The Donkey Dash - Everybody's Business in Lamu

It was hard for this sheltered suburbanite to watch the treatment of working animals in Lamu. Life in Africa is harsh, more often than not aimed at little more than survival and animals are functional, not pets. There is no doubt that my pampered cats wouldn't survive the culture shock should their next travel adventures include Lamu!

Having said that, the fishmonger was very kind to the flock of felines always gathered around his door. He and they have reached an agreement - they don't enter the shop until summoned in to accept the piscean scraps he saved for them, and he made sure there was enough for the gang.


So the Lamu cats are on a good wicket and shown kindliness. Donkeys, however, are clearly ranked somewhat lower on the affection scale and are regarded as beasts of burden.

There is something inherently sad about a donkey. AA Milne was spot on with poor, depressed Eeyore. Maybe it has something to do with the donkey design - dainty hooves, oversized ears, liquid eyes and a bony spine emblazoned with that cross...pathos personified.




In Lamu town, unfettered and resting donkeys sought out every available scrap of shade and gently dozed, enjoying a few moments of peace and rest, or nibbled hopefully at bits and pieces of litter. The rest stood patiently while enormous panniers were heavily loaded with many kilogrammes of coral blocks, cement, grain, even people before being slapped into motion under these mighty burdens. 

My frequent donkey photographic stops caused plenty of stares and often a conversation with passers-by. "It's a donkey, she's pregnant," was one memorable remark about a poor jenny whose bulging sides heaved in her efforts to draw breath into lungs obviously squashed beneath a soon-to-arrive foal. Donkeys lining the streets are such an integral part of daily life the locals don't notice them at all and they were pretty gobsmacked that someone would photograph them. A lot.

With this casual disinterest in the beasts so obvious, it was really interesting to watch a donkey break for freedom along the seafront one morning. A mad clatter of 16 hooves rang out on the paving stones, much louder than the yells of the young lad they were escaping from. To my complete astonishment, pedestrians in the path of the donkey dash put down their own parcels and stood in the way, arms outstretched. One man successfully grabbed the rope halter of one and calmly "tshush, tshush-ed" his captive while another pointed out the jetty access ramp that the other donkeys had also noticed and were veering towards. More helpful wranglers on the jetty positioned themselves in the way making frantic grabs for a bit of donkey and within minutes the poor animals were prisoners once more.

A telling incident about community bonding and helpfulness without pause for thought and another lesson from Africa.

Holiday with a conscience - making a difference

Choosing to holiday in Africa is a big decision -
- It generally involves an (expensive) long-haul flight,
- It's more difficult and costlier to get around once you arrive,
- Food and general hygiene and living conditions are often not what you are used to,
- Your senses and emotions will be at times be assaulted by overwhelming exposure to impoverishment,
- It is an expensive holiday compared to other destinations,
- Safety and security - we are all hyper-aware of unknown danger and travelling in strange countries makes us doubly so,
- Travel warnings - anxious to reduce any possible risk to their citizens, governments can overreact to incidents and condemn an entire country.

And herein lies the rub. Over the four years that Him Outdoors and I have been visiting Kenya, we've seen the tourist industry crash and burn after a couple of terror incidents in local taxi ranks and markets in north-east Kenya. Returning to Nairobi after a weekend in Mombasa one time, we were astounded by the jostling, noisy crowd of foreign tourists pushing their way to the check-in counters. There wasn't a seat to be had on any airline and lots of shouting ensued. Everyone wanted to get out of Mombasa NOW.

We immediately knew why the chaotic scene was playing out - the drive-by shooting at a local bar a few days previously, a bar we'd actually parked outside while in the queue for the ferry into Mombasa. A local man enjoying his Tusker was killed and this is very sad indeed but how did it affect hundreds of tourists holed up in their luxury beach hotels miles away?

Ditto the bomb in a mainland Lamu marketplace. Lamu is more than a town, an island and an archipelago, it is also a county, ie state or province, encompassing both islands and mainland. Lamu was splashed on front pages across the world and the tourist cancellations rolled in faster than high tide. The fact that tourists to Lamu were on an island many kilometres and a boat ride away from the mainland market, in absolutely no danger, didn't receive any airtime. 

No matter, Africa is dangerous, right? Let's not go there. And within months, hotels on the Mombasa coast began closing with estimates of 1500 people losing their jobs while the Lamu tourist industry ground to a halt. Understand that in Africa, a breadwinner is a highly valued member not only of his family but of his community. He/she supports up to 3 generations of a large extended family and is critical to the survival and education of his clan. When that income dries up, many suffer and no, social security isn't even a pipe dream in Africa. There is absolutely nothing coming in to the household.

Let's put a personal face on it, shall we? While in Malindi recently I made a quaint little restaurant my daily 'go-to' place where I spent time engaging with Lawrence the waiter. Lawrence has a sharp sense of humour and is filled with stories of days gone by and ideas for resurrecting the dead and buried Malindi tourist scene. Lawrence was once a receptionist at a hotel, considered by the community as a very prestigious job indeed. He was full of helpful suggestions for places to visit and recommended trustworthy guides and drivers if needed. He'd built up his contacts over his years of helping hotel guests make their local travel arrangements.

So what happened when Malindi, almost 300 kilometres away from Lamu and the same from Mombasa, suffered the collapse of foreign tourism? Lawrence's hotel closed and he was out of work. He considers himself blessed to have his restaurant job, spending long days on his feet and suffering rude customers (I watched one lady flatly refuse to stop smoking inside the tiny restaurant and be very rude to him regarding the wine he served), but it's a far cry from being a respected receptionist.

Lawrence waiting for customers

"Marketing!" He exclaims. "No-one is marketing Malindi and we don't have enough big hotels. The tourists don't come here anymore. Once, the high season was July to September and then end October to January. Now, we are lucky if we have a busy December."

Yet daily, Lawrence, the chef and the dishwasher don their crisp uniforms and diligently unlock the restaurant door. Tables are laid and cutlery shined then they sit down to wait for a customer. Usually, that was me, their solitary client for the lunch service, sometimes there would be a party of four for dinner.

There is little industry or agriculture in the area and Africa as a whole is heavily reliant on tourism so when that drains away, impoverishment and desperation rise - the scales are heavily loaded. 

Do your homework well but keep your commonsense wits about you when reading about African destinations. Big cities are big cities the world over, they are no more dangerous in Africa than anywhere else but what you will find throughout the continent are warm people eager to greet and engage with you and willing to help and get involved if needed. And for the love of all that is holy, Africa is a continent of 54 countries and over 1000 languages. It covers an enormous landmass so no, if there is Ebola in the Congo it doesn't affect your holiday in Cape Town! But you might want to watch out for Texas, more people have had Ebola there than in Kenya...

Your visit to Africa, to anywhere in Africa, has immense repercussions far beyond an annual vacation. It's a lifeline providing dignity and self-respect to hundreds of people reliant on the job created by tourism. Consider it a charitable contribution if you will, and smile while paying a premium for your holiday package. I promise you that you will gain so much more than the pain of a holiday that isn't as comfortable, perhaps, as you can get elsewhere. Here, your dollars make a difference to a descending ladder of dependants. Here, you find life that is real, energised and grounded. The breathtaking beauty, warm and friendly people, the timeless quality of cultural heritage will revitalise your soul and you'll take home so much more than memories and photographs.

Beaches with room!

  

Take nothing but photographs...and sometimes not even those

I've just enjoyed the most incredible few days on the island of Lamu, in Kenya. A UNESCO World Heritage town, this ancient Swahili settlement has preserved much of the old ways, skills and culture, a difficult task in our everchanging world.

It is interesting to me to reflect on people's differing responses to Lamu. Comments from 'you absolutely MUST go, the old Arabic influence is so beautiful' to 'Lamu was a big disappointment, just a lot of broken down old buildings' rang in my ears. 

Quite. Horse for courses indeed.

I fall into the 'if it's old it is to be treasured' brigade so Lamu and I got on famously and from my side it was love at first sight. Actually, I had fallen head over heels with the idea of Lamu years ago and a huge lump of emotion caught in my throat before the ferry boat from the airport across the channel to Lamu town had even cast off. It was absolutely, perfectly, exactly as my dreams, but better because it was real.

If you've ever contemplated visiting, do so now. The first boda boda motorbike taxis have arrived on the island and the seawall is no longer sufficient to keep technology and the millennium way of life at bay. A high tide of change is approaching, UNESCO site or not.





Chatting to some Aussies it was fab to find fellow travellers with the same ideals. They'd spent what they considered a wasted day at Shela, the gorgeous and romantic beach resort area just outside the old town. Screwing up their noses they firmly said that there is "nothing like the real grit of Africa, Shela is just too clean and modern." 

Those damn horses again...

Meanwhile, we embraced the Old Town complete with noise, donkey turds, less-than-aromatic aromas and nasty rubbish heaps partially hidden behind tumbledown walls. Oh, and the early morning, lunchtime and Friday chorus megaphoned from several majids! It has to be said, however, that we quickly picked up the different 'sermons' - one chap preached with fervent energy, brooking no argument. Another was poetic; I was entranced by his sing-song storytelling. A third seemed to be on repeat, the same or similar sounding phrases over and over. 






Somehow, the strangely elastic dimension of time over Lamu, which bends and stretches on top of and around rather than linearly, crept into the fibre of my soul. Everything happens slowly, bringing with it an ability to embrace and accept absolutely all as perfect.

Deep, soul sigh of contentment and wellbeing.   



Even my beloved hobby, photography, changed approach. I'm addicted to taking photos in an endeavour to capture and keep every slice of beauty that I see. Conversation over breakfast one morning debated the point of hiding behind a lens. As Oz No.1 said, someone has already taken that photo and he has now decided to be in the moment rather than fuss with snapping away. It's true my external hard drive bulges with thousands of images I don't even look at, typical of most camera happy people. But still...



After that, I consciously put the camera down, a lot, so as to better be right in that place at that time and yes, it was the right thing to do. 

Although hedging my bets, I set aside my last day strictly for photography and ambled up and down the narrow passages for hours, pausing often to photograph.             







Ending up in Mkunguni square in front of the Fort, it was time to spend an hour sitting on a stone bench watching Lamu going about its business before moving to the seafront and absorbing the action along there.


I do believe that I found a balance. Now to hold fast to that in future...

Blinded by the Light

"It requires surgical repair that can't be done in Kenya. You could try the UK or South Africa," the physio suggested. Involuntary tears quivered on my lower lashes. "You can't be serious, it was just a stupid fall. Surely you can physio the kinks out?"

"I'm not touching your shoulder. Osteoarthritis, labral tears in 2 places, the supraspinatus tendon completely off the bone. Surgery, 4 weeks in a sling then we can begin 6 months of rehab. You'll be seeing enough of me in future."

Stunned and shaken, for the next few days I alternated between tearful gulps and bitter anger. My October trip to SA was now in complete disarray and must be pulled forward and a heap of plans and reunions cancelled. Why? How? Not fair! Then I thought about my good friend Di Atherton, a marvel of strength and mindful attitude. Poor Di came off second best in a battle she calls 'Gate vs Di' (www.diatherton.co.za/gate-vs-di-lesson-1-flow/) when a heavy gate landed awkwardly on her leg, doing unspeakable damage to her knee. More than a year, several operations and months on crutches later, the diligent regular recountings of her lessons, pain endured, frustration, small successes, backward steps, responses, emotions, appreciation and gains have inspired all who know her. She's my role model not only for surmounting the difficulties with a positive attitude and a smile but for openly sharing, with painful honesty, the emotional hurricane she was living through. Sometimes, the pain, frustration and anger got too much and she was big enough not to pretend but to be real. We aren't plastic shop dummies with fake smiles, we are humans and our inner child deals with emotions like the child he/she is.

Well, thanks Di, I tried hard but your carefully recorded and shared lessons only got this old bird so far and I continued simmering until I heard a morning news snippet from Afganistan. A school bomb had killed 58 children and without thinking, my emotions faded away completely. My troubles were nothing and I honestly knew that. The emotional fog rolled back, freeing me from the awful weight of anger I'd been lugging around.

Analysing it, I came to the realisation that we can read and hear about all the lessons learned by others and be inspired by them but even if facing the identical situation, those lessons are not ours. In fact, 'lesson' has become my latest irksome word - smugly overused to elevate the 'student' to a higher level so from now on, it's banned from this blog!

We each have to find our own key to acceptance, triggered by something which may be random but is intensely personal and vibrates on a level we are barely aware of until we find it. I don't know why 58 children killed violently in their classroom on the other side of the world was my key but it was and I'm thankful for it.

So after a long 10 days waiting for a medical appointment in SA, things came to a rapid head last night and in a flurry of activity consultation and surgery dates were secured, flights rebooked and my support network for lifts and pre- and post op accommodation activated. But when I spoke to my sons, nerves jangled and tears threatened and they picked that up, unknowingly gifting me with a treasured nugget that I'm going to cling to over the months to come.

Unbidden and individually within the space of 20 minutes the intense, studious post-grad scientist and the swaggering airline captain revealed their interior true selves and took my breath away. As parents, we proudly revel in our offspring's exterior selves - successful, intelligent, witty, kind, good-looking, whatever they show to the world but their deeply caring responses are less often seen. 

I got hold of No 2 son first and updated him not only with new dates but admitted that travelling to visit him post-op was going to be difficult so I wouldn't be able to see him. "No problem, I'll speak to my supervisor tomorrow and ask for special leave. Then I'll speak to No 1 son and find out if he can get me a bargain air ticket and I'll come to you. Relax, No 1 and I will sort it out and let you know." This young man is currently on the clock, the countdown to completing and submitting his Masters' thesis has begun and time is short. Yet without hesitation and on a tight financial budget, he's putting down his work and making time to see me.

No 1 called and within minutes had me laughing as only he can - he has a wickedly sharp sense of humour that is absolutely irresistible."I know you are scared and nervous and emotional," he roared, "not to mention frustrated and fed up, in pain blah blah. That's normal but the real issue with you is the same as I had a few months back. Age. You're getting older and no longer bounce. When I had that fall in June, the hardest thing was realising that I'm old and not made of rubber anymore" Age? He's 28! And absolutely on point as he so often is. But at least his fall had a great story attached, involving a bachelor party, a climbing wall and copious amounts of alcohol, with a bad ending - he suffered some serious and very painful damage to his back and leg. 

"I'll pick you up from the airport tomorrow, you'll spend the night with us then I'll take you back for your flight the following day. I'm flying to Ndola on Wednesday, leaving 3 hours later than you but it's no trouble to go in early. And I'll call No 2 and sort out his flight, you know what he's like, he'll forget to call me until last minute so I'll handle this. Don't worry about a thing, I'll get him to either Joburg or Durban, wherever he wants."

Wow. Just...wow. Unexpectedly bathed in the light of their love, care and compassion, I floated in grateful bliss, all my fears forgotten. To experience all the love that I'd poured into them now sent back to me in spades, unasked and totally unexpected, was blinding. I am so blessed to have the opportunity to see for myself the kindness and care residing within those souls that are so precious to me. 

This beautiful gift glows inside me and when the going gets a little rough will, I am sure, pulse soothing light into the darkness of spirit. Nakupenda 1 & 2.

A Tale of Two High Teas

Like many good tales, it begins with a celebration, a significant birthday. Lingering traces of colonial ways in Nairobi enticed us to indulge in that ultimate tradition - high tea.

Hemingways, the bastion of serene plantation-style elegance in Karen was the venue and their reservations staff primed and prepped for our celebration.

The best planning and preparation in the world, however, can fall through the cracks and unfortunately, our reservation appeared to have done just that. Politely blank faces greeted our arrival and, obviously put on the spot, the kitchen took almost an hour to present the gorgeous spread while we sat forlornly on the couch waiting.

Ok, I made the forlorn bit up, we had excellent people-watching time - peak safari season brings out the tourists in their best Abercrombie and Fitch or LL Bean bush gear, accessorised with mobile phones glued to their hands, eyes devouring the screens. One of the most beautiful settings in Nairobi ignored for the pull of global connection. Hmm. And it was amusing to watch the exquisitely tailored guest relations manager sprint past on his way to corral the muddy group of youngsters tracking considerable amounts of the Maasai Mara (more likely the elephant orphanage) onto the pristine tiles. Deftly, he suggested they pause a while and allow the staff to clean their shoes before going to their rooms. This was so gracefully done, the brats were oblivious to the damage and alarming disarray they'd caused!

The high tea, when it arrived, was magnificent, a feast we took our time over, delicately devouring every crumb. Yum!

Still, perhaps because the hotel was heaving with guests, the service was neglectful and didn't improve at all. So disappointing, in fact, that encouraged by Him Outdoors, I later wrote to the Food and Beverage Manager and politely reminded him that this was a birthday tea and we'd been let down.

Full marks to dear Wilberforce, he got right onto it and within a few hours we were invited back for a complimentary 'do-over' at our earliest convenience. Pretty awesome, we thought.

High Tea Take Two - incredible! Same delicious food divinely presented but the service was on a totally different level. Greeted and ushered to a table set for two in a private spot, we were treated like royalty for the next 3 hours. They even brought a hat stand along to hang our handbags on "I don't want your bags on the floor getting dirty!" Eric explained. Wilberforce called past a couple of times, Prosecco was added to the table and we had a whale of a time, being outrageously spoilt. This is more like it and Hemingways exceeded the highest expectations. We left floating on air, indulged beyond anything we could have dreamed of.

Having appointed ourselves professional High Tea ladies, we've decided that a comprehensive review of all the high teas on offer in Nairobi is our next challenge and the list has been drawn up. There are a surprising number of places offering high tea but our standards are high and we've discounted the ones held on rooftops and inside coffee shops - high tea should be served in the garden surrounded by gracious trees and greenery, birds and butterflies. That caveat saw Sankara, Rosa Kempinski, The New Stanley and Urban Eatery struck off. Giraffe Manor caused a little excitement until we saw the price - $50 each! Scratch that one then. The ancient and venerable Muthaiga Club lived up to expectations when succinctly replying to our enquiry - "High Tea is served to Club members only." Considering that access beyond the gates is strictly members only, no real surprise there. 

We have enough (6) to get cracking on with and anyway, let's face it, stuffing our gills with delicate eats has consequences for our bottom lines. Once we've announced our overall Best High Tea in Nairobi, we'll have to return regularly to ensure the standard is maintained. The things we do to keep people informed!

Boozy Blues

Blue is my favourite colour (well, mostly. Selecting just one of many options isn't something I do, therefore it depends on what day it is and how I'm feeling as to whether the 'favourite favourite' is blue, green, cerise etc.) Let's stick with blue for now, otherwise this wouldn't be much of a story.

A strong believer in allowing serendipity to choose whenever possible, the sparkly aquamarine nail polish hidden in the salon basket was the perfect colour for my pre-beach pedicure. Proving the point, said polish's name was Beach Bum Blu. Exactly right! See:

Tell me that isn't a perfect match! A week in Diani's balmy, fragrant air and lolling in translucent turquoise waters was restorative beyond words and to be truthful, there was a sulky dropped lip when Him Outdoors called time and said we had to return to Nairobi.  

Buying wine in Kenya is difficult at the best of times, thrice so when the Beach-less Blues cling and the lip remains stubbornly drooped. The little supermarket liquor outlet, the size of my bathroom at home, presented the usual conundrum - which overpriced plonk to choose? Hold on, what is that sapphire glow at the back of the Chardonnay shelf? Has someone misfiled the Bombay? 

No, it is indeed Chardonnay. A blue Chardonnay, Alma Azul Blue Soul, matching my still-Beach-Bum'd toes and memories of that gorgeous Indian ocean. A must-have gem of aquamarine delight was just what the doctor ordered for Blue Monday. 

This tale of cerulean delight has further twists. I showed off my deliciously blue purchase on Facebook and was surprised to get a note from my London-based cousin whom I haven't seen for decades. This wine she must have, it's the perfect match for her corporate brand and would make the ideal client gift. Can she get it in London? Does it taste good? 

Fancy that. She lives in the centre of the universe and my treasure is a revelation to her! Yup, I reckon she'll find a case or two of Spanish vinho somewhere in her city. Hold on, her mother is right at this minute holidaying at their summer house in Spain, about 20 miles from the Alma winery in Almeria. Dear aunt was alerted that a shopping expedition was called for but before heading out, tasting had to be done and no better person than yours truly and her friend and neighbour to take one for the team. We'll drink the blue stuff!

Even the cork is blue!

We took it seriously, I promise. Tasting portions were poured and we sat back, lips smacking, sniffing and swirling. "It's so fruity, mango?" wine ignoramus posited. "Apricots," declared Maria. Definitely. We sipped and mused, refilled to muse some more and in a trice, the beautiful bottle was bare. Can't be, we were just having a tasting!  

We agreed that we'll have to try the Alma Azul sparkling wine we saw in another wine shop, there really is no point in doing a half job. 

Isn't it amazing that in a teeny Nairobi supermarket wineshop we have unearthed a novelty wine made a few miles from where my aunt summers? And found the perfect corporate gift for my cosmopolitan cousin on the other side of the world? 

Living in Africa is a permanent lucky dip. Around every corner there is something interesting and astonishing. Life is never boring and while 'blue' is often associated with sadness or depression, for me it is tranquil, the colour of sea, sky and my soul; simply my favourite colour of all. This week.

PS - our tasting notes, in case you stumble across a bottle of Alma Azul Blue Soul Chardonnay:

Strong apricot nose and initial palate. Easy drinking, high novelty value. If reasonable low price a definite wine for casual quaffing. Great corporate or novelty gift. If higher end price , not worth keeping in the cellar. We enjoyed but at the price point here, many better options of quality wine. Xxx

Treehouse Fear Factor

Him Outdoors and I are taking a beach break in heavenly Diani on the Mombasa south coast. A working holiday, I hasten to add. Plenty of hard graft going on from my beach lounger... kind of!

Keeping it real (and in budget!) our accommodation is a backpackers but Stilts is no common or garden establishment - we are living in a treehouse!  (see www.stiltsdianibeach.com) 

Life in a canopy is simply marvellous. Sykes monkeys defiantly glare from their eye-level branch, patiently waiting for us to vacate our veranda so that they can move in on the off chance we've carelessly left any food outside. The pesky blighters made off with our treasured hoard of Jacobs coffee which apparently wasn't to their taste as they scattered it everywhere. Flipping waste!

It may be (probably is!) my imagination but the air above the trees seems richer in oxygen and the rippling birdsong clearer. Every evening we are visited by a bushbaby which lands on the thatched roof with a heavy thump then crawls down the rafters to pause a while on the veranda railing. Sweet thing.

Of course, paradise usually has a snake and the novelty and excitement of living amongst the treetops is tempered by my fear of heights. On a scale of 1 - 10 in terms of fear factor, a solid 9.9. We may only be 3 metres up but add my 1.73m to the top of a ladder and the forward pull when I have to go down is sickening. 

Back in our early days, HO thought my wading streams rather than stride over the wee bridges rather quaint, until we had to cross a disused railway bridge one fine day.

He strode manfully ahead, wheeling his bike then turned to see where I was. Precisely midway and frozen like Lot's wife. Trying to negotiate a wider than usual gap where sleepers had fallen through, I'd looked down into the lazy waters of the Magalies River 20m below and turned to stone in a nanosecond. Chuckles, coercion and impatience became real concern as HO began to realise that this was much more than a personality quirk. Sheer terror fixed me some 50m from either bank and nothing he offered was going to budge this woman. No, I wasn't going to hold his hand and absolutely NOT was he going to carry me across - that would take my feet off solid ground AND raise me even higher! I squeakily suggested a helicopter (ok, I was panicking!) but eventually, cutting a long halt short, the ignominious sight of his beloved clutching a rusty railway line to her chest and slithering across the bridge on her belly proved to him for eternity that taking my feet off solid ground was not a good idea!

So, back to Diani and great excitement about a treehouse that I clearly didn't think through very well. Up I clambered, chattering like a Sykes but, what goes up must come down and this is what I faced:

Probably nothing to you and it's pretty unimpressive in the photos but in real life, this was like standing right at the top of the Eiffel Tower with gravity's claws wrapped around my neck pulling me frantically forward.

It's painful how slowly I mooch down every morning, with a white-knuckle death grip in real danger of crushing the handrails. The planning that goes into ensuring I ascend and descend as few times as possible is laughable!

Still, it's not all bad and we've extended our stay twice, not wanting to leave this treasure of a spot. Vertigo has stood down from Defcon 1 to Defcon 2 and while I'll never be happy at the top of those stairs, I'm sure reaching the bottom rung a little faster now!

48 Hours in Kigali Part Two - Inspire

If Africa was a body Rwanda would lie just below the heart, quite apt, we think, for a country that crashed into the bowels of Dante's 7th circle yet found the courage to climb, hand over hand, back to the surface.

'Courage' is deliberately used here; the essence of courage is undertaking an overwhelming difficulty or pain, driven by a cause worthy of the struggle. Rwanda's national animal, the leopard, signifies ferocity, the Great Watcher and courage. The country is all this for sure.

Squeaky clean streets in Kigali

It must be tiresome for Rwandans to have their tourist industry zoomed in on the inky blackness of their darkest hour; centuries of culture and life overshadowed by 100 days. Yet with calm and graceful patience, the horror is quietly acknowledged and spoken of. "There is more to Rwanda than genocide and gorillas!" exclaimed a Western aid worker. She is right, but first, the elephant in the room has to be confronted and passed.

During our 48-hour visit, we continually asked the same question of ourselves and other tourists. "How did Rwandans manage to move forward and reach this platform of quiet serenity, law and order?" Our eventual theory was that the nation was so broken and destroyed, they willingly followed a strong leadership determined to rebond and rebuild. Traumatised and exhausted, they placed their faith and trust in a government that had fought and shed blood to end the holocaust. 

Signs like this abound in Kigali

Still, on a visceral level, when the machetes and clubs stopped swinging and gunfire died down, what possessed the terrified Tutsis to trust enough to emerge from hiding? How did the Hutu find the courage to stop turning their faces away from the slaughter around them, or to put their pangas down and to re-assimilate themselves into a semblance of society and community? There is a leap of faith there that beggars my understanding.

This was neighbour against neighbour. Godparents handed over their godchildren, priests their parishioners, families their in-laws, patients their doctors, teachers their students to be massacred. The cat's cradle of close connections was tightly knotted; it's completely inexplicable that the bonds of love, respect and friendship could be dissolved so harshly. How does a nation put that behind them to reknit those relationships?

Ranulph Fiennes' The Secret Hunters is the best explanation of how a genocide can happen within a nation that I've ever read. A clever play on human nature is all it takes. First, you isolate Group B, refer to them as vermin (rats, cockroaches) to diminish their humanity. Tell Group A how they are superior and all the woes they suffer (or imagine they suffer) can be laid at the door of Group B. Then you insert slivers of fear into Group A - it is their duty to inform on / report their neighbours. Dire consequences for their own families await those in Group A who don't prove their loyalty to the state. Stage set, let the action begin.

Somehow, the little country in the heart of Africa stopped its own genocide. Then it began to rebuild and repair. A huge part of this surely lies in the Kigali Genocide Memorial, a no-holds-barred unravelling of the slaughter centuries before it actually began. Six years after the genocide, Kigali City Council began to build the shell of this memorial. Only six years! Such emotional maturity is staggering.

The Campaign Against Genocide museum provides a detailed plan of the Rwandan Patriotic Front's campaign to halt the madness. While told with some understandable jingoistic braggadocio, the end result is undeniable. This clean, safe, orderly, united, proud and thriving nation is a shining beacon of healing and forgiveness to Africa and the world.

Patriotic fervour in the campaign memorial - soldiers protect babies (the future), fallen comrades, women (mothers of the nation) all the while staring far ahead into the future.

There is a somewhat Disneylandish feel to the eerily clean and law-abiding city which seems to be run along the lines of a military camp with unquestioned precision. Perhaps this stern paternalistic rule helped the rebuilding process; citizens meekly followed and obeyed, terrified by what they and their neighbours were capable of and only too happy to be directed into line. 

Solar powered advertising on street litter recycling bins

Whatever the mix of ingredients in the Rwandan cake, you will frequently hear "There are no more Hutu or Tutsi, we are all Rwandan." Ethnicity has bowed out to proud nationalism. Viva.

Rwanda today is a wonderful place to visit and next time, we'll leave the city and tour the lakes and hills. Meanwhile, we urge you to support Rwanda whenever you can. Gorilla trekking? Coffee? Flying anywhere? Go Rwanda! Not just because they are a small country with few natural resources to offer the world, but because WE need to hold this African story close at heart and support its success. The deaths of one million people have produced possible solutions to many issues confronting other countries as well, If only our politicians and soapbox shriekers would listen.

Meanwhile, why not follow https://www.facebook.com/RwandaTheHeartOfAfrica/? Incredible photographs of this magnificent country mingle with inspiring stories about the day to day business and happenings. It's my feel-good read when News24 has me throwing my phone across the room!

48 Hours in Kigali Part One - Anger

Him Outdoors and I spent an emotionally traumatic 48 hours in Kigali last weekend, visiting both the Kigali Genocide Memorial and the Campaign Against Genocide Museum. Afterwards, he carried his shock and anger internally while I was prone to sudden tearful outbreaks which he patiently pointed out were fruitless; nothing could be changed or anyone saved. Tears water what was and what could have been, our challenge is to take what we have seen and nurture a path of change.

This piece has been very difficult to type, although I've recited numerous superb drafts of brilliant prose over the past few sleepless nights. Regrettably, all the clever words disappear into thin air with sunrise but this is my way of paying respect to Rwandans both then and now because, although this part is Anger, part 2 is Inspire. The Rwanda Genocide of 1994 is a heavy coin with one side deathly dark, the other a beacon of shining light that brightens humanity.

Fascinated by the Holocaust since my early teens, having visited Dachau in Germany and Vad Yashem in Israel and devoured literature and movies about the genocides in Europe and Rwanda; I believed myself bulletproof and tough enough to cope with Kigali. 

Him Outdoors and I followed our usual museum pattern on arrival, each roaming independently at our own pace. The memorial is astoundingly well laid out, beginning right at the beginning, before European colonisation and drawing visitors deeper and deeper towards the darkness of 1994. The blow by blow account of a well planned, prepared and actioned slaughter is clinical in its precision and thoroughness. The images moved, but didn't shock; who among us hasn't seen visuals of horror-filled trenches and corpses caught forever in agonised death throes? Our screens are overladen with ghastly scenes shot live in Syria and we have armoured ourselves to view others' agony with a certain amount of disconnect. 

But then there it was on the wall - the kick-in-the-belly Genocide Fax sent 3 months before the horror began by United Nations Assistance Mission In Rwanda (UNAMIR) Commander Lt-Gen Romeo Dallaire to Head of UN Peacekeeping Mission Kofi Annan. And the UN reply refusing permission to raid the arms caches or to send the requested 5500 UN troops. Further, instructing Dallaire to pass what he had learnt from the informant directly to the Rwandan head of state, the man planning a genocide. The informant, known only as Jean-Phillipe, disappeared never to be heard of again. Unlike Kofi Annan, who went on to greater things at the UN. 

Alongside were details of the $12 million arms deal between a French arms manufacturer (a deal guaranteed by the French government) and the Rwandan government. A government blatantly attending peace talks in Arusha and declaring on their arrival home that the peace agreement meant nothing, it was just 'piles of paper' and openly boasting of what they would do to the Tutsi after the accord was signed.   

Reading this documentation of historical fact in a museum hit home harder than any press reports had done. Staggering back to lean heavily against the cool wall, overcome with a nausea-induced heatwave and frantically wondering where the closest restroom was, my mind grappled to deal with the bald facts. It was preventable. The world knew. They allowed a genocide to happen, not in another time when ignorance or lack of information could be blamed. Twenty-four years ago.

HO has an uncanny ability to identify a crisis point. From nowhere, a hand pressed my shoulder - "are you ok?" I was incoherent but the bile subsided. Move on, barely taking in the halls following because the cacophony of bellowing anger in my head was blinding.

Fury blazed so hotly that I walked straight through the other genocides covered on the second floor. At least two of them, along with Rwanda, occurred after the UN adopted Resolution 260 on 9th December 1948 - Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. Syria, naturally, being an ongoing genocide hasn't quite made it to museum status yet. 

Breaking point was yet to come. I sat for a while composing my thoughts before entering the Childrens' Hall, called Lost Tomorrows. Now the 100 bloody days in 1994 were narrowed down to a dozen or so photographs of happy, smiling children and babies and descriptions of their favourite things to do and to eat. And how they died. Tears stung as I was introduced first to Francine and Bernadin, aged 17. David Mugiraneza, around the corner, delivered the knock out punch. Little David, aged 10, who loved football and making people laugh and wanted to be a doctor. David, whose last words before being tortured to death were "UNAMIR will come for us."

Too much. Much, much too much. Torture is an age-old method of gaining information; who tortures a 10-year old? But that anguish was nothing compared to the tsunami of grief wrought by the trust and faith a small boy had in the foreign peacekeepers, unaware that they had been ordered to stand by and do nothing. I collapsed into a sobbing heap in the corner, absolutely overcome with shame. Why has France not been hauled before the International Court for aiding and abetting a genocide? Why did Kofi Annan not fall on his sword in shame, the shrill screams of hundreds of thousands of butchered people ringing in his ears?

A few weeks ago a friend and I were given a thorough tour of the UN in Nairobi, and properly drilled (and grilled) about how the UN is for everyone and we should all participate in suggesting solutions to world problems. George, our guide, admitted that the innocence and intentions of a world exhausted by two cataclysmic wars within 30 years has hamstrung the UN of recent times, where national interests supercede international morality and peace. The UN is incapable of preventing catastrophe and its efforts to adapt procedures to deal with this new world are too slow.

Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda and Syria will happen again and again until we, the people, start playing stronger roles in our governments' international policies. Thabo Mbeki's 'An African solution for an African problem' always resonated with me. Not regarding the solution he was pushing for that particular problem, but because Africa is our home. Fifty-four countries and thousands of languages notwithstanding, this is our land and our welfare. No one understands Africa and Africans better than us, even when we aren't getting on or understanding each other at all. 

The African Union has always been a blip somewhere in the outerspace of my consciousness but now, pushed by the lessons of Rwanda 1994, I intend to find out more about it and pay attention to what it is doing. There are lives at stake, yours and mine and, more importantly, our children. We cannot be so focused on what is happening in our hometown that we allow millions of people to die horribly in our neighbourhood. 

"When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?" Apuilan Kabahin, Kigali Genocide Memorial

The Human Landing Strip

Soooo, Him Outdoors is outta town for a few days and I'm free to temporarily rearrange some details at Chez Hippy Hollow to suit moi while his back is turned. Excellent!

First to be dispensed with is the nightly mosquito net ritual. I can't bear the thing, finding it difficult to sleep in a cage no matter how ethereal and gauzy. HO can't sleep without one and it's a non-negotiable T & C in our home when he's here. To be fair, he is a veritable mozzie magnet, drawing them his way and while I'm the type O blood and the only potential (if absolutely bloody impossible now!) preggy person on the list below, I have a fair idea which boxes he ticks and working out isn't one of them! Let's just leave it as his wonderful aura, shall we?

Night 1 went like this:

23h12 - climb into the king sized bed. Claimed the middle and ALL the duvet. Smiled smugly at the neatly drawn back mozzie net. Life is good.

23h14 - Clumsy Cat performed her unique 4-paw landing, completely amazed that she is on the bed. Neither cat has managed to penetrate the folds of netting held firmly on the floor around the bed with weighted hems so this is a treat. And by the way, that expensive mattress that gives you a solid night's sleep even when the tiger climbs alongside - rhubarb. Our 3kg clunker cat sets up a bounce of note.

23h15 - despite having the build of a Massey-Ferguson tractor, Anushka is a cat with paranormal stealth. She discovers the bed is open and available but arrives so lightly I'm unaware of her presence until she brushes my arm with her tail.

23h16 - happy cat sleeping noises from the bottom of the bed while I stretch out to claim every corner for myself. Bliss

23h17 - the rising tempo of a mosquito on it's short final landing approach signals that the blasted insects were waiting, hovering somewhere in the hopes that tonight would be their night. 

23h20 - a squadron of mosquitos de Havilland would be proud of perform a series of descending circuits towards their target, my ear.

23h21 - flinging back the duvet, I grumpily tug at the satin ribbons holding the net and zip up the voluminous tent. Not happy.

23h22 - give my pillow a sulky punch and settle down again.

23h25 - NO! A single combat mozzie is trapped inside the net and decides to fight the Battle of Britain alone. All night. Have you ever tried to evict a single mosquito? Impossible. Sleep out of the question, I entertain myself with memories of a naked HO wielding a pair of underpants and chasing down the irritating buggers, before he upgraded to one of those electric tennis racquet zapper things.

The sticking point is, though, that HO has been proved right about the net and the blasted mozzies have ganged up on the opposing side! 

It's Raining, It's Pouring

And how! The Long Rains have shown their teeth since they arrived late on the 28th February. They were initially very welcome because the Short Rains of late 2017 failed to materialise, making Nairobi a dust bowl. Everything had a gritty feel and whether the water had washed clothes or bodies, it ended up the same shade of African earth... 

Naturally, this being Africa and Africa never doing anything by halves, the first two weeks of March suffered devastating downpours, flooded streets and fields, collapsed bridges and the Rift Valley cracked a little further, right across the Nakuru road and through houses innocently straddling the well hidden fracture.

The rains eased to the occasional drizzle and we felt the season was probably behind us when we scooted down to South Africa for two weeks. Wrong on so many levels, the heavens opened the minute we left and the deluge hasn't stopped. Yet again, open pieces of land resemble rice paddies, whole sections of road are under water, fast gushing streams splash where pavements should be and the mud, oh the mud. Glutinous, sticky, red gloop clings to everything it touches, filling tyre treads and making even Pugly, our little 4x4 Rav, slide to and fro. I've rapidly learned two things - wear wellies 'tween house and car and tread carefully; never be further than a rapid hand grasp away from something solid to cling on to. This mud not only sucks the shoes off your feet, it is a gelatinous ice rink of slipperiness. And it simply will not come off, it has to be painstakingly dug out of shoes and tyres.

We heard over the weekend that the rains are set to last another six weeks, a full month longer than usual. It's not all rain, though. The sun comes out to play quite frequently, making everything steam gently and for a few hours we can bask in the pleasure that only sunlight on your face and arms can bring. Then, pow, the heavens open again.

Him Outdoors' latest project is building an outdoor covered area which is a work in progress and still lacks a roof therefore social engagements at home are tricky to say the least. Friday afternoon and Saturday blazed warm and bright and we felt confident enough to invite our next door neighbours round for sundowners. Playing safe, we set out the chairs and snacks very last minute when we thought we could get away with a garden event. We'd no sooner all sat down then we were gathering snacks, drinks, chairs and ourselves, galloping to the teeny covered veranda we have as the Rain Gods blessed our gathering with intermittent sprinkles.

An hour later another guest arrived and we felt brave enough to try the garden again as the skies were clear, which lasted long enough for us to set everything up before doing the rain fandango yet again. This time, it didn't ease for hours and when sundowners (ha, ha, ha) drew to an end at about 21h30, we had four people facing instant immersion in the dash from our front door to theirs. "Make a gate in the fence between your door and mine!" Emma suggested. In the meantime, we settled for an umbrella relay. Christina went first, then tossed the brollie back over the fence along with one of hers for the next lot of runners. Shrieks of 'watch the mud at the gate' competed with the drumming of heavy rain on the mabati (corrugated iron) roofs. 

Bless the rains down in Africa goes the song and for sure, rain is always welcome here for those in solid houses with a sturdy roof. How the poor street vendors in Karen keep smiling as they brave the wet, desperately draping their goods with pieces of plastic and dashing through puddles to take their wares to customers sitting warm and dry in their cars I do not know. As always, the cheerful, uncomplaining resilience of Africans leaves me warm and fuzzy and I will not for a moment complain about my ruined suede shoes or squelchy, mud covered feet.