and with earplugs, to catch up on six-week-old world events in the Guardian Weekly. We didn't have mallets to knock each other out so went for more modern emergency sleeping pills which successfully blotted out not only the disco but also the torrential rain that fell during the night. Hooray for drugs - legitimate ones of course.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/R_7ml1T96xdHQnRKBPcC6Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="168" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-EAGujLXx1Io/TlevwBrMyfI/AAAAAAAAIS0/46bLPo6emy8/s400/IMG_3142.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The village library</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-44131153933722816142011-08-22T10:16:00.000-07:002011-08-22T10:16:12.014-07:00Into Uganda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We arrived at Jinja, east of the horrifically traffic congested Kampala, some days into the trip. This is still promoted as the source of the Nile where the great river comes out of Lake Victoria heading north and there is a John Hanning Speke statue in recognition of the hairy-faced Englishman's triumph after his many years of searching. Pity he got it wrong because everyone now knows the new, true source of the Nile is in Nyungwe forest in Rwanda, right? I've even got the picture to prove it! After all, water has to flow into Lake Victoria from somewhere. (Just ignore those upstart Burundians who are claiming a yet more distant source with the publicity and dollars it can bring. I suspect this soggy little saga has quite a ways to run yet) <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/JBFey4aWudAHJXVY4qfNKg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="189" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-eOwuOdRCxt0/TlJk7Vjtz6I/AAAAAAAAIP4/xz1pLD5JPZo/s320/IMG_3006.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roofless colonial period house in Jinja which is still lived in</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anyway, the rundown hotel where we were staying had an Internet service which, despite East African computer virus paranoia, I felt compelled to use. I asked the delightful, young receptionist (turns out she was 20) how to start the machine up and a little dinosaur icon waddled across the opening screen. Ha, ha, that's cute I said to make conversation. What followed went something like this:<br />
"What is it?"<br />
"It's a dinosaur."<br />
"Can you find it in the forest?"<br />
"No, they're extinct, they all died out a long time ago."<br />
"Before I was born."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Before my mother was born."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"<i>Even</i> before you were born."<br />
<br />
Okay, so will you now kindly stop knocking the education system in your neck of the woods? (Except, that is, for any US Bible Belt readers - please carry on complaining) And, by the way, I wasn't offended but quite pleased to imagine that I might have been around when pterodactyls still patrolled the skies. It obviously explains my interest in ornithology.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/mURzkyzuJ1Kq12usI7tHAA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="196" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9_9PZiGTVGA/TlJlVvGmMlI/AAAAAAAAIQE/IWMncDA5XYs/s400/IMG_2918.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The extraordinary Shoebill at Mabamba Swamp on the shores of Lake Victoria</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lake Victoria is immense and looks for all the world like an inland ocean. It still hasn't stopped it from being overexploited. Overseas demand for fresh water fish has grown phenomenally since the 1990s and a lot of people have taken up fishing especially in response to increased prices. Tilapia and Nile perch stocks, the two favourite species, have plummeted. More fishermen seeking fewer fish has led to conflict with hippos and at least six fishermen have died in the lake since the beginning of the year. Here's how it works. Where the hippos are, fish thrive on their dung so the fishermen take ever more risks in trying to cast their nets where the herbivorous but highly territorial hippos may charge and overturn the fishing boats, scrunching anything in their way. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/jOXt8yx3S5FHn58qkkAzpA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-VlGvwt9G5Aw/TlJl_Z-19rI/AAAAAAAAIQU/RwyjG_x8YAw/s400/IMG_3100.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the troublemakers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In an act of self preservation but employment short sightedness, many fishermen would like the Uganda Wildlife Authority to cull the hippos which would, of course, reduce the dung and thus the fish numbers. This situation is not likely to get better any time soon. Like many countries in Africa, Uganda is experiencing a huge population explosion. The current birth rate is 5.9 children per married woman, the third highest in the world after Yemen and Niger. The current population is 34 million and is expected to reach over 130 million by 2050 at the present growth rate. Human -wildlife conflicts are only likely to worsen as land and resource pressures increase.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/XDQ-Ohqfq3n4BWaYHCO-tg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-eQJkk7wF2uA/TlJnvAad8aI/AAAAAAAAIRE/z6bN6Di8hyo/s320/IMG_3057.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A big hippo pod on Lake Edward</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Later in the trip at Queen Elizabeth National Park I asked the guide how many people had been killed by dangerous critters during his seven years doing the job. The score card reads: lions = 3; buffaloes = 2; elephants = 1; AND hippos a whopping 30 due to their close proximity to people not just on water but at night on land when they often pass very close to fishing villages on their grazing routes. In QENP there are 11 villages with a combined 15,000 population exploiting Lake Edward in a supposedly sustainable way and we were told that many people have to stay indoors during the evening rush hour when hippos pass between some of the closely built houses. Richard, our tour organiser in Fort Portal in the west of the country, had a narrow escape once when hippos capsized a boat he was in and four of his six-person party did not resurface. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/FS57db0FawWOnUfZw2KJPA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="204" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Yc6sD_AD-Xs/TlJvzGXxZRI/AAAAAAAAIR8/g4XRxOxq148/s320/IMG_3268.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ugandan press attack the President's desire to give away part of a precious rainforest for sugar cane</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unlike Rwanda, some of the Ugandan newspapers are worth reading. Even the raunchy Red Pepper adds a bit of spice to daily reading life. My favourite was the Daily Monitor which is allowed - surprisingly given the authoritarian nature of the regime - to get stuck into President Museveni's government and its rampant corruption. The big story during much of our stay was the president's renewed desire to give away over 7000 hectares of the magnificent Mabira Forest near Jinja, which we birded, to an Indian sugar baron, Mr Mehta. Everyone thought that the matter had been laid to rest because the last time the proposal came up in 2007 there were riots in Kampala and three people were killed. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/9v7_6ywQ-qwSyBEmJdamfg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="273" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-4-bIuNAutEw/TlJwnyS6BZI/AAAAAAAAISE/J9rN5vBBuBA/s320/IMG_3270.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The strength of the public's response to the give away</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The attacks against Museveni for this potential folly have been coming from all quarters including his own party. The unanimity of opinion against the move is refreshing and speaks of a strong and growing environmental movement in the country. Every article and letter on the subject, while we were there, was anti the proposal and the worry is that the actions of the Mehta group in continuing to pursue the carve up one of Uganda's last remaining tropical expanses could inflame anti-Indian feeling similar to what erupted in the early 1970s under Idi Amin. It is only in recent years that Indians have started returning to the country after the 1972 expulsions but there are growlings, not just about the Mabira move but the domination by Indians of the tea plantations which frequently employ Ugandan children under the legal age of 18 thus discouraging them from completing their schooling. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1SWzCMvncJHSSmsDwOXikw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="212" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Bd73T9bYNkw/TlJmTzyK6JI/AAAAAAAAIQY/I9KD3chNMO0/s320/IMG_3042.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The exquisite Northern Carmine Bee-eater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Someone jokingly wrote in the Monitor that there must be oil under Mabira because it's not as if there isn't alternative land where sugar could be grown. The escalating sugar price, as a result of shortages, is ostensibly the principal reason driving Museveni to reopen the issue of gifting the precious forest land - that and a healthy donation from the mega-rich Mr Mehta, no doubt, to the depleted government coffers and its big wigs following the vast outlays necessary to secure victory in the recent pork barrel election. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Uganda?feat=embedwebsite#5643688431643425698" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="244" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ti3wFAZ4Wss/TlJouh8We6I/AAAAAAAAIRc/thgdz-_j_JA/s400/IMG_3125.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black and white Colobus Monkey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Speaking of oil it has recently been discovered in big quantities in the Nile Delta flowing into Lake Albert in the north west of the country and already there are fights over entitlements and how the wealth will be divvied up with a controversial proposal by a foreign Think Tank that the revenues be given to each individual Ugandan as a Mobile Money bonus instead of the usual siphoning of the profits by the fat cats. This is easily done in a society where virtually everyone has a mobile phone but I won't hold my breath. Where oil is found, especially in Africa, trouble invariably follows. Just ask those living in the Niger Delta.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Uganda?feat=embedwebsite#5643687962432995618" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-DopbQXjtQII/TlJoTN_3gSI/AAAAAAAAIRU/_97xJ6c1lnE/s400/IMG_3102.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Murchison Falls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The oil exploration area is just west of Murchison NP and it will be very interesting to see how this issue plays out. Oil is big bikkies of course and everyone accepts that it will proceed and indeed seems to believe that it will be extracted in an environmentally friendly way! Ugandans are immensely proud of their national parks and wildlife reserves and there is generally little sympathy for small scale 'encroachers' who nibble away at the edges for firewood and cattle grazing. The indigenous pygmy Batwa were even thrown out of their traditional hunting areas in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest in the south west of the country rather than compromise gorilla tourism and its almighty dollar.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/nYFl34Y-gAj0Qu0S72O39w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="172" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-K6tYwPDIeyk/TlJlFpBFLWI/AAAAAAAAIQA/DPKaKB-vb5k/s400/IMG_2810.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone recognise this fellow?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tour guiding is a growth industry and we came across over 20 trainee bird guides at a swamp outside Fort Portal. (That is a massive number in a tourism sector that is still very small). Half of them were women and I asked one, who was invited to come along on the walk with us, what her future plans were. "I am a lady so would like to be a businesswoman selling ladies' products," she said. "That, and to know all the birds". That is some combo! I have this vision of her on a tour identifying bird calls in between flogging Amway. Yes that's a Black-headed Gonolek, now would you like some hair straightening cream?<br />
<br />
More in next episode.<br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-36107820730302483642011-07-30T02:12:00.000-07:002011-07-30T02:12:43.355-07:00A Rural Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Our night guard, Justin, promised to invite us to his house some months ago. He wanted it to be during the dry season which is unsurprisingly also a good time for weddings so we got to kill two birds with one stone when he handed us a delightful little invitation to the wedding of his cousin in Kirehe district south of Ngoma on the way to Tanzania. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GeGISNOXhX0lDeiLpF1GhA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="128" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O5xebA0o-xs/TjO8GvllWzI/AAAAAAAAINo/axb9wI_I0wY/s400/IMG_2763.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The invitation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Theo, our friend and Kinyarwanda teacher, was also invited and we set off by minibus in the morning. It's always nice to have Theo along, not just because he's a lovely guy, but because it takes the stress out of travel when you have a 'tour' guide who knows the ropes. We were to stop at the 114 kilometre stone from Kigali where Justin duly met us and took us to his house beside the busy road. Although it was before 11 o'clock his wife, Emmeline, regaled us with a big, tasty feed. Everyone got a coca cola too. Stella and I got to cuddle their new baby Philippe. Apparently the child doesn't like being handled by others but the muzungu magic seemed to work wonders and he slept, wheezed or smiled in our arms.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/O8IfNPQg0oG_Vd_hk1ULmQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-XTqvVwppP88/TjL0WWWAtEI/AAAAAAAAIIU/9JeKxW7gadA/s400/IMG_2625.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theo and Justin with Philippe and Delphine, Justin's daughter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We all then walked along the road and up a slight incline to the bride's family home where the first part of the day's festivities was to take place. An awning had been put up over the front yard as shelter from the sun and a huge crowd of people was gathered on either side. With Justin leading, we squeezed our way through. There was a buzz as the guests all gazed expectantly in our direction. I said 'amakuru?' (how are you?) and in unison everyone chanted back 'ni meza' (well/fine) the force of which gave me a backbone tingle. We were led to comfy seats of honour facing the house which we automatically tried to refuse out of embarrassment, but only half-heartedly. This was clearly where we were meant to be and it was almost as if everyone had been waiting for us to arrive before the show could begin. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/FX3eF0BJOoQRf_Gp5o1u4w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="215" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ERO7wpZyEVA/TjL1HPXGMoI/AAAAAAAAIIs/vRnh-LPXJQE/s400/IMG_2632.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene from the house window </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Once seated, we waved to the crowd and I shook the hands of those close by. An old guy to my left was clearly enjoying himself supping from a straw out of a gourd - sorghum beer said Theo, the moot point being whether it was alcoholic which the church would frown upon being drunk in public. He proceeded to fill the gourds of his companions with the murky liquid out of a jerrycan which had seen better days. It was great to have so many old people present as you don't see too many out and about. We were each given another coke something we seldom drink (unless it has a splash of rum!). I was thinking of the 16 spoons of sugar in my system from the two bottles but it would have been rude to refuse. I'll have to dry out when I get back to Australia! I don't think diabetes is a problem in rural Rwanda because they don't eat enough junk food, and sugary drinks tend to be for special occasions only as they are too expensive for day-to-day consumption.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/OFZfj8Vn8U3cQVS9p5YC0A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-7kXAff90SvU/TjL1gQ3sw1I/AAAAAAAAII4/q0iObbMSUjw/s400/IMG_2643.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bride appears</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/v38f1sJ5B9Xo60JmNzcpBA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-P43rtuL65HM/TjL18SS0VHI/AAAAAAAAIJE/ZJMgBi7Pmw4/s400/IMG_2647.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A wedding 'spokesperson' shakes hands</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Suddenly there was a commotion at the front door and the bride and groom appeared together. Although this was prior to the official church ceremony it was important for the bride's family, friends and neighbours to see them both in marriage gear as many wouldn't be able to go to the church service and the following visit to the groom's village where they would make their home. The couple met through singing in the church choir but they live about half an hour apart by road, a not inconsiderable distance in a society where the vast majority of people have no private means of transport. They moved around the limited space being presented to family members, the bride looking as miserable as possible at the knowledge of leaving her home.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GjvkEZUaJQczeMwHBzFUWA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="288" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-R7sVo8HDyGE/TjL10Gs-rMI/AAAAAAAAIJA/87sG4bwdh9s/s400/IMG_2645.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justin's mother</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Y4EzHVfhXom6vNaYU29Xbw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ge37q2zvYFc/TjL2aZ3G04I/AAAAAAAAIJQ/IB8DY2iugE4/s400/IMG_2654.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The booty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Eventually they departed, off to the church well ahead of the 2 o'clock service. This was the signal for their household goods to be carried out of the house and piled up in the yard in readiness for transportation to the couple's new home. Rwanda is a brideprice society, although most refer to it as a dowry, where the groom with the help of his family contribute a minimum $250 cow or its equivalent value to the marriage union. However, Theo was impressed at the value of the goods being brought out by the bride's family. Apart from furniture, a paraffin lamp, storage containers and a mattress, there was a bicycle and churns for the yoghurt. 'You know an able woman when she is churning' says a Rwandan cow-related proverb just as 'you know an able man when he is milking'. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/IT2GqOMiPtxT4rof77O4cA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wDhyn9D9iEU/TjL4mwN16XI/AAAAAAAAIJw/VE62Cw6jytU/s400/IMG_2665.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stella in wedding garb with goods waiting for minibus to the church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>All the goods were brought down to the roadside and we hung about waiting for our minibus to the church. We got there with the service in full flow and I was immediately called into action as the official photographer hadn't turned up. A few others were snapping still using old instamatic film cameras. In many ways it was a typical Christian marriage ceremony except for the registry signing being done in full view (and no dad giving away the bride). There was no vestry in the rudimentary church building in any case. The choir was a funky African one of course and the instrumental support came from an electronic piano powered from a car battery.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Tz6MsYNx5Z67pAOtZNjsDA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-L7UX3w8I3CY/TjL6BS_O68I/AAAAAAAAIKI/B9-yzhtYc_w/s400/IMG_2680.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The blessing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After the service we waited for our Chelsea supporting minibus driver with his dangerous, broken passenger door (it kept swinging open) to take us to the concluding part of the ceremony in the groom's village. There a house had been specially built for the young couple at the top of the escarpment overlooking the rice paddies in the valley below. It was quite a drive off the main road. When the imodoka (motor car!) minibus could go no further we started walking with half the gathering crowd paying attention to the young couple and the other half (especially the children of course) to us. There were welcoming committees along the way as villagers came out to sing and applaud the bridal couple. Periodically, they would stop to allow their person-in-waiting to dab at face sweat droplets which might spoil the perfection of their appearance and thus the day.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_gJTDBFZqR7UHYZ_8eSaQA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-QSv7pn5niJQ/TjMAOdz1jJI/AAAAAAAAILw/x8CKF6TkKOQ/s400/IMG_2729.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Face dabber at work. Groom's dabber with tissue at the ready</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We went on ahead and took our seats next to a new expectant crowd. They were also mostly locals. With only two minibus loads having made the journey here we were indeed privileged. As the couple and their entourage continued to wait in the shade of a tree we asked what the hold up was. Apparently it was bad form for the couple to arrive before their household goods. It must have been stifling in the wedding gear as the day was hotter than usual. Eventually the stuff arrived and was brought directly into the house. I was free to go in and roam around. 'That's not where I wanted the chest of drawers put!' I could imagine the discussions afterwards. 'Thank goodness that day is over. Now to put our feet up and have a nice cup of tea!'<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Zd0b17VlHgLR3n1OU-Kung?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-KiRMvDusvFk/TjMBLMSAjZI/AAAAAAAAIMU/eXWEiHTXOLg/s400/IMG_2740.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The newly built house for the young couple</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0woI_JieIEPf8bRtaxgT7w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-gK3kE5oQL4Q/TjMBe8JieHI/AAAAAAAAIMg/aPkf_dw9Me4/s400/IMG_2745.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The woman carrying the suitcase didn't even duck. There must have been a dress rehearsal!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But there was more! The couple had to go and sit down under the hot awning for an interminable period while the two families formally exchanged airmail envelopes, apparently containing best wishes and (maybe) money. No <i>brown</i> envelopes please! Then the speeches began. There's not much banter among guests at Rwandan gatherings but they are given to much solemn speechifying. I had been half expecting to speak at the bride's house and was mentally prepared but, by this time, I had switched off and was thinking of the Primus beer that Justin had promised back at his house. Suddenly I was told that it was my turn to 'guha ijambo' (lit. to give a word). For some reason the first word that came out of my mouth was 'amafaranga' (money). I was like Pavlov's dog. The key street word had obviously permeated my brain. I recovered, no one seemed to notice the faux pas - maybe they were just being kind or, since abazungu are made of amafaranga, they thought it would simply pour out of me there and then. Anyway, I made one of my poorer speeches in Kinyarwanda since I felt confident enough to stand up and talk in the language.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/tAQBVQV5z93GKngV9Lnf5w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-gV_ICuovrMU/TjMATP5ahXI/AAAAAAAAIL0/-s6EmhBVjPY/s400/IMG_2730.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The million dollar view from the house (to the left)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>During one of the other speeches, I kept hearing abazungu (white people) again and again and asked Theo for the context. It seems to have another meaning which is 'to be exact in what you do', supposedly one of our traits. The literal translation of part of the speech came back as follows: if you work like a white person (gukora nk'abazungu) you will ascend to heaven where the original abazungu sat at God's right hand making all people equal. How it got from the right hand to equality I don't know but we sure have a lot to live up to. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/HHcGci8ki5WJgdeXkOF72g?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-cCKYNJD70JM/TjMCq4ViEzI/AAAAAAAAINA/bq5XZ990gPA/s400/IMG_2753.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Under the awning at the groom's village and their new home. Bride's mother sitting to the right with tiara. The bride also had a crown but with flashing tiara!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The speeches finally over, there were some dances, a piece of poetry reading by a young boy that brought the house down, some food - which had been cooked in the backyard of the newly weds - including an important drink and food sharing moment between the couple, and the coup de grace - the receiving of presents from guests. These included our own contribution, on Theo's recommendation, of popular batik-style cotton. The bride continued to look glum the whole time the presents were given although Stella says she was smiling during my speech. Nice to know that those well crafted jokes cut through!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/onDLz12OihfEM7cTaLitUw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-idPKdQ493jo/TjMC1vj3QbI/AAAAAAAAINI/e1pG9OforN0/s400/IMG_2755.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sip from the hand of the groom that signifies so much</td></tr>
</tbody></table>By this time it was getting quite late and we went, along with half the crowd, for a final sticky beak inside the couple's house. I glanced into the bedroom and saw the pair's individual minders dabbing at their faces as they sat on the bed. Then we had to hang around waiting for the Chelsea supporter to come back with his barely functioning minibus and take us to Justin's house for the promised Primus to finish off the day. We did get back eventually and drank beer in the candle light of Justin's front room where we analysed the events of the day and forged new bonds in Rwandan/Australian relations. We had of course left it too late to catch the last bus home and ended up hitching our first ever lift in the country on a truck going only part way back to Kibungo. At the point where the truck turned off we managed to find three motos to take us home for a suitably inflated evening price. The beautiful, star-lit sky, infusion of beer, cool evening breeze, exhilaration of speed and the knowledge that we were going to be able to get home after all, combined to imbue with a feeling of utter contentment after such a wonderful experience. We both agreed that it was probably the best day we have yet spent in Rwanda.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-12288302085073236262011-07-24T08:40:00.000-07:002011-07-25T06:37:23.036-07:00A rave affair - the Kibungo Expo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last week Jen, a VSO methodology teacher from a nearby TTC (teacher training college), and I were asked to have an educational stand at the District of Ngoma Expo. Nearly $100 was required for the privilege - more than three months average household expenditure in these parts. Jen brought a load of English teaching goodies from her village and we turned up in the local field at the appointed time to dress our stand with as much panache and bunting as we could muster. Well, the crowds had never seen anything like it and, if there had been an award for best-attended stall, we would have won it hands down. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Apparently we got big coverage on Rwandan national television.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/X6prc5WzgirFcHIBwX8E6Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ZjqtVce8KqE/TivBEneQIZI/AAAAAAAAIEU/oNsdwp28N48/s320/IMG_2479.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before the crowds, Jen and Theo prepare the displays. The pic looks into biogas space in shared tent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Most came to look on in amazement, as one might at recently discovered species from a remote valley in a far off land. Others, more worldly, wanted to glance at some of the reading materials or play the simple board games we had laid out. No one seemed to have heard of 'Snakes and Ladders' or other dice throwing games which can also be used to teach numbers or shapes. Teenagers played them endlessly with great relish never tiring of a simplicity that would have had most much younger western children bored within a few minutes. Students from a nearby secondary school asked questions about Snakes and Ladders like: 'what is the probability of winning?' or, 'what is the purpose of this game?' I had explained that it was used to give children confidence with 1 to 100 numbers in English but one particular student wanted more until I eventually said 'enjoyment'. 'That is not an objective' she said and walked off. Rwandans can be a very literal and serious people.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Expo?feat=embedwebsite#5632808605983821282" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-7go6yFC6R84/TivBlU9tzeI/AAAAAAAAIEg/T-VdTrC-ois/s320/IMG_2487.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowds around the table</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The District Education Officer was bitterly disappointed that Jen had not brought a dog-eared imitation cockerel and fake fish that he had seen in her resource room when touring the district with the Education Minister. He was on the blower in a trice demanding that the fish and cock be put on a bus in a special box and transported directly to the Expo! He must have been on to something because they became the star attractions of the stall. People would wander in and immediately pick them up in utter astonishment. Several wanted their pictures taken with Keza (the Beautiful) and the Fish (we had a 'Name the Cock' competition - sorry Fish).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/vX9kxVneA2m-n5zlTc2nKA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-8SLQ0e08f1s/TivCF4U7-DI/AAAAAAAAIEs/B6Cw1V26WoA/s320/IMG_2544.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish and Keza the Cock with fan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Some of our star quality rubbed off on the adjacent stall promoting biogas which their sniffy presenter had wanted sectioned off in a swirl of fabric. I urged open tent space with its symbiotic feedback loops and complementary synergies! Actually, they got <i>all</i> of the benefit from our crowd spillover with exhausted fish, cock, snake and ladder aficionados suddenly learning of the multiple benefits of using cow dung as a source of household cooking gas, light and fertiliser. Here I have to fess up to ignorance at the time of writing last week's post. I was wrongly informed that all cow dung for use as biogas had to be taken to Kigali and was unaware of the nascent small-scale biogas market. Gee, it's interesting. Here's how it works. In the schematic representation shown in the picture, slurry (cow dung and water) is fed through the spout on the left into the container (digester). The spout is closed off and the slurry ferments for around one month initially before producing methane through a small hole at the top of the digester which is connected to a pipe into the house. Fertiliser is automatically expelled into the tray on the right. Once functioning, the fermentation process is continuous with roughly four hours of energy time available for each digester load of slurry. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GKMCfrgOSL8VbpgnEnqSuA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1kiI1iVWLAY/TivDL3HcY9I/AAAAAAAAIFE/guEF59LUYew/s320/IMG_2520.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Expo representation of biogas digester with methane lamp on right</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That's the good news. The bad news is the purchase and installation cost of about $1300 equivalent, which is a monumental sum for most farmers. $500 of that is a subsidy and the remainder is paid off over a three-year period in monthly instalments of roughly $20. Bear in mind that the average income/expenditure for most farmers is around $30 a month and you can see that during the pay back period they have to survive on about $10 a month. I asked one of the stand presenters about this and his argument was that the benefits of using the gas would offset the disadvantages, but collection of firewood as cooking fuel and absence of lighting are not current financial costs and the benefits of the fertiliser are a longer term gain. He admitted that promoting the biogas units to poorer farmers, with no surplus income and thus minimal opportunity to save, was a tough sell. Nonetheless, he said that the take up in Ngoma district was better than other parts of the country although he was vague on the actual figures. Here's hoping the costs come down, or the subsidy goes up, because it sounds like a top class idea.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/oPrfr18PeHHWyvMVogchdw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Co8rVQT3peE/TivDbNkPLMI/AAAAAAAAIFI/vsJ2iN2bh-M/s320/IMG_2564.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing of what the digester looks like next to a house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Expo was a two day affair and we left the materials in the tent overnight knowing there was more than a modicum of security; the area was being patrolled by guards with rifles, others with heavy batons and yet more holding the thin, long sticks beloved of Rwandan school teachers and used for threatening recalcitrants with a good skelp across the legs! Confident that Fish, Keza the Cock, and the board games and posters were safe, we headed up to the beer tent where an alcohol-fuelled jollity was gaining steam. We were offered a muzungu, rules-exempt, separate table outside the roped off drinking area but declined. Being accorded special treatment happens occasionally and it can be tempting to accept. For example, last weekend on our way to Rusomo Falls two men, who were sitting in the front of the minibus, were asked by the conductor to move to the back and give the seats to us. We were bundled in quickly but didn't say no. Oh dear, does that sound bad? We had actually said that we preferred to wait for the next bus than be crammed in at the back. Anyway, I think I'll get over it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1g1JkRs17osPne5gSAZ8iQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="208" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qo3CC-VwAOM/TivFmfrmapI/AAAAAAAAIGA/9h8YSM9CNwc/s320/IMG_2545.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some traditional ladies in the crowd</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Relaxing in the perfect late afternoon temperature, chilled Mutzig beer in hand, mellow from post-stall fatigue, bantering with the friendly crowd and shaking hands with all my new friends who came up to say hullo, there was nowhere else on earth I would rather have been. It could have been Womadelaide or Woodford minus the blazing sun or drenching rain. Music drifted up from an imaginary stage somewhere to the left and couples frolicked to my right. Their behaviour - a girl sitting on a guy's lap - and appearance - some eccentrically dressed cool dudes - did not belong in the day-to-day Kibungo that I know. Maybe the magic of the Expo had loosened Rwanda's gender rules and also brought some odd clothes items out of the back room jumble box. Our friend Theo thought that some of the girls were 'probably prostitutes' but I maintain they were just a bunch of young people at a festival letting it all hang out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wYS9jXsb6fZHRaR8-kuwKw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-GdUQWXE2FHc/TivE3h3gHrI/AAAAAAAAIFs/7zGuYBF26uA/s320/IMG_2507.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Expo dancers</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-67273308623510073792011-07-20T02:51:00.000-07:002011-07-20T03:04:20.541-07:00Milk, manure and mannersNgoma district, where I work in SE Rwanda, is divided into 14 sectors and it is one of my jobs to try to organise head teacher training in all of them. School planning, teaching/learning objectives and assessment/evaluation procedures are just some of the areas needing attention. It is a tough job to set up these meetings as few of the head teachers have email and the majority don't seem to be confident in replying to my painstakingly long text messages in French and English. Talking on the phone can be frustrating too as there are over 70 head teachers in the district and they may not know who I am. Trying to explain the purpose of the training sessions over a fuzzy line in different languages can be challenging to say the least. I can also wait for them to come into the office, which they do from time to time, but it is a pretty random way to organise things especially if I don't know what they look like and they don't introduce themselves. Or, I can jump on a moto to pay them a visit. However, it is costly taking motos all the time. It is probably the biggest collective expense that VSO has, taking into account the, nearly, 50 volunteers currently in the country. <br />
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<tr><td><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/3aRrXFJgOfQRjcO7bY4a9Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2D64lrIjbGs/TiWJsNIdXhI/AAAAAAAAIDI/R5e2I9A7F5Y/s320/IMG_2341.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market with usual bricks in Rukira sector</td></tr>
</tbody></table></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Rukira?authuser=0&feat=embedwebsite"></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, it was great to hook up with a Canadian project which is currently operating in the district and hop on a bus they had booked to visit different offices in one of the more remote sectors. There I hoped to meet some teachers as well as the sector Chargé des Affaires Sociales who is supposed to assist the head teachers with school matters. I was also going to take part in a student study project inquiring how sector farmers had benefited by being given a cow as part of the government's girinka (one cow per family) programme. A long questionnaire was developed by the Canadian researcher and each student, who was with us on the bus, was to be allocated a farmer (known as a 'beneficiary') to ask a series of questions about how much milk the cow had produced, health issues it had had and, very importantly, how much manure it had produced and what it was being used for. There is a bio-diesel factory outside Kigali and I was told that part of the girinka project is to encourage farmers to sell the cow dung to the factory where the slurry is fed into a digester producing methane for the market. The problem, of course, is how a small-scale farmer gets the manure to Kigali and whether the quantity is enough to justify the transportation costs. Maybe, in time-honoured simplicity, it is better to put the dung on the soil to improve local land productivity without the need for artificial fertilisers. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Bhbmaly0t8t92WWUdahPGw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-W7ehQR3Jxag/TiWKH38QvdI/AAAAAAAAIDU/VYcTGVAVN10/s320/IMG_2344.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Student with farmer 'beneficiary' doing questionnaire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In a sense, this issue is part of the Rwandan dilemma defined through the land consolidation programme which seeks to concentrate production of certain commodities in geographically defined districts - bananas here in the east, maize in the valleys, manioc in the west, potatoes up north etc - for greater output which can then theoretically be exported for much needed revenue. This is a small subsistence economy with big market aspirations. The only problem is that already there is a surplus of potatoes, tomatoes and bananas with limited opportunities for use. Even with a convoy of lorries moving freight on the good, main road system it is unclear where the markets would be. There is also the problem of escalating fuel costs causing big hikes in transported basic foodstuffs and this has been the cause of major social disturbances in the Ugandan and Kenyan capitals. It is not a problem yet in this tightly controlled society although imported goods like sugar and rice both went up in price by 30% recently. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_FDtYDoR-fMs9EpYvRUSYg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-dIpldsgxRWU/TiWJ6gKlmkI/AAAAAAAAIDQ/4Is3cTqO_A4/s320/IMG_2343.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Students interviewing farmers in front of 'cell' office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The government's long-term desire is to add value to the primary produce by creating a manufacturing industry in different parts of the country. It's all part of the plan to make Rwanda a middle-income nation by 2020. Are there any investors reading this who'd like to build a tinned tomato plant in Kibungo? Didn't think so. I heard on the BBC World Service the other day that, in the whole of Ethiopia, there are only five manufacturing industries which employ around 500 people - out of a population of 82 million! But, of course, the template for economic development in Africa is the same as elsewhere with all of its pluses and minuses. The desire is to create a middle class with an expendable income for the purchase of the sort of consumer goods that we, in the west, take for granted. Kigali is already that in microcosm. Perhaps it's easy from my comfort zone to worry about the extreme city/rural income divide being perpetuated in African countries but equitable development models are very hard to come by in a world run by large multinationals looking for quick profits with minimum inconvenience and maximum tax advantage. Kigali is setting itself up to attract foreign investment in a big way and is going to be a bit more appealing than a place like Kibungo as a centre for development.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/4j6maKdbd8qnOqAJIgOXjA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="174" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-TFaPinGKfiA/TiWKerly2NI/AAAAAAAAIDc/Ked_Cs20-zY/s320/IMG_2351.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Excited primary pupils line up to greet me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Meanwhile back in isolated Rukira sector a group of primary students lined up on an embankment to welcome me, chanting in unison 'it is very fine to see you', the first time I'd heard that particular refrain. This was followed by one little squib asking the customary 'how old are?' When I gave my usual weak response of '25', one child piped up, 'you are a liar.' My mum would have had that youngster's mouth washed out in soapy water but like 'give me chalk' instead of 'please may I have some chalk' it is simply a translation of what is said in Kinyarwanda with none of the polite locutions that we require in English. I'm going to empty my pockets for the next beggar who stops me in the street and says, ' would you mind giving me some money?' If they can set up courses in English for Accounting Purposes nowadays then why not ERB - English for Refined Beggars. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/MGgXn8GoziNwjUWimaYTmw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-W3MyhGGEP18/TfO1cKO7TCI/AAAAAAAAHz4/S-FYpE8-zR8/s320/IMG_2147.JPG" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankole cow - long on horn but low on milk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm expecting to hear the results of the questionnaire very soon so I'll keep you posted. I'm sure that Rwandan milk production and manure uses have you riveted. I can, however, give you a little advance taster. Did you know that an East African Ankole long-horned cow produces five litres of milk a day whereas a Friesian produces 25? So, think about that next time you're adding it to your moo-sli.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Rukira?feat=embedwebsite#5631059404103416434" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LA7eXE3vXXs/TiWKsYK0-nI/AAAAAAAAIDk/NhB_LMUCX14/s320/IMG_2353.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children gather near our mini-bus for the event of the season</td></tr>
</tbody></table>You will also be pleased to know that I was able to meet one head teacher and, briefly, the Chargé during the visit. This led to a very successful training session in Rukira the following week. Which just goes to prove the wisdom of many Rwandan cow-related proverbs including this one: 'ubonye ifambire agira amahirwe' - 'he who finds good dung, will find good luck.'Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-15097868347535313492011-07-14T11:55:00.000-07:002012-02-12T20:38:10.970-08:00Unlocking Nyungwe's Secrets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Entering the Nyungwe National Park we immediately saw groups of <b>Olive Baboon</b> by the roadside followed shortly after by a troop of <b>L'Hoest's Monkey</b>. Nyungwe is the stronghold of this attractive monkey and the only place where they are really common. <b>Silver Monkey</b> was seen shortly after. This species is now split from the Blue Monkey cluster. We didn't dilly-dally as we were anxious to get to our respective destinations, Jared and Michelle, our travelling companions, to the campground before dark, and Stella and me to the newly built Top View Hotel somewhere in Gisakura west of the park.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UlxQ3s_TzMrRcL58dsvwttMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Xh7fUEBew14/Two5MMoj-wI/AAAAAAAAI9A/ETX0ocpb0eg/s320/IMG_2413.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L'Hoest's Monkey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Next morning (July 2) we were to meet at the campground at 5.30 to go chimp tracking. This required us leaving the hotel no later than 4.45 so we were up around 4. Horrific! I wrote in the last post about the chimp tracking experience and its disappointment not so much in not seeing the chimps as in the fact that we didn't really do any tracking apart from a brief descent down a hillside at the very beginning. I understand the reasoning behind not wanting people to exert themselves unnecessarily if the chimps can't be seen but it kind of defeats the purpose of calling it a tracking experience if you just hang around waiting. Surely a small group at least attempting to follow chimps feeding out of sight is a more anticipatory and thus exciting experience, even if the chimps remained hidden, than waiting for a walkie talkie go ahead. But what do I know? Maybe the terrain was too difficult and they took one look at Stella and me and said - there is no way these old geezers will get down that slope!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/XFn3WsDQ0BdX-0Gv--ca2tMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fu7WI9Uci1A/Two2BoOGhzI/AAAAAAAAI8s/vUuzsf43eb4/s320/Great%252520Blue%252520Turaco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Blue Turaco</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On the plus side, going down the slope was also where there was a very large troop (the guide said up to 500) of the <b>Rwenzori Colobus Monkey</b>, a race of the more widespread Angola Colobus, which is restricted to the Albertine Rift. (Rwenzori precedes the name of many of the Rift endemics and relates to the Rwenzori Mountains in the Ugandan part of the Rift - Ptolemy's Mountains of the Moon and presumed source of the Nile in AD350). These are beautiful looking monkeys, white on the face and arms, although they are marginally less attractive than the Guereza Colobus that we saw in Tanzania with their bushy long white tails. At the top of the slope looking down we also saw our first pair of <b>Great Blue Turaco</b> perched on top of tall tree. This is an enormous (75cm) and spectacular blue turaco that has a red-tipped yellow bill and a rather floppy black crest. This would be the first of many sightings of this impressive bird.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/xHENYijYWqK8xI8bqtN3ZtMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-nHyso-wGFjU/Two19ej66lI/AAAAAAAAI8g/ywSu8W78vKw/s320/Crowned%252520Eagle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crowned Eagle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We wandered up and down the path as villagers from the remote community of Banda 12 kilometres away passed us by carrying heavy bags and sometimes house goods on their heads. This track was the only access to the village which is being encouraged to develop eco-tourism opportunities by an American charity. How they will achieve that so far away I don't know. Then we took a fork into one of the circular tracks that spread out from the campground and settled down into some birding while the guide continued to radio about the progress of the chimp troop. Very soon we saw <b>Crowned Hornbill</b> with their bright red bills and then a huge (74cm) <b>Black-and-white-casqued Hornbill</b> showed up beautifully in a tree looking down into the valley. Casqued hornbills like this one (and the Silvery-cheeked Hornbill that we saw in Tanzania) are more calculated to produce the back shiver of excitement familiar to hornbill watchers in Asia. Some of the smaller African hornbills, by comparison, are somewhat of a let down to this fine family name. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/6TQ8Aqv_5m76rItOxV0TmdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YvkD2875eWo/Two80xYl4TI/AAAAAAAAI9I/zAY9Q4piT-Y/s320/IMG_3177.JPG" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Narina Trogan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our chimp guide, who admitted to little birding knowledge, suddenly called us to come quickly. There on a branch to the left of the track sat a male <b>Bar-tailed Trogon</b> with its brilliant red breast, blue upper chest band, black head, green back and long barred tail. There are only three species of trogon found in Africa, the Bare-cheeked in West and Central Africa, plus the Bar-tailed and Narina which are widespread throughout Africa with the Bar-tailed usually at higher altitudes. The Narina is more common and we have seen it on a couple of occasions. Trogons, like hornbills, are species of fantasy. Turacos, which were new to us until Africa, have now joined this select group. At this point another member of the turaco family flew into a nearby tree. It was a <b>Black-billed Turaco</b>, one of five green turacos found in Africa. All turacos except the Great Blue have red/crimson on the wing which shows extensively in flight. The Black-billed also has a white line on the back of the head and white lines above and below the eye. This is a very shy turaco but I caught a glimpse of its facial white before it disappeared into the canopy. The final morning highlight was the striking <b>White-headed Wood-hoopoe</b>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/H5vLheMAL1srJlqoojImMdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="225" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-i-Dh0xtMfyo/Two16ZsMahI/AAAAAAAAI8Y/MbjzGweoNbQ/s320/Collared%252520Apalis%252520Nyungwe%252520Forest.Rwanda.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collared Apalis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We had bumped into Narcisse, Nyungwe's best bird guide, with four American birders on the track and arranged to meet back at the campground after lunch to do a trip together in the afternoon. As mentioned in the previous post, it turned out that one of the Americans was top birder David Shackelford who works for Rockjumper the big South African birding company. He was on a personal tour of East Africa with his wife and two friends and he invited us to join them birding. This turned out to be a huge bonus as his knowledge was massive. We went on the Karamba Trail a more open area for birding as it used to be a gold mining site. Here the highlights were <b>Blue-headed Sunbird, Black-collared Apalis, Purple-breasted Sunbird, Archer's Robin-Chat, Red-faced Woodland Warbler </b>and <b>Strange Weaver </b>all of which are Albertine Rift Endemics (AREs). The Strange Weaver is a Rift skulker, unusual for a weaver, but it sat up perfectly for us and gave great views of its black head and upper chestnut breast with yellow below. The long-tailed, iridescent, purple-breasted and blue-headed sunbirds also showed up nicely in the afternoon sunshine. Sunbirds really are a treat in Africa. On the winding stretch back up to the hotel two small, white-spotted nightjars froze in the car highlights. Narcisse identified them as the endemic <b>Rwenzori Nightjar</b>.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/r22QLtJEYDpwWPOKgQAif9MTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Y70FGN1R0w0/Two1-kZLJhI/AAAAAAAAI8k/exLOeFugvHI/s320/Strange%252520Weaver.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange Weaver</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The following morning we set out to climb Bigugu Trail in search of the elusive and rare endemic, the Black-collared Mountain Babbler. Along the way we heard the call of one of the signature birds of Nyungwe - the <b>Rwenzori Turaco</b>. Patience rewarded all of us with superb views of this truly magnificent looking bird. This medium-sized painted turaco could superficially be accused of overdoing it but its different colours meld superbly together and demand more and more time, seldom given, to examine in greater detail. Stevenson and Fanshawe's Birds of East Africa describes it well. It has "a glossy green-blue crest, orange-yellow lores and eye-ring, blue-black chin and throat, and maroon nape ------- with a rosy-orange blush on the centre of the breast" + the typical, exposed red of the wing in flight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/dawEYqGzbFm-qH5JQgoSNNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="188" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-F9C1YxewQy0/Two1_9YuGpI/AAAAAAAAI8o/fuW_I8f_AuY/s320/Rwenzori%252520Turaco%2525202.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rwenzori Turaco</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We were also fortunate in getting half-decent views of a very shy bird, the <b>Barred Long-tailed Cuckoo</b>. This higher altitude path had fewer birds than Karamba but still managed great views of the <b>White-starred Robin </b>and endemic <b>Rwenzori Batis</b>. Both these charming species from completely different families have little white dots in front of their eyes that face you like miniature headlights. This is a superb walk even without the birds. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Kg091khw1jmWcVvhuESortMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Wjex0p_Lle0/Two2D-mw5JI/AAAAAAAAI80/m-A7TePC3nA/s320/Sharpe%252527s%252520Starling%2525202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharpe's Starling</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We also came across two snakes on the path, one very small and greenie/blue and the other larger (1m) which Narcisse thought was Nyungwe's only venomous snake - a green viper. It was also on this path that we all got excellent views of a <b>Carruther's Mountain Squirrel</b>. We also were able to observe at length a pair of uncommon and nesting (in a tree hole) <b>Sharpe's Starling</b>.<br />
<br />
We turned back as this track went to the top of Mt Bigugu at nearly 3000m. It was then we heard the call of the sought after <b>Red-collared Mountain Babbler</b>. It took a long time for everyone to get a look but eventually a pair of the birds were sighted high up in a forest tree clambering around like nuthatches in search of grubs. Even from a fair distance we could make out the bird's white eyes as well as its distinctive black cap and cinnamon collar.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/sn0JbklcwmWoSQwzF_2-8NMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ASDwmF9CTBE/Two14JHjmZI/AAAAAAAAI8Q/caDenv-IAZw/s320/Northern%252520Brown-throated%252520Weaver.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northern Brown-throated Weaver</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Sunday afternoon trip was to Kamiranzovu Swamp. This means 'elephant swallowing' as in the past elephants reputedly got stuck and perished when attempting to cross the marshy area. The last elephant in the park, however, was not sucked into the ground but blasted by poachers as recently as 1999. The target bird for the trip was another rare endemic - <b>Grauer's Rush Warbler</b> (Bradypterus graueri) in its reedy habitat. On the way down we saw another Grauer - <b>Grauer's Warbler</b> (Graueria vittata). Playback helped in calling the rush warbler out and we all got brief views. We then tried to see a <b>Red-chested Flufftail</b>, a secretive kind of rail, but, although the bird was only about a foot away or so, it would not show itself. This is a circular walk and we proceeded back along the valley and up the hill by a different direction. This section was turaco heaven with Great Blue and Black-billed crossing back and forth in front of us. The Great Blue once again gave us splendid views. We saw movement over to the right and, finally, got fantastic views of another key bird of the Nyungwe area - the <b>Regal Sunbird</b>. Even by sunbird standards this one is a little bit special with its bright yellow breast on either side of a brilliant red bar running vertically down the centre. Climbing back up to the road we almost stood on a species of legless lizard. We attempted to locate the rare <b>Albertine Owlet</b> at dusk but without success. We did, however, get great views of the endemic <b>Handsome Francolin</b> as it was settling down at its evening roost.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_zIV6dMFPIV1qmMW7tEZ4NMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KFXIIkDyAM8/Two18KQwrRI/AAAAAAAAI8c/WVJMp5yM5bY/s320/Giant%252520Eagle-Owl.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Verreaux's (Giant) Eagle-Owl</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our final morning was a walk near Gisakura with forest on one side and tea plantation on the other. Highlights here were <b>Lesser Honeyguide, African Green Pigeon, White-chinned Prinia </b>and, especially, the <b>Brown-throated Wattle-eye</b> with its brilliant red wattle right above the eye. Back at the campground to pick up Jared and Michelle we spotted our final endemic of the trip - <b>Stripe-breasted Tit</b>. We missed three expected endemics - <b>Yellow-eyed Black Flycatcher, Red-throated Alethe</b> (which were surprisingly absent) and <b>Dusky Crimsonwing</b> (which we heard only). Nyungwe certainly needs more than a two and a half day stay to unlock most of its key secrets. It is a tough place to see wildlife, as all rainforests are, but now that I have a feel for it, I would love to go back.<br />
<br />
(All photos except L'Hoest's Monkey and Narina Trogon were taken by Steve Zee) </div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-91065739809566102382011-07-06T13:10:00.000-07:002012-02-12T20:34:53.227-08:00Nyungwe (and its Chimps?)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Stella and I hired a car and headed off to Nyungwe National Park on the other side of Rwanda, with our young American friends Jared and Michelle, for the long weekend of 1-4 July. The 1st July celebrates independence from the Belgians in 1962 and the 4th is the official end to the genocide of 1994 and is now named Liberation Day. Extended holiday weekends are rare indeed here with Easter not even warranting a four-day office break!(Easter Monday is, oddly, a work day in this very Christian country). <br />
<br />
Another opportunity to get out of Kibungo was not to be missed. I had been looking forward to visiting Nyungwe's tropical rainforest ever since arriving in Rwanda but the distance (up to nine hours of travel) had put it on the backburner. There is also the issue of cost when living on a volunteer's allowance. The Rwanda Development Board (RDB), which is responsible for tourism, charges very high prices, in US dollars, to foreigners for every conceivable thing you might want to do in each of its three national parks - Volcans, Akagera and Nyungwe. Even discounted with our residents' passes, it is still $60 a head to go chimp tracking or $55 to walk in the forest over a couple of days. Looking at birds is extra as that is considered a different 'product' and thus must be charged at a different rate according to the Book of Mediocre Marketing that some bureaucrat has obviously been mightily impressed with. Here's a way round the problem. Just say that, despite your dangling binoculars, your main product is 'walking' and you will be issued with the cheaper pass. Most of the Rwandan guides think it's a daft pricing system too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uGAdORVZ2vp_fuij1Ceq3w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-S2108DB4gYI/ThSKVyy9UWI/AAAAAAAAH_k/q3OUq1KU20Y/s400/IMG_2357.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking towards Burundi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>You also need a car to have a chance of seeing the chimps or to get to many of the trailheads and they cost a fortune near the park, hence the decision to rent a cheapie in Kigali and, with me as the designated driver, risk the consequences of getting behind the wheel (and on the right side of the road) for the first time in over six months. The trick to stress-free driving in Rwanda is to enjoy it every time someone cuts in front of you without warning or pulls out unexpectedly. Nobody seems to get angry at rule breaking and driver incompetence and, since road rage is usually a product of indignation over others' perceived etiquette breaches, I've decided that a certain amount of chaos on the roads, where everyone is at fault, definitely has its upside. Outside Kigali there is also very little motor traffic. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/QYf8M2TjerGv4ulvGcYp1g?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-MAutB8-bEnU/ThSMgeiokkI/AAAAAAAAIAE/xOI39xFuOiU/s320/IMG_2368.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nyungwe Forest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Despite all the police and military personnel hanging about, I have never seen anyone stopped for bad driving, gross flouting of standard road rules or excessive speeding - and that's strange in a way given what sticklers Rwandans are for rules elsewhere. The police, however, like to stop buses, then wander up and down the sides looking in the window to spot anyone with facial terrorist tics like squinty eyes and quivering mouth. I usually smile broadly and nod acknowledgement because I know that clearly demonstrates my complete innocence despite my suspiciously bushy eyebrows.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/oXi8z11pWXwkra7hmwv7HA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-pIMANJQ1dZE/ThSMClcN_gI/AAAAAAAAIAA/LW67nIkkJ54/s320/IMG_2367.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In search of the Red-collared Mountain-Babbler</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The road surface is wonderfully good until you reach the Park entrance when the potholes start to multiply. Where are the Chinese when you need them? Rwanda is such a crowded country bereft of natural forest that there is something truly strange about entering a habitat where suddenly there are no people and the landscape is as it has been for millennia. The rainforest is simply spectacular. Instantly there were troops of monkeys, L'Hoest's and Silver, patrolling the road verges.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/H6muOMQxNtORrbbPS3cQHg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="212" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-dzE4rt5n7gE/ThSM29dGbXI/AAAAAAAAIAI/O3LJGh3kKfc/s400/IMG_2370.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carruther's Mountain Squirrel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Park extends for over 1000 square kilometres in the mountainous south west of Rwanda and is the largest area of montane forest to be found anywhere in Africa. This is a tiny part of what used to be a forest belt running all the way northwards along the western or Albertine Rift Valley. I will let the Rwanda Bradt Travel Guide describe its variety. "As with other Albertine Rift forests, Nyungwe is a remarkably rich centre of biodiversity. More than 1050 plant species are known to occur in the national park, including about 200 orchids and 250 Albertine Rift Endemics (AREs). The vertebrate fauna includes 85 mammal, 278 bird, 32 amphibian and 38 reptile species (of which a full 62 are endemic to the Albertine Rift) while a total of 120 butterfly species have been recorded. Primates are particularly well represented, with 13 species resident, including a population of about 400 chimpanzees, some of which are semi-habituated to tourist visits." So, all those critters were going to be a lot to spot in around two days minus the travelling! And anyone who has visited a rainforest knows how tough it is to see things through all that foliage.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/CcwBVTR48uoYZrFpe-0bfA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-T7Rq2AhIu-E/ThSQzRQKuiI/AAAAAAAAIAo/sL2eyK2ZYCI/s320/IMG_2393.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance off main road to hotel with track going up to the left. Who would know? Here we were even up before the locals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jared and Michelle wanted to camp but without a tent and, most importantly, a decent mattress that wasn't going to work for us so we booked into a hotel that was way outside our normal price range. (There is a dearth of reasonably priced and accessible accommodation in the area). Our brand new hotel, the life savings of a local Rwandan businessman, was also built on top of a hill and involved driving up a narrow rocky road past shabby mud dwellings. I felt embarrassed to be waving out of the car window at the little kids in rags humphing jerrycans of water up the hill as we were about to be waited on hand and foot. Apparently the hotel boss is seeking to expropriate the land on which the houses sit so that he can widen the road and make it more convenient for our big cars to pass through. Annoyingly for him, the house owners are keen to be properly compensated for being re-located. The boss was actually a nice guy and said that the local community was right behind the hotel and the job opportunities that it provided to cleaners, kitchen staff, maids and that bloke who lifts the bar to let your car into the compound. But then he would say that, wouldn't he? All the waiters and reception staff seemed to come from Kigali and had obviously been trained in the East African code of table hovering except when you craved a cold beer, when they became strangely absent. It's the beer that'll get you the big tips guys!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/IBmX9-3_ohkkTbvK6DuKWw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eUC-PAt_8FE/ThSRiP-WG6I/AAAAAAAAIA4/WAnHIg-4v5E/s320/IMG_2383.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Top View Hotel and our hire vehicle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We were sharing a table with a top American birder, his wife and two guests and he confidently asked for his eggs 'easy over', a term that is not commonly heard in these parts where the language of English haute cuisine is chips and fried egg. Anyway, back his eggs came picture perfect so I thought I would try but I couldn't help myself and slipped in 'fried egg' before uttering a very self-conscious 'easy over'. Mine came back shrivelled with a crusty sunny side sneering up at me. I obviously need to work on my request skills. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/KlM05ON2sDeeCcMMS-pt5Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NCMOHbIN7lY/ThSRtdHFmeI/AAAAAAAAIA8/26k7WcjSmG4/s320/IMG_2386.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our accommodation with spectacular view</td></tr>
</tbody></table>On the first night we went back to our room to discover five hot water bottles arrayed on the pillows and under the bed covers. Lovely idea although a little excessive perhaps. It wasn't that cold at an altitude of 2000 (tropical) metres. But there was no hot water in the shower as they'd forgotten to plug in the heater and there was no bedside lamp although lights were blazing everywhere else. There was also a little wood fire in an adjacent room. It was the randomness of the nice touches versus the absent ones that struck. On the second night all the hot water bottles went missing and we can only assume it was because the American and Korean Ambassadors as well as the Rwandan Finance Minister were chowing down at the next table and needed copious bedtime mollycoddling to go with their taxpayer funded junkets. <br />
<br />
Gosh, when is he going to get to the chimps I hear you bellow into your computer screens? Well, the news is that the chimp experience was somewhere below underwhelming. We pursued them down a steep, heavily vegetated hill slope where they were supposed to be checking out any feeble colobus monkeys from a 400 strong troop in the vicinity. Jane Goodall commented on this predatory chimp behaviour years ago and it is common, apparently, with this Nyungwe mob. However, they lost interest in these fabulous monkeys and scampered further down the hill as we descended to hide in the tall grass and munch on caterpillars and termites from rotting tree stumps. So they were hidden from the view of even the official chimp trackers whose job it is to monitor their movements and, hopefully, present the 'product' to the visiting tourists. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/QM-n6nOtneSD6FLsfKKvRA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-th2nHpdiSQE/ThSS4HYACZI/AAAAAAAAIBY/KsHGMt1aAGs/s400/IMG_2398.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy birding crew</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Chimping in Rwanda is not the virtual cast iron certainty that gorilla-ing is further north and that's a fact! So back up the hill we went to do some birding while our official guide walkie-talkied with the trackers in the hope that the chimps would have had enough protein for the day and want to climb to the tree tops for a snooze, a bit of greenery or maybe even some frenzied hooting whereupon we might have been able to get our money's worth out of the experience. For a young English couple who were with us and didn't have proper binoculars to look at the hornbills, turacos and trogans that we saw, it had cost $125 for the car and driver and $90 each for the tracking without the resident's card. Over $300 is not cheap for standing around most of the morning! But hey, it's providing employment and keeping chimps out of the bush meat market that prevails elsewhere in Africa so we mustn't complain. Anyway, who cares if chimps are our closest genetic companions with 98+% of the same DNA. Like Lady Gaga or Robbie Williams they are hugely overrated. I much prefer vegetarian colobus monkeys!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/dSXjge8f5EJj1FawvEuOAA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-P6SiA3t5gRw/ThSVGndBdvI/AAAAAAAAIBs/wuQKyMfdv2w/s400/IMG_2429.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the divide between two great river systems</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But, it was in the course of our chimpless morning that we first met David Shackelford the ace birder - he of 'easy over' fried egg fame - and his delightful party. So, from disappointments, magical things sometimes grow (apologies to Archie Roach). We got to spend the rest of the weekend with a guy who has seen 8201 birds in the whole wide world (he is in the top 10 listers) with one of them a new sighting (the red-collared mountain babbler) on this trip. We saw it too!! It's rare, it's endemic and it's a smasher. With David's knowledge of bird calls and the use of playback to bring in the skulkers, the help of the local guide Narcisse and the keen eyes of the more youthful members of the party, we saw some outstanding wildlife.</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-48054361437089736392011-06-26T06:12:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:58:36.762-08:00Kwita Izina<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">And so we came down from the gorilla mountain and the Rwanda Development Board described it thus. "The pearly blue skies, often and intermittently so, turn into silver grey cotton-like boils, and then into ashen silky floating clouds of smoke, kissing the tips and lips of the imposing mountains that lumber in the skies with melody just like frozen music. In the North western Rwanda, the Mountains strewn along with their junior cousins that number in thousand(s) (hills), synergize with nature in a rhythm so inspirational and savoured by Rwandans and visitors alike with quiet satisfaction."<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/tqUqq_SDNrP8wQlrFhMcpQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ExV3Tg6ro8w/TgX2ZqqJpjI/AAAAAAAAH9Q/sBJpy-4G4FQ/s320/IMG_2335.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum and 2011 twins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Don't unwind your rhythmic synergies just yet; there's more.<br />
<br />
"The enveloping canopies, the luxuriant vegetation that drunkenly leer about, the wild perfumes from naturally garnished flowers, carried along by the soft breezes that rustle through branches, give you a hearty appetite to simply either sit or walk and watch nature at its best in harmony. The equation, however, is made complete by the mountain gorillas." I swear by all the latest saints that I have not altered a capital letter, comma, or purple strewn word. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_NAJWYKWaPdWr6xszP5NYQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="222" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-gtYWyjl4360/TgX16pY8yrI/AAAAAAAAH88/zpAbXhzYyr0/s320/IMG_2314.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colourful crowd outside the arena</td></tr>
</tbody></table>These cotton-like sky boils, melodious like frozen music, combined with the drunkenly leering foliage and the gorilla sprinkled mountain, had given me a hearty appetite. Unfortunately the apes had eaten all our sandwiches (joking) so it was time to try and see what could be scrounged from the tented enclosures at the Kwita Izina (gorilla naming) ceremony. President Kagame was supposed to be coming and we had been told not to bring mobile phones as they posed a security risk and would be confiscated. However, maybe because the president was replaced by the prime minister or, more likely, because we were muzungus, we weren't even searched as we sauntered past the heavily policed perimeter and into the action. Rwandans, including children, were, however, subject to a thorough frisking.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/hbxAG-7lJCaINkw9P4uVPw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-QOkdCLvndRw/TgXxRJFbt8I/AAAAAAAAH70/S4TN-IFzRYo/s320/IMG_2296.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pathway reserved for VIPs and muzungus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was actually quite embarrassing. All the ordinary Rwandans were crammed into the adjacent field enclosures while VIPs, who included any passing muzungu with muddy boots and nettle stings, got the red carpet treatment, strolling regally up the specially pebbled and flower-bedecked pathway. And yes, I did wave to the crowd as if I was Michael Douglas, minus the bushy hair transplant and botox injections but wearing fashionable, plastic over-trousers, a cheap safari hat and clutching my modest camera which I felt entitled to use as frequently as possible given my newly accorded celebrity status. My dark glasses, of course, made up for any sartorial inadequacies. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/NistBfdwmoj6WNZoUvFRzg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="170" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-_SwDdWjcfQw/TgX0XveEw5I/AAAAAAAAH8Y/3xcFg2SkozA/s320/IMG_2304.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Police making sure the crowd don't get out of hand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The food seemed to have gone and there were coffee queues the length of Sauchiehall Street so it was back to the stage for the performance of Baby Cool a high octane Ugandan rapper. 'Surreal' (like my bete noire 'icon') is an overused word these days but how else can I describe strolling up to the stage in front of a tightly controlled cordon of severe looking police officers, imagining a new career as an East African roadie, when just a short while before, I had been communing with giant apes in a tranquil national park. Meanwhile the passive audience looked on bemused at the hyperactive antics of this extravert musical performer. Rwandans are a famously reserved people and yet this rapper comes from a country which is only 25 kilometres away on the other side of the border. It might as well be the moon. He attempted to crowd surf running, at one point, from one side of the field to the other to throw himself into the throng and in one case pushing past distinctly uncomfortable looking security guards. This is not the kind of behaviour they are used to at all. All the while he was quipping, 'hey guys, why so many cops, are you expecting a revolution?' Maybe it's a good thing most of the crowd wouldn't understand. Earlier, he had apparently dragged the prime minister on to the stage to get him to dance. I wonder if he will be asked back next year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Gb6NbATetLCP2H2Uooncgw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-JRbnwaKLlbw/TgX0RQiGEZI/AAAAAAAAH8U/WFNrrxAVyn4/s320/IMG_2303.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Cool crowd surfing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As if this wasn't enough excitement for one day, when we got back to the hotel we were invited to the garden wedding of an obviously well to do Rwandan family. It's a good time of year for marriages now that the long rainy season is officially over. The dances were fun but we ducked off before the speeches began as, based on our one and only previous experience, they do tend to go on a bit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/qbTTHbvcC_eq5OjyKwowFQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="196" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-roHRNJha-2s/TgX2xxckfMI/AAAAAAAAH9k/LSX7E_YcL9s/s320/IMG_2323.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wedding dancers with cake in the background</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The weekend fun ended with an exploration to find a patch of forest with dragon trees that we had read about in the guidebook. This was nearly our undoing as one of the moto drivers confidently told us that he knew the spot. An hour later we were eight kilometres up a mountainside having negotiated the freakiest road surface and most antiquated bridge system yet encountered in the country. I nearly fell off twice and my thigh muscles were tighter than if I had played a 90-minute football match. And we still had to go all the way down again because, of course, it was the wrong way. Everyone the driver stopped to ask told him to carry on and that we were nearly there. The cliché about rural Africans telling you what you want to hear was certainly borne out in this case. What was amazing, though, was the good-spirited way that the two drivers dealt with the situation, especially the blameless second one. They were in serious danger of writing off, not just us, but the motorbikes as well. Que sera, sera! There is something very healthy about the refusal of people to get angry at such minor (in their terms) inconveniences. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/aPedd_foKSbSnGZ8kPsobg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="230" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-P732oXhX9Do/TgX34DcW1wI/AAAAAAAAH90/FXFNIV8GPWg/s320/IMG_2332.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dragon trees at $40 entrance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As you can see from the photographic evidence we did eventually find the dragon trees only to be told by the guard that we had to pay $40 each to get in and walk around. Best of all, if we were prepared to pay this excessive sum to visit such a small forest area we had to go all the way back to Kinigi, where the Kwita Izina ceremony had been held some 25 kilometres from the woodland, in order to buy the tickets. Is it any wonder, according to the guard, that only about five people a day bother to visit the nature park?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_Rj4YdY5Uuk0cT8fvB4jrw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="176" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-cl4Syn17qi4/TgX2NQPNMhI/AAAAAAAAH9I/_NkL7UFku2w/s320/IMG_2317.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Towards the end of Kwita Izina the crowd only had eyes for the boxes of sticky drinks that were going to be given out</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-70353073063334384682011-06-21T00:43:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:51:10.218-08:00Apes Galore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Well, there are definitely two things that people know about Rwanda and this is the second one. We thought at first we were unlucky, because of the crowds, to have booked to visit the gorillas on the same day as Kwita Izina, the naming ceremony for gorillas born in the previous 12 months. This ceremony has existed for years for the naming of Rwandan children but since 2005 has become a feature of the gorilla protection programme. It occurs annually in June in the village of Kinigi near the Volcanoes (Virunga) National Park and this year at total of 22, under one-year-old, gorillas were named including the first successfully reared gorilla twins since 2004. When we arrived at NP headquarters early in the morning, dances, food and medicine displays, and music performances were just commencing, put on for the special occasion. It was a double bonus. We could visit the gorillas in their natural habitat and then hopefully return later and participate in more of the events planned for the day long festivities. These were to take place in a large, open area not far from park HQ.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/w-ANFqGoIMjt40Y_IPZYQA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-uaMZKzVAtXg/Tf-KoUA86dI/AAAAAAAAH2M/-qe9gKgpl4Y/s320/IMG_2166.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twa (pygmy) dance leader</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After our briefing and group allocation - no more than eight people are allowed in each of the seven habituated gorilla groups on any one day- we set off in a 4x4 along an impossibly rough road fashioned out of large basalt rocks and past some of the poorest people yet seen in Rwanda. I do hope that the economic benefits of gorilla tourism will eventually trickle down to these farming communities in ways beyond the occasional use of porters or the selling of mini-gorillas and T-shirts at the edge of the National Park. From there we were to begin our ascent into the mountain, hopefully, tracking at least some of our intended gorilla group, Kwitonda (the humble one), named after the 35-year-old chief silverback. This group originally crossed into the Rwandan side of the Virunga Mountains escaping conflict in the DR Congo. War experience seems to have made Kwitonda a more gentle gorilla than usual, hence the name of his 21 member group.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/SQfswEKBuE7m3oVG_fTBnA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IYj04G8zUhE/Tf-REiCd3sI/AAAAAAAAH5g/8ksGU1lLpCs/s400/IMG_2289.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The habitat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Our human group consisted of tour leader, Olivier, three porters for those who chose to employ them and a guard with a gun to protect us against roving buffaloes or testy elephants. We proceeded uphill at quite a pace struggling at times to avoid tripping over fallen branches along the heavily overgrown track. Thistles, which gorillas love, stinging nettles, for which plastic over-trousers and gloves are recommend, and scrubby second growth were the norm with intermittent small to medium sized tree cover - jungle in its true sense. Olivier had been carrying a walkie-talkie and after around 45 minutes of climbing we suddenly stopped. In front of us were three National Park rangers whose job it is, not only to protect the gorillas from poachers, but also to follow their movements within the group's territory to make it easier each day for tourists to see them. I have only heard of one tourist party, in gloomy, wet weather, failing to see any apes which must all have been sheltering. I don't know if they got their money back to offset the bitter disappointment! The presence of the rangers indicated that the Kwitonda mob were in the vicinity. This was the moment when we left behind walking sticks, water bottles and backpack food with the porters. It's definitely not kosher to eat and drink in front of gorillas and, who knows, maybe they would snaffle the walking sticks for their night-time nests or for the more elderly members of the troop! Then armed only with (flash prohibited) cameras it was upwards and onwards all hoping, no doubt, for a special Attenborough-like moment.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/XPgnPdP_wPSq62cjMd8Z8Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ZyIc1BKUKCs/Tf-M_cO5POI/AAAAAAAAH3k/s830MPKm7zc/s320/IMG_2220.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum and 6 month baby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now you might think that after all this build up and the massive hype associated with gorilla tourism in Rwanda - it is the country's second biggest income earner after coffee - not to mention the exorbitant cost of the trip, $US500 dollars for non-residents and $250 for overseas residents like us, that you would be bound to be let down by the experience. Not a bit of it. Nothing can prepare you for that utterly awesome (lapsing into teenspeak is justified!) moment when you round a corner and almost bump into a giant male silverback who just happens to be lounging in the grass. This was (the recently mature) silverback number 4 of the group who immediately loped right in front of us and fell in a heap in the open on the other side of the path. When a gorilla sets off somewhere you don't ask questions, just get out of the way as fast as you can. He then proceeded to give his nuts a thorough scratching. Typical male said the Canadian woman next to me.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TA1QatIbsKOkx9F3IgwpFQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-K2-S1_kdWo8/Tf-MCBguiNI/AAAAAAAAH3E/zENPyybcLMc/s320/IMG_2209.JPG" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silverback number 3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We could see activity on the other side of the clearing in thick undergrowth and headed in the direction of what turned out to be Kwitonda group morning central. A mum and six month old baby were resting against a tree with a fellow sister caring equally for the babe. The vegetation was so dense we didn't know what was going to happen next and from which direction. There was a crash behind us and another huge silverback peered through. This was number 3 in the family hierarchy. His face looked distinctly Neanderthal as you may adjudge for yourself in the above picture. Then a couple of females bustled past with babe jumping from one back to the other. The only thing missing was a lollypop ape to direct the traffic. Over to the left another silverback made his appearance. This was number 2 in the pecking order. He might get a hairy leg over when the chief wasn't looking but he'd have to be quick or the Big Ape's anger would be keenly felt. All fertile females are, after all, supposed to be the leader's for mating purposes. This was all going according to plan but I began to feel like Patrick McGoohan in that old hit show 'The Prisoner' which had a vapid modern re-run on telly not long ago. Yes, you are number 2 but where is number 1? The tension was mounting. A few lesser members put in appearances. We had seen most of the clan but the very special gentle giant had still not shown his coat. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ZViuD7mqZOuqsu3IKJ8Fpg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-M6ftLG8IoEc/Tf-PN7_YYNI/AAAAAAAAH4k/yfdax7ioawQ/s320/IMG_2247.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hitching a lift</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Suddenly there was a noise and the tall foliage behind us opened to reveal a much more mature male gorilla with a thicker mane of head hair flecked with grey on the sides. This was the main ape himself - Kwitonda. He was obviously a huge media tart because he promptly sat down and let everyone in our group take a massive number of photos. Anthropomorphising horribly I have to say that I thought his eyes looked very sad. Go on, click away with your foolish devices, shallow creatures. Or, he may have been unhappy because of his clearly developing ape boobs a condition with which I can readily sympathise. Soon, he grew tired of the paparazzi and in a trice Olivier was forcing us back to make way for the Paul Kagame of this particular world. I only managed one snap of his silvery back as he ambled into the bushes to have his fur checked out by some of the females. Gee, there are a lot of flies in the Virungas so heaven knows how many ticks and mites there must be. (In one those amazing coincidences my own primate partner has just come out complaining of an itchy back and I have just extracted what looks like a dead tick! No, I used tweezers, not my teeth.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/awwPvcpzSJKOGoTMwrZLBw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="400" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-rYt0mbDZrdI/Tf-OjeToUWI/AAAAAAAAH4Q/iVbchtNMTZ8/s400/IMG_2238.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kwitonda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As we followed Kwitonda, some smaller apes were playing in the tree above and one released the biggest waterfall this side of Victoria narrowly missing one of the guides. How can creatures eating almost entirely cellulose (with the occasional protein filled safari ant) manage to produce so much urine? I look forward to replies from all you expert nutritionists. The icing on this ape cake was a hoped for glimpse of the newest addition to Kwitonda's extended family, a three month old baby which we finally saw in poor light in the protective arms of its adoring mother. There I go anthropomorphising again. The gorilla mother looked, well... like a female gorilla. She breast feeds the baby for three and a half years during which period she is infertile so the turn over conception period with female gorillas is never less than about four years. After a series of pictures with tourists and gorillas in the background (okay, so it wasn't quite the quintessential David Attenborough moment but it will do), it was time to head back down the mountain. Our allotted time of one hour with the Kwitonda clan was up. Even for a nature lover like me, who has had some pretty amazing wildlife experiences over the years, this was special and I commend it to anyone with the time and money to spare.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/fUguZPhXLqFO5kaMkJ_V6w?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-L_J2aD5ywN8/Tf-Nq4SFojI/AAAAAAAAH38/i0s27S2Cffk/s320/IMG_2229.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone have nail clippers?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/9k9IuIdLlgwusKRJ93yEcw?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-uiK4adJ_7OE/Tf-NXws5IgI/AAAAAAAAH3w/ir8Y1OhH3DQ/s320/IMG_2224.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting to the heart of the matter</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-14135882582080463942011-06-12T04:33:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:43:59.988-08:00A Family Visit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Last week I had the opportunity to travel north towards Uganda for a couple of days combining a visit to study the work practices and statistical marvels of a fellow management advisor (IT whiz Ken) in the town of Kabarore in Gatsibo district, with a stop at the family home of our friend Theo at Muhura (S 01.72630 / E 030.26818 - altitude 1795m) one hour west of the main road south of Kabarore. Theo has been keen, for some time, for us to meet his parents although unfortunately Stella couldn't come as it clashed with one of her English classes. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kqG5mqvaCOvpwZvya6Q8eA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ekd_gaN0r0M/TfO1SIguvfI/AAAAAAAAHz0/88ToPl-vvsI/s400/IMG_2146.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A surprise at the top</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We reached the turn off well beyond Lake Muhazi (where President Paul Kagame has a weekend retreat on the far shores). Five minutes of intense haggling later we set off by moto up the rutted, dirt road to the top of the range where sits the biggest Catholic Church I have ever seen in Rwanda. Close by and somewhat incongruous, given the surrounding privation, was the Motel Refugio Italia which I believe is Italian only in name and architectural appearance. You are more likely to be offered beans, rice, chips or goat brochette than a carbonara, risotto or spaghetti bolognese although, apparently, a Spanish omelette can be arranged. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Lf8jLgLf2FHNMQOG0AN34A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-B_OkZsKrSUU/TfOwDJQGHfI/AAAAAAAAHx8/ohus8t6miig/s320/IMG_2105.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Setting off to Theo's family home with coffee plantation </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Some time later when the bone-jarring journey ended, as a winding side track finally petered out, we clambered off the motos and I removed the protective dust trousers and jacket which I have started wearing since the end of the wet season. My hands were a filthy orange colour from dirt churn after tensely gripping the metal support bar at the back of the moto. A few drops of precious bottled water and a discreet squirt of hand gel (what a godsend it's been bringing bottles of that) and some semblance of muzungu respectability was restored. Appearance is very important to Rwandans and I couldn't be introduced to Theo's parents looking like Mr Scarecrow. We proceeded down a steep hill passing between sorghum, banana and coffee fields. Theo waved to everyone tending their crops and they responded with amakuru toto (how are you, young one) - his childhood nickname.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/PPO9Out6irfvs-M_5SbVTg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CZxJi9J4SQc/TfOwl00ER2I/AAAAAAAAHyM/EKJ1uclF6qE/s400/IMG_2109.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An aunty plus family en route</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was introduced to several smallholders in front of their mud houses most of whom seemed to be aunties and uncles of some kind. I thought for a minute that we were going to have to walk to the other side of the deep valley when suddenly Theo pointed to the house right below us. We had arrived and after skidding down the slope in my city slicker shoes I went to introduce myself to a couple we were sifting through beans in the family's front yard. It turned out they were unrelated neighbouring farmers with no personal space to dry and sort their produce. It is common practice to allow others to share in return for the expectation that the yard will be left in the spotless condition in which it was found. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/MuhuraAndKabarore?feat=embedwebsite#5617027570509413010" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-mcP3W9Al6DQ/TfOw0KnJ-pI/AAAAAAAAHyQ/WQLdI-XNIDw/s400/IMG_2110.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at the family home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tharcissie (Mama) and Etienne (Papa) are a delightful couple who went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Although very poor they went to the trouble of cooking a delicious meal of rice, beans and peas with eggs freshly laid by their chooks. They even sent d'Amour, Theo's youngest brother, up the hill to buy four bottles of coca cola for us to wash down the food. That's 1000 francs (nearly $2) of scarce cash. Tharcissie makes the most exquisite baskets and insisted on giving me one as a gift. It is now proudly hanging in our living room back in Kibungo. She worked tirelessly on the one you see in the pictures the whole time we were there. It takes her at least three days to make one for which she receives a meagre 5000 francs (~$8) from a cooperative which sells them in Kigali. The coop provides the dyes for free and the baskets are made from local reeds usually papyrus. Etienne makes an occasional income from selling the coffee in his small plantation and they have two cows in a backyard enclosure. They are by no means the poorest people in the valley. The little boy, Gashuhe, in the bottom picture standing in front of me is a neighbour's child who was initially frightened by the appearance of the strange, white alien. It was only later on sorting through photographs that I realised how badly he was suffering from malnutrition. His simple bewilderment, face to face, now looks a little more haunted in image retrospect.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/P6fUOvDfKjL3XZnZgiiuVQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-GWCvtsuZVPk/TfOxNRdMFcI/AAAAAAAAHyk/lV3DCxNDv9c/s400/IMG_2119.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Etienne, Tharcissie and Theo with the gift basket</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are six children in the family. Theo(phile), 26, studies in Kibungo; Jackson, 22, is a taxi driver in Kabarore; Joselyne, 20, the only girl, has left school and lives at home doing chores; Theodomir, 18, lives with his grandmother; Wilson, 16, goes to the big school at the top of the hill and lives at home; d'Amour, 13, is at school and lives at home. There are, therefore, five people living in the house you see in the photographs. I was only shown Theo's old bedroom so cannot imagine where they all sleep.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uH3ghLesJc-jxXBQSZ2tgA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-rFMBYTmKIBE/TfOxeVkJR6I/AAAAAAAAHyw/Vg18VnFs0uo/s320/IMG_2124.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theo's old bedroom which he reclaimed immediately by putting his bag on the bed!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Theo disappeared for a lengthy period leaving me to fend for myself in Kinyarwanda with Tharcissie and French with Etienne. Although he hadn't spoken French in years the old school grammar came back and we chatted about farming, beer and the government's decision to move all the valley farmers to the top of the hill as part of its village consolidation policy. A neighbour has already accepted the decision and is set to move out. Etienne worries about not being close to his coffee plants but Tharcissie is keen to move as she doesn't want to spend her old age alone and isolated in the valley. She thinks a move to the hill top will signal better transport access, health care facilities and closeness to water supply. Paradoxically, the water they use is pumped up to the top of the hill from the foot of the valley and farmers, or usually their children, have to climb up to fill their containers with tap water.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/MuhuraAndKabarore?feat=embedwebsite#5617030188806799762" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QkKJ10Xei1g/TfOzMkh5gZI/AAAAAAAAHzQ/1wjZ0BT7v4w/s320/IMG_2132.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of home from the back</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The government has promised to provide housing for all displaced valley dwellers although it remains to be seen where, and to what standard, the houses will be built, as the ridges have limited available land. The idea is then to knock down the valley houses and expand the area of productive farmland. Farmers will then have to go down the hillslopes each day to look after their cropland.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/MuhuraAndKabarore?feat=embedwebsite#5617031634130526962" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-nlXxKz-Amug/TfO0gsx7YvI/AAAAAAAAHzg/N8ypeU8AV8g/s400/IMG_2137.JPG" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tharcissie at work nearing completion of a basket</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Theo had been off visiting nearby friends and when he returned it was time to head off down the bumpy road and onwards to Kabarore where he was going to stay with an uncle while I was working with Ken. Tharcissie and Etienne accompanied us back up the hill to await the return of the moto drivers. There, on a shady part of grass, three raggedy children climbed all over me chanting 'good-a-morning' as Etienne explained to the army of onlookers who I was and why I was there. I heard plenty of 'mwarimu' (teacher) and no 'padre' which was pleasing to my secular ears. A guy in a Manchester United op shop jersey (remember Ruud van Nistleroy!) made an appearance but he didn't want to discuss their disastrous second half performance in the Champions League final in May. Some of these onlookers would perhaps have been crowded round the Motel Refugio Italia bar watching the razzamatazz at Wembley Stadium on satellite television. What would they have made of it? Is it any wonder that some might believe muzungus have money growing out of their nose hairs?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/MuhuraAndKabarore?feat=embedwebsite#5617032362734397906" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="250" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-DXy7HHZR8Sc/TfO1LHCoKdI/AAAAAAAAHzw/_t62EHIjghY/s400/IMG_2144.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Etienne, Tharcissie, Gashuhe (little boy in front of me), Keza (godchild), Joselyne, d'Amour </td></tr>
</tbody></table>The crowd looked on, fascinated, as I struggled into my plastic dust trousers hoping I wouldn't topple over. Then, with 'murakozi cyane' (thank you very much) and 'murabeho' (goodbye), smiles and waves, we were gone. The downhill exhilaration was about to begin.</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-9422892087388554002011-06-04T07:18:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:35:43.430-08:00Kigali v Kibungo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There really are two Rwandas - Kigali and the rest. There is a city/country divide everywhere and that is especially true in Africa. Kibungo looks big and impressive on all the maps but is not even a provincial sized town by any definition, more a collection of hilltop houses running along two roads; one main, north and south, and the other, arterial, spreading west to the district surrounds. Language is one reflection of this divide. In Kibungo it is nearly all Kinyarwanda with French and English of varying degrees among those more educated. Here it is still the norm to use Kinyarwanda for motos, going to the market or ordering brochette and chips. (You don't really need to speak any language when piling your plate full of 'melanje' or buffet foods!)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Tr53-gzcA-nuuDw62bhD1A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-18ECGbiI01Q/TezNGTSgYEI/AAAAAAAAHxc/Bp9rBq1n4Wo/s320/IMG_2101.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carbohydrates and a culturally interesting poster</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In Kigali, Kinyarfranglais is becoming the standard. It is often hard to get people to want to talk to you purely in Kinyarwanda. In restaurants and ordering motos everyone seems keen to practise their English although some fall back into French (restaurants) or Kinyarwanda (motos). Which is good news, in one sense, for the further development of English as the lingua franca of the East African Community of which Rwanda has been part since 2009. Yet I worry. Are current education policies leading to a nation of people who will not be highly literate in any language? <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UnV6EAwmsFgX0nJxPIl4eQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-KszKHjq-n9Q/TeOlPJvOzoI/AAAAAAAAHvk/A5zTPU_M2IM/s400/IMG_2081.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle taxis off duty for umuganda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>With English now the medium of instruction in public (state) schools from Grade 4 and in private schools from Grade 1, what impact will this have on the literacy level of the mother tongue, Kinyarwanda, which is then relegated to being just another subject along with science, maths and social studies (which are all taught in English). With even less of a reading culture than most Asian societies, it is hard to imagine genuine multilingual success. You can't even find a newspaper in Kinyarwanda in Kibungo and the standard of the press in English in Kigali is, unlike Nairobi where it is vibrant, pretty woeful and heavily self-censored.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Melange?feat=embedwebsite#5615088389438113346" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="159" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kouFm9EFaE8/TezNI-LhBkI/AAAAAAAAHxg/Wdk4GJt4_sk/s320/IMG_2102.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left - gravy, meat, mixed veg (a highlight) and kidney beans</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A thing that really struck me this time in Kigali which I hadn't noticed before was how many overweight people there are, especially men with their little pot bellies. It made it easier to 'silver' ghost (one of my nicknames in Cairns soccer circles) past some of them in my guest appearance with the Kigali Kougars on Sunday morning. Fatness and the fad culture it creates is not much of an issue in Kibungo. These plump players really are part of what must be a developing aspirational class in Kigali. And, as elsewhere in the world, they are becoming increasingly sedentary using buses, cars and 4x4s (how their numbers have grown in the capital!) and motos to get about instead of walking which is the way of life in places like Kibungo. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/LJ7KZoveMais_fB7qAh6-A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KHUzRFmsum8/TezM97qLoJI/AAAAAAAAHxQ/ogma1HtXu1M/s320/IMG_2098.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very moderate portion of melanje</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It must have something to do with the diet too as hamburgers, pizzas and other fast foods expand their foothold in the capital. There are no McDonald's or Domino's yet but small restaurants selling such global fare are available and I have to say make a welcome change from the limited options down our way. Here it is brochette (goat kebabs) and chips, or melanje (buffet) where you pile your plate to the very brim with rice, chips, kidney beans, cooked bananas, sweet potatoes, quite bitter green leaves and tough meat stew (of which you are usually able to take no more than two or three pieces unless you want to pay extra). In Kigali restaurants the melanje (melange) vegetables are much more varied and usually pretty tasty (often carrots, cabbage or cauliflower in an appetising mix ) although the meat stew in gravy sauce is never any more than just edible. Where we westerners have a habit of piling our plates and then leaving half of it (which is why Sizzler's in Australia now supply patrons with very small plates) here Rwandans will gradually reduce the monumental 'bowling ball' of food down to nothingness. It is quite likely to be the only meal of the day when eaten out at lunch or in the evening.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/6l7AgABMnwH13dYgdGQ6ZQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-33PtsYDIVhc/TeOkMxbo30I/AAAAAAAAHu0/sNgUtcvlfsM/s320/IMG_2068.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bar at Mille Collines</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Nowhere more different than Kibungo are the fancy hotels like the famous Mille Collines where the film Hotel Rwanda was shot and where it is hard to be without thinking of the terrible events of 1994. The clientele is both international and Rwandan buying expensive beers and brochettes (melt in your mouth fish, chicken and beef kebabs) at prices per item more than double what the average Rwandan earns in a day. As a volunteer it is also possible to experience the earnings split as $270 a month between two doesn't go very far in Kigali if you want to take advantage of such delights. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/m4fR9z3yKi8eJGQhcUwb4g?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qAF2Wh_9x1k/TeOkUJc-1ZI/AAAAAAAAHu8/7PoSN1nzysc/s400/IMG_2070.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Rwanda</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The muzungu income divide must also be confusing to Rwandans many of whom think we are all on big salaries irrespective of NGO status. The key is to say that you are 'umukorerabushake' or volunteer, although that can also cause problems as some think that because you are volunteering you must have enough savings to allow you to work for next to nothing. Which is of course often true especially for older vols! You can't win. Theo (our language teacher), Justin (our house guard), Julie (our one day a week domestique) must look at our little Eee laptops sitting on our porch table behind our gated compound and wonder at the definition of allowance for being an unpaid volunteer. In Kibungo, where there is a huge barbed wire complex for Chinese (mostly) hospital staff (whom you seldom see out and about), locals may associate the term volunteer with umukinwa (Chinese person), although I believe that a lot of them are quite highly paid unlike the handful of Japanese vols who exist on similar allowances to VSOers. Twice now in the street I have been called umukinwa which is a welcome change from (u)muzungu. Makes me feel quite exotic imagining a new dimension to my blood line that I didn't know about!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TL8FOuvym0_KC1NDdTw5HA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Z0ikyd1Oo6s/TeOk0XvysPI/AAAAAAAAHvQ/qg2i5uQB0AE/s320/IMG_2076.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing my bit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Umuganda (compulsory community work), which I attended in Kigali on 29 May (always the last Saturday of the month), was very different to the one in Kibungo which as you may recall concentrated on umudugudu or village security in the collective briefing. I was staying with Dutch volunteer Bert and we had an interpreter to guide us through the labyrinth of his umudugudu's politics and personalities. In this Kigali chapter the major emphasis was on church noise and permits to preach. Churches are springing up like wild daisies and the correct paperwork is not being followed. The umudugudu leader was intransigent in his refusal to let one group preach until everything was in order. They also had to tone down the noise which was bothering the neighbours. (Can we have this guy as our Kibungo leader?) The evangelical group was distraught at the idea of missing one day's vocal ecstasy and it looked, for a while, as though there was going to be the mother of all rejections until the leader, who had until then been looking stonily ahead and ignoring the pleas, gave a casual nod and said they had until Monday to come up with the right documents. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/TFIWkcCZB3AM58yDr1et1A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-MaY3hPlXbMU/TeOlD0Xdk4I/AAAAAAAAHvc/GdwMcRDoxRI/s400/IMG_2079.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umudugudu leader criticises poor umuganda attendance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The deference and lack of questions to the village leader were once again surprising to a westerner as he criticised the poor attendance (1500 people should have been there which you can see from the picture falls quite a way short) and need to perform various community duties which nearly all required small donations of money. This neighbourhood is quite well off with lots of big houses and the owners invariably send their house guards to represent them at umuganda although I did notice one well dressed and well fed couple in the midst. The leader stated, as in Kibungo last month, that people were going to start being fined for non-attendance - 5000 francs (~$8) for Kigali instead of the 500 francs mentioned in rural Kibungo. There was vagueness around how it would be enforced. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/_zTdfia2KARMERg4wwGpwg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="192" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-w8Am9vPO92E/TeOlkZN_GEI/AAAAAAAAHvw/3p8qKRJGjXg/s400/IMG_2084.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local church in the umudugudu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A spiel was given on separating rubbish into recyclables and non-recyclables but no direction on what to do with the different piles. Maybe some people already knew although our interpreter didn't. A government level vice-president was supposed to be there but the visit had been postponed because one of the organisers said they had not been ready to receive her to which the umudugudu leader retorted that they should always be prepared. It's hard to know whether being ready meant buying in some fantas and mandazis (a kind of fried bread which is very popular in Rwanda) or providing more hoes and spades for the actual work routine which, on this occasion, involved even less labour than last month's umuganda in Kibungo. You can see me in the picture hacking up some stray grass which had dared to find its way on to the dusty thoroughfare.<br />
<br />
</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-33820226767904914842011-05-30T11:52:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:16:16.341-08:00Quality Education for All?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have just returned from a three-day conference in Kigali on the theme 'Quality Education in Rwanda'. There are major difficulties associated with the transformation in education which is taking place in this country. Teachers are woefully underpaid and, because of the move to 9 years basic education for all, the government has introduced double shifting into the teaching day. There are simply not enough classrooms or teachers to lump everyone together so teachers do two half-day shifts to be able to cover all the students of up to 60 in a class. The long day, poor salary and large class sizes also make for low motivation among many staff. The pupils, on the other hand, have a relatively short day which parents often take advantage of, using them as workers in the fields. There are possible ethical questions about child labour but who can blame the parents for seeing idle children as a resource. There are, after all, no libraries or study centres that these children can attend before or after school. There is no reading culture here and precious few books especially graded readers suitable for early learners of English.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/CpB5kpIJp-QHkhhCKkD2Bg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-czJtyNUHaSQ/TeOkdrpT-oI/AAAAAAAAHvE/qv-r5ZgYnk0/s320/IMG_2072.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attentive participants</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Most teachers have been educated in French and now have to teach in English. In addition they are supposed to start using what is called a 'child-centred curriculum' which basically means children more actively participating in their learning. This modern, western approach to learning conflicts with the traditional chalk and talk method which is still very much the norm here. It is not uncommon to observe classes where children will not say a single word during a lesson which may be totally conducted in heavily accented, faltering and grammatically incorrect English. At the conference one VSO teacher, who is a fluent Irish speaker, made the audience feel bewildered by giving a brilliant demonstration in incomprehensible Gaelic of what it must feel like for large numbers of Rwandan students to sit in classrooms and be subjected to a daily round of uncontextualised blather in a foreign language.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/EV8WwKCALmth_nZuDCseEg?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UMUGBydUt3A/TeOki6BQGdI/AAAAAAAAHvI/Jdkvbk7-oWg/s320/IMG_2073.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A keen student voices his concerns</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But where to begin to solve the problem? There is no doubt that the teachers are planting bad habits into the students especially where big words are transplanted from the French pronunciation directly into English. And how, if the teachers are struggling with English themselves, can they be expected to teach effectively using pair and group work activities associated with this new methodology? Yet this kind of learning is essential if Rwanda is to produce a populace which is more confident in the active listening and speaking idiom. Currently this is not happening in schools, with what passes for dialogue usually a form of stilted, rote learning with little flexibility of question and response. "Good morning", "How are you", " I am fine thank you, and you", as the only sequence, belongs with Dick and Jane and the structured Alexander books of a bygone era - firmly in the recycling bin. Language learning develops best with adaptability of thought that gradually allows the student to imagine different ways of communicating. It's wonderful for confidence too, which is half the battle in speaking a language - when you can say "Hello", "How's it going", "What about you", "Not bad", "Okay", "See you later", instead of only the prescribed rote. This growing confidence, too, helps liberate you from the fear of making mistakes, which is inevitable in language learning, but which paralyses so many. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/biglMdBoB8CSCU3utTB5WQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-pXDT_VwuCYo/TeOkZb_53SI/AAAAAAAAHvA/6OF6lEtR6zU/s320/IMG_2071.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The current reality versus hopes for the future</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Methodology teachers employed by VSO are helping to train interested Rwandan teachers especially in the use and development of visual aids (often rice sacks are the source material for writing on). Such aids are essential elements in communicative teaching methods but they only work if accompanied by the knowledge and training of how to use them effectively. Most educational volunteers come from a primary or secondary teaching background in the UK or North America but very few have qualifications in the teaching of English as a Foreign Language (EFL) which is a vastly different way of approaching language teaching. As one UK teacher said to me during the conference -'being able to teach TS Eliot isn't much good here.' <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Qzvd6W3GPobG5wWQEwAG8A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/--mfYSrmB8Ek/TeOmBCQoLwI/AAAAAAAAHwM/rWWqlhjZKbo/s320/IMG_2093.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of crowd at Amahoro Stadium for big screen telecast of Champions League final</td></tr>
</tbody></table>VSO Rwanda is in expansion. Indeed it is the only country in Africa where numbers of volunteers are growing. It is the precious baby of many western governments especially the US and the UK. The British Conservative Party is even sending a large delegation of MPs and party members to visit our schools for two weeks in July. I doubt I'll bump into any of them but if I do, I will emphasise, as I did at the conference, the importance of recruiting suitably qualified EFL teachers, over a defined period, to improve English teaching ability and enhance better teaching practice. It would be nice, too, if salaries of Rwandans were increased from 25,000 francs ($42) minimum a month for entry level primary teachers but the Ministry of Education (MINEDUC) bureaucrat at the conference said it wasn't going to happen as they couldn't afford it. Others said that it was simply a matter of priorities as Rwanda has the lowest teaching salaries of any East African country. However, a lot of money is being spent on the One Laptop Per Child (OLPC) initiative as it is seen as part of Rwanda's goal to be the hub of the African IT industry in the 2020 vision but is much criticised because laptops are being sent to some so-called Child Friendly Schools - a UNICEF definition - which don't even have electricity. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/cdgIHb7EuKQoNwMnilpY5A?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-BkUGn5gJ6PI/TeOlsQC1uxI/AAAAAAAAHv4/-TyDof2nBt8/s320/IMG_2088.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dangerous electric cables on short cut to Bert's house where I was staying during the conference</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I believe in a one laptop per headteacher policy for my district of Ngoma (which is lucky in having better electricity and internet access than some other districts) so that they can all start to use email and USB memory sticks to store all the training information that I give them in action and strategic plans, evaluation procedures and many other common sense ideas. I am not confident that hard copies won't simply find their way into cupboards to be forgotten after I am gone. At least with electronic versions there is a permanency and the simple facility of making adjustments - dates, costs etc - when necessary on a termly or annual basis. I am also pushing for training in the use of any future laptops, which the heads have been promised, otherwise they too will gather dust like many of the textbooks which sit on school store room shelves because the teachers are afraid to use them. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/frVIERx16TGWFiz2QjP0YA?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="163" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-_HxKcI4jYHo/TeOmFPaJtZI/AAAAAAAAHwQ/E3FU1uN6dX8/s320/IMG_2094.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Much to my delight I managed a game with the Kigali Kougars on Sunday morning on a pretty fine artificial pitch. Cairns Rovers (my old team) eat your heart out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Regarding the reading problem, I pushed at the conference - and with delegates of USAID and UNICEF who have strong links with EFL publishers like Longman, Heinneman and Macmillan - for the importance of simple, child friendly reading materials of which there is a complete dearth. Cultural appropriateness can be a problem with some of these graded readers but only by flooding the schools with such books can a reading ethos start to develop. Little children stop me in the street begging for books to read and don't understand why I don't have boxes of them in my house! Stella's young adult students also crave reading material. She has taken to lending out my old Guardian Weeklies for want of an alternative but the articles are usually too difficult for them.<br />
<br />
Initiating a push for more EFL trained teachers, good graded readers and establishing the use of email, simple spreadsheets and folders for all 69 head teachers after my sector wide training sessions would at least be a small, tangible contribution to the development of this small but crowded country.</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-76199257243900114562011-05-21T06:16:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:13:51.438-08:00A Question of Faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When I got into work on Monday morning I was approached by my best Rwandan office friend, Guido, and asked what I had done at the weekend. He usually asks me that question and I always regale him with the exciting things that I may have got up to including incomprehensible trips into the adjacent valley in search of birds and the ultimate source of the Nile. This time his question was different and it was the one that I had been dreading: "did you pray yesterday" he inquired, with what I thought was a bit of cheek in his gap-toothed smile? At last! I should have been expecting it and he'd obviously been plucking up courage to ask. After all, he, like countless other Rwandans, spends large parts of his Sunday in church and I had been repeatedly told at group training sessions that my religion would be a subject of much interest to locals - not far behind my marital status and age! By the way, I have taken to being 25 again when children ask as I can't be bothered getting on my cultural high horse and explaining that age is usually not the second question to put to grey-haired western visitors. Or maybe I'm just suffering from a sexagenarian hang up!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/NNzzHY33idds6oMwfBqbZQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TdewVY9PTDI/AAAAAAAAHtw/BuFSl28ZmIk/s400/IMG_2022.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anglican Church opposite my work. Stella teaches here twice a week</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Leaving me time to concoct a response Guido suddenly disappeared saying there was an Anglican pastor outside that he was going to fetch. My heathenism was going to be put on office show for all to witness! If the question had been 'what is your religion?' it would have been easily countered. I was brought up a Protestant. Matter closed. We have a volunteer friend who lives further into the boondock bible belt and she has decided to share her ideal of Humanism with anyone who asks. But in this case it was impossible. The question could not be dodged; did you pray yesterday does not permit use of the metaphorical hedge trimmers.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kFVO3phg1X2tCC5x4Woiqg?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TdewZrH24PI/AAAAAAAAHt0/M_gOtRrIhJA/s400/IMG_2024.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camus was a good goalie but I think JPS was better at table football</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
A non-work buddy was sitting next to me in the office. I have been helping him to apply for a teaching job where I know he would excel. He was smirking wondering how I was going to respond and I'll tell you why. Recently I wore my Philosophy Football T-shirt to a big Premier League game at St Joseph's bar. Sartre and the number 10 are written on the back. (Somehow I see Jean Paul more as an outside left than in the inside left position!) This friend suddenly shouted out - as a theatrical player was writhing on the ground pole-axed by a puff of wind - that JPS was an existentialist and then asked me aloud, in front of the expectant barroom, if it was true that such people did not believe in God. You can imagine how the room reacted. It's not the kind of thing you say to a group of people who can't comprehend the idea of atheism! The choice was stark. Get into a deep theological and philosophical discussion with a muzungu in a variety of languages or continue to bait Wayne Rooney on the TV screen. It was a no brainer - I had to rush back home and fetch my copy of Richard Dawkins in order to sustain my argument. Hence his smirk now.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ChRewBti5bJ4AWzonPgm5Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="180" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/Tdewilb2z9I/AAAAAAAAHt8/YVe-TqiS_dQ/s320/IMG_2027.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catholic Church but as you can see they all really look the same</td></tr>
</tbody></table>By this time Guido had returned and true to his word there was another gentleman at his shoulder. I was hoping the whole issue would have blown over and we could get back to a fresh round of 'mwaramutsis' but it was not to be. Guido turned to the pastor and said 'I was just asking Denis if he prayed yesterday'. There wasn't even a beating about the bush with a rephrasing of the question to give me a chance to waffle. And no, tempted though I may have been, I wasn't going to give a cheeky or pretentious answer such as, ' yes, I was down in the valley worshipping the majesty of nature's fecundity'. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/H4syKOc7bIUuCrjDie6QnA?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="184" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/Tdew1qu_pWI/AAAAAAAAHuI/QH6hdp73sMw/s320/IMG_2033.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evangelical Restoration Church behind our house</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"Well, did you?" said the eager cleric suddenly right in front of my desk. "No", was all I could muster. "Why don't you pray", he pressed on,<br />
furthering my discomfort? I was now trapped so I performed that old Jesuit trick and answered a question with a question. This is a complicated subject, I pre-ambled with a smile, but I could easily ask you, 'why <i>do</i> you pray?' Match drawn, 1-1. As Jean Paul himself nearly said: 'everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite point of view.' Both teams recognised that the office on an early Monday morning was not the best place to carry out a theological debate and it was agreed to re-schedule a discussion on the topic for a later date. We shall see.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/AQOfFaith?feat=embedwebsite#5609145902127636946" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="150" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/Tdewer2n4dI/AAAAAAAAHt4/P9scT1cAefc/s200/IMG_2025.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wise words from JPS</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My mischievous friend leaned across after they'd gone and said that there are plenty of Rwandans whose faith was shattered because of the genocide and no longer attend church especially of the Catholic persuasion given their complicity in many of the atrocities. However, life is hard and comfort still much needed and this has led to a phenomenal growth of new evangelical and Pentecostal churches. The rapture coming from two of them close to our house has already been mentioned in a previous post you may recall. Increasing numbers of Rwandans are even establishing their own churches although others look askance at what they see as individuals seizing on religion as a business opportunity. And naturally the American evangelicals, with typical, entrepreneurial zest, are forging into this growing field of ecstatic soul redemption. Dawkins' vision of a god-free world is quite a way off.<br />
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</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6982884855308640299.post-5776304335880539632011-05-07T00:28:00.000-07:002012-02-12T18:11:24.610-08:00Umuganda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Unable last week to join a billion other people in goggling at the wedding of an English couple (Prince William and his missus) we have never met, we decided instead that it was a good opportunity to experience umuganda. This is a form of community service initiated as a nation building exercise in 2006, which is supposed to be compulsory for all Rwandans between the ages of 18 and 60, and takes place between 8 and 11 o'clock on the last Saturday of each month. It normally involves activities like weeding, hoeing or cutting but can also entail road building, house construction for the needy or tree planting. Our friend Theophile arranged to meet us near the genocide memorial in downtown Kibungo. Where are your tools he asked as we arrived fashionably late at the work site, a large field next to the memorial? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/denis.walls/Umuganda?feat=embedwebsite#5603219076458801458" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKiEBsE6TI/AAAAAAAAHrY/QjxnpjHvlyo/s320/IMG_1942.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The umuganda field and participants</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The group's task was to cut the grass by hand. Unfortunately I'm not in the habit of carrying long, sharp implements around with me and probably subconsciously believed there would be some spare tools kicking about just as there are at tree planting back in Oz. However, people out-numbered machetes by a wide margin and there was a large number of folk milling around with nothing to do. Two women sat under a tree and checked their appearance. Some older men rested against an embankment and asked what we were doing there. Who could blame the umuganders for not bring their own machetes which might easily disappear into the mix never to be seen again! All this looked promising for my dicky back but I wasn't going to get away with it that easily and was soon offered a machete by someone wanting a break. My action was now under scrutiny. It is de rigueur to put your hand behind your back while carrying out the wide-arc swinging movement. Rule one is to make sure that there is no one standing close by especially when gross amateurs are around. It occurred to me that a few lovely Rwandan cows would make a better job of the field than us but was told by the umuganda coordinator, who turned up in his motor scooter, that it would be disrespectful to the dead in the fenced off graveyard.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jacket spoiled this guy's action</td></tr>
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Rwandan political jurisdictions are divided into provinces, districts, sectors, cells and the umudugudu (or 'village'). The coordinator visits each nearby village on umuganda day to see how things are getting on but the umudugudu leader is responsible for the register of attendance and to make sure that everyone is turning up. Work stopped shortly after 9.30 for a lecture from the leader about what he considered was a poor turnout and asked if this meant that Rwandans didn't love their country. The rebuke was met with total silence from the crowd and was then followed by speeches from other community leaders about ways of correcting recent bad behaviour. For example in the umudugudu during genocide memorial week a stepmother had locked her 8-year-old stepson in the house for four days without food or water. Other stories included a bar that was selling banana beer 24 hours a day when it was only allowed to sell it from 2 to 10 pm. This behaviour had to stop. We actually passed the culprit bar returning from a walk in the valley the next day and wondered how hard it would be for the police to come round and close the place if there was such a problem.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0b1yQ2TXr0Y2Zd0ScxCihQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKie6tmiXI/AAAAAAAAHrw/I9K7A4kbUT4/s320/IMG_1948.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some umuganders resting</td></tr>
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One cool guy with a grass stalk in his mouth was made to stand up and recant because during memorial week he didn't want to go to a ceremony in town but preferred to stay put. One of the leaders accused him of not respecting authority to which he responded that he was being persecuted. The umudugudu leader then recounted an episode where a thief had broken into a house to discover that the owner was inside. There was a fight in which the house owner was able to subdue the thief and call the police.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Ktw-2V5XrR6jFHX4KrVG2Q?feat=embedwebsite" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKjUxXSi3I/AAAAAAAAHsM/RfTzu9HydwQ/s320/IMG_1957.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umudugudu leader addressing the crowd</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As a result of all these incidents the umudugudu council had decided to institute a system of night guards to supervise village behaviour and its security. Each household would pay 500 francs per month (less than a 1$US) for the salary of up to 15 guards to patrol the village.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/gU29CEYp3QQk7gXKf933Qg?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKju7bD6AI/AAAAAAAAHsY/fapo122dvwE/s320/IMG_1961.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Police chief speaks</td></tr>
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I asked Theo why there were so few female umuganders and he said I should ask the meeting so I plucked up courage and did so in my best Kinyarwanda. The leader smiled and said that he would take it on notice and make sure that there were more women next time should I decide to come back. I immediately regretted asking the question as the women were probably flat out at home preparing the men's lunches! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Y9uEOdsKI3BoLtUx5iW7JQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKiRiHYFKI/AAAAAAAAHrk/whqfodmiGFI/s200/IMG_1945.JPG" width="119" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Theo and Lucien, the umuganda coordinator</td></tr>
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The leader also stated that non-attendees would be reported and fined 500 francs (maybe less than a dollar but nearly a day's pay for some people). Feeling even more guilty I thought a 'ni menshi' was in order. ('It's too much' is one of the first things that volunteers are taught in Kinyarwanda in order to learn how to bargain and it has a kind of joke status). There was a laugh but the leader stated there needed to be a stiff fine so that recalcitrants would see the error of their ways and learn to do their civic duty. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/rROXd8RY62WkdTdCESMLpQ?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img height="240" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/_l7TnkUoFKs0/TcKi1cKCuWI/AAAAAAAAHr8/qTqjU5RStwE/s320/IMG_1951.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stella showing her silky cutting skills</td></tr>
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I couldn't help but feel overall that the grass cutting exercise was a bit of tokenism but that the meeting afterwards appeared to serve a useful purpose in managing wrongdoing. I did, however, feel uncomfortable at the social control aspect of dealing with the guy who didn't want to do what he was told which was reminiscent of scenes in societies much less democratic than Rwanda.</div>Denis Wallshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10424266048876300613noreply@blogger.com0