ARE YOU BEING SERVED?
If you are in Africa then chances are that you are not, standards of service in Africa vary so much that it is hard to guess what you are going to get. Rwanda in particular suffers from really bad service, and by that I mean bad, really terrible. The irony is that everyone complains about it, and yet nothing gets done. Even restaurant owners complain about the standards of service and yet nothing is ever said to the staff. The Rwandese are very like the British in that respect; they hate to complain, but if they don’t then things will stay the same. My favourite TV show is Fawlty Towers; it is a case study in the English character. In one of the best episodes a brash and loud American arrives late in the night and demands a dinner; however the chef is off duty or drunk and Fawlty has to improvise. He demands a Waldorf salad, which Basil is not familiar with, so the usual farce ensues. The genius of this comedy is that it works on two levels; Americans laugh at the poor level of service, while the British laugh at the fact that the Americans had the temerity to complain.
The British are almost incapable of complaining; quite the opposite, they moan. I will explain; they grumble and mumble behind the back of their hand. You could serve a British person a mud-salad and all you’d get is a slight grumble; they would grumble and not come back. In service you get what you accept, you accept what you are accustomed to, it all depends on your aspirations. Unless you are exposed to higher standards then you are never going to expect better; likewise if you never have competition then you are never going to serve better. The first problem with Africa is our attitudes to service, with such high levels of unemployment most middle-class people can afford a servant. Servants are sometimes treated well but are often treated with disdain and even callousness depending on the person employing them. This attitude often extends to staff in the service sector; and this attitude is reflected back by the staff. The first rule is to treat staff with respect and they will respect you; do not see their status as a reflection of their character.
When I first went to the UK I had a shocking experience; having lived in Africa for most of my childhood I was used to myth of White people being superior beings. I wanted a meal so I went to a nearby restaurant; I had a measly £10 to my name but was well-received in this establishment by a man in his 40’s who was referring to me as “Sir”. I was shocked by an older man calling me Sir; pulled a chair for me, placed a napkin on my lap and generally made me feel like a king. I wondered why he was treating me so well when there was so much racism in society; but I realised that he was talking to my money. That is the basic rule of good customer service; don’t think of the person, think of the money. People in Africa often confer service on the general status of the person when in reality service should be standard; it is the only way to make it second nature. If people have to think of how to give good service then they are doomed to fail; it is like a soldier doesn’t think about discipline, it is drilled into his nature.
Customers should start to demand higher levels of service; there is a saying that “in life you get what you accept.” Customers have to know their rights as the reason why the place is in business; if there are no customers then there is no business. The Americans believe that the customer is king; therefore they have very high standards indeed. Americans will complain at the slightest problem with service and demand a lot for their money; therefore they receive more. This is determined by the high level of competition; if they do not receive good service then they go elsewhere and they do not go quietly.
It is one of the biggest shocks for a foreigner or Rwandan from the Diaspora to see the shocking levels of service in some local establishments; even the President has said that something needs to done about the issue. I met my brother for a meal and the waiter was picking his nose while scratching his testicles; my brother didn’t even notice it but I was shocked. I was in the bank and was leaned up against the counter when someone managed to squeeze in and engage in what can only be called inane banter. “Ko wa buze? Ko wanyanze?” How come you’re lost? Why did you reject me? This went on for a while; Rwandans are the World Champions at idle-talking. Hours can pass without anything of value being said; they can say “Bite se?” for hours, back and forth. I eventually got my money.
When I complain about the level of service I am seen as either too westernised or dragging my country down; but is that so? Rwanda has made massive steps forward because our leaders have decided that certain standards had to be raised. Kigali is one of the cleanest cities in Africa but it was not always this way. Rwandans were content to live in filth until the government and the Mayor made a conscious decision to clean up the city; now it seems as if it has always been that way. To change the service standards in Rwanda will be a mammoth task but it has to start on a management level. A friend of mine once ordered meatballs, when they arrived he noticed they were dripping with blood inside; he asked to speak to the manager who munched on one then put it back on the plate and claimed they were fine.
The management level exists in order to direct change and maintain standards; they are crucial in the fight for higher standards. It would be impossible to train all the waiters and waitresses in Rwanda but we can train managers and they can pass on the training to their workers. The Ministry of Commerce and the Private Sector Federation have to make it compulsory for all public service firms to train their managers in basic customer service. Customer service is a strict discipline and not something that can be done without proper training; it is a series of steps and procedures that have to be drilled into the mind of the service provider.
There are certain factors that affect customer service.
Culture – Whether the culture in stratified or more egalitarian affects the expectations and delivery of service.
Competition – This is required to drive up standards; more competition means better service. However it requires a higher standard to be established first; then when a monetary advantage is gained then all the others copy.
Training – This is necessary to raise standards and is clearly needed in Rwanda.
Pay - People in the service sector need to be paid better so it can be seen as a viable employment choice and not just something you do because you do not have a choice. Tipping would be a good way to introduce performance related bonuses to the service sector. If you feel that you have been treated well then you add a little bonus to the bill, this would make it essential for workers to treat you well. There isn’t a culture of tipping so it would be hard to force people to do so but it will come soon. Maybe adding a service charge would be good.
Promotion and career development – Waiters need to see the prospects of career development in service, training should be provided to help people achieve personal development.
The one expression the drives me mad is “This is Africa!” this is used to cover up any inadequacy that exists. I was in Kampala and saw human shit on the pavement, “this is Africa!” was the refrain. I saw a goat eating rubbish in town, “This is Africa!” I was in Kigali and saw the poor level of service and was told the same “This is Africa!” Since when did African mean to be stupid, unprofessional, lazy, dirty, and corrupt? I am always told never to complain about stuff I see around; everything is judged in the context of where we have come from, this was country where bodies were piled high as hills. So bad service pales into comparison; this is a country where a high sacrifice was paid for what we see here, nearly a million innocents, many of our finest died to liberate this land. Any complaint is seen to be disrespecting all those who died but we cannot improve if we cannot criticise.
It takes a while to learn the language and tone to use to criticize, because Rwandans are sensitive and you have to tell them gently in a very subtle way. The best way is by setting an example; instead of complaining you should set up a good establishment to show the way, it is very easy and the competitive advantage would make it profitable. Soon everyone would be copying you and standards would be up. We have a lot of our East African cousins come here to set up businesses and they have brought with them higher standards in service, they are going to drive Rwandans out of business but the locals will soon learn. One day “this is Africa” will be a positive statement.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
NKUNDA - THE REBEL WE LOVE TO HATE
It is ironic that a man called “I love” can engender so much hate from the World. The “Rogue General” is a tag that has stuck and is used as if it were a fact of life, as he is the main belligerent that is causing all the troubles in Congo. Even the UN peacekeepers have declared war on him, the press have vilified him, and even a US government official has called for him to just go away. He is a complex man and is as much a symptom of the Congo crisis as a cause of the crisis. If he were to be removed from the situation then maybe a more virulent rebellion would emerge and even worse eventualities like a Rwandan Invasion again. I had an unfortunate falling out with a good friend who is a VOA correspondent over what I saw was an unfair bias towards the Congolese government view. She tried to be as fair as she could but impartiality is the journalist’s version of a fool’s errand, sometimes no matter what you say to balance it; you will always be accused of bias one way or another. Especially when sides are as entrenched as they are in Congo.
Nkunda is more of a liability than a blessing to Rwanda; few in the outside world take the threat of the FDLR seriously, these genocidal remnants of the old regime are as much a threat to Rwanda as they ever were. True the Rwandan military can deal with the threat easily but they could still cause major carnage. Nkunda has made a number of mistakes that have landed him in this situation and perhaps deserves the “Rogue General” tag; he is generally assumed to have aid from Rwanda but if he did, then he would be fighting for control of Kinshasa and not Mashakye. His grievances are local and so is his scope, besides he can easily fund himself from Coltan mines and wealthy Businessmen.
His first mistake was sticking to the ethnic line; he claims to be a protector of the Tutsi when it is all Congolese in those areas that need protection from him. The Congolese army commits mass-rape, torture, killings, looting and pillages as a matter of course; as was witnessed by Arnaud Zaytman of the BBC when they took Rebel-held towns last week. He described looting and uncontrolled frenzy as they took the town; there were no townsfolk left to rape so it was held to a minimum. Even when the RPF first invaded Rwanda and was a majority Tutsi entity; their agenda was non-ethnic and in due time they were able to achieve support from all sides. By claiming to protect one side he is excluding many potential allies, and that shows that he is purely a reactionary and not a revolutionary.
The tremendous wealth that abounds in Eastern Congo has skewed his thinking and given a whole new dimension to the dynamic. Congo has always been ungovernable; I remember my Grandfather telling me stories of our greatest king Rwabugiri, who conquered parts of Congo only to find it totally unruly. Ironically Rwanda did the same 150 years later and was caught in the same quagmire. The history of Congo is peppered with countless local heroes who shone bright for a while till they were washed away by the river. The Rwandese capture of Congo is the greatest story never told; imagine a country the size of Belgium taking over a country 80 times its size, with 10 times the population. I love to sit with veterans of that war and hear those telling stories of pure insanity and I wonder why the world never hears of them.
Like the Mai-Mai; a mystical cult of savages that believe that dousing water on their bodies gives them immunity from bullets. They came screaming like banshees armed with only two or three rifles as they rush towards you in riot formation, a machinegun simply mowed them down like a harvesting scythe of death. They never stop screaming, even as they die; as they withdraw they inform you that they will be back at 3:45 tomorrow afternoon. And low and behold they arrive on time and screaming again. Every failed attack results in the gruesome death of the “Mama Social” a lady witch who blesses the water and picks the time of attack. The worst times are when they stalk you through the jungle with arrows bringing silent death to columns of soldiers.
The world still understands Congo through the prism of “The Heart of Darkness” a novella written by Josef Conrad over 110 years ago that is in everyway relevant to the current situation in Congo. Many think that the Book is a negative portrayal of Africans but in reality it is as much about the savagery of White men as it is about Primitive Blacks. The line between the Noble Savage and the Savage Noble is constantly blurred; and that is the Congo paradox: it makes corrupt men out of honest ones. Nkunda is Kurtz, Nkunda is Captain Marlowe. That is why I was at odds with my American friend; it is very dangerous to divide people into Heroes and Villains because they are fluidly changing. Nkunda may have started with noble ambitions but the “curse of wealth” struck again. Whatever you say about him he is a freedom-fighter to many, but he is also a multi-millionaire. He has taxed mines, farmers, border traffic to amass a great fortune for himself and his backers. The international dimension cannot be ignored; the information age is driving Nkundas rebellion as foreign companies vie for coltan for Laptop circuitry whatever the human cost. Dell, Toshiba, Hewlett Packard, IBM and all other computer manufacturers are equally culpable for the gang-rape of Congo; Nkunda and Kabila held her down while they ravaged her.
The war has lead to tremendous suffering in the local population; some see this war as not between Nkunda and the Government but a war against innocents. Both sides are accused of serious human rights abuses against women, children, the elderly and all these claims are justified though unverified due to the lack of independent observers on the ground. Mass-rape, torture, and death are widespread; neither side can claim innocence. When I visited Kenya I saw the biased view presented to the world; the government view was prevalent. Joseph Kabila was seen arriving in Goma to finish off the Rogue General; with sheer determination and muscles bounding out of his tight shirt. They presented short straggly mangy imps who they described as Tutsi soldiers who looked more like Eskimos than Tutsi. The government went on an offensive to win the propaganda war first; claiming to have disarmed Hutu militia, protected Tutsi from Nkunda and even giving out their rations to displaced people.
The world lapped it up; the world is fed-up with the Congo crisis after 11 years of it, plus the Rwanda war which started even before in 1990. The crisis is intertwined with Rwanda and the Great Lakes regions as a whole. Even if an almighty military presence wiped Nkunda off the map, there would still be a problem. As much as the world wants an end to this crisis, it will not come easily. Kabila was winning the media war while Nkunda kept silent and soon Kabila transformed that media bias into a real advantage. The world press became his stenographer merely stating what he instructed them. Nkunda was injured, Nkunda was dead, Nkunda was using child-soldiers, Nkunda was committing mass-rape, Nkunda was using human-shields. And Nkunda just kept quiet and soon he went from being a “Rogue” to being a common criminal in eyes of the global media.
His vilification was complete when the UN; supposedly the most impartial of organisations switched sides and started to support Kabila. Bear in mind that the UN has been accused of massive human rights abuses; from mass-rape, plundering minerals, killings of civilians and everything that the Government and rebels have been accused of. So the UN claimed to be impartial while providing logistical and military support to the government; it is like a referee playing as an extra striker for the home team. Nobody in the world media thought this was peculiar; how could the UN take sides? How was this going to make things more peaceful? As Northern Ireland, Sri Lanka, the Basque region in Spain have shown: these matters can take forever to resolve. Ending war and making peace are two different things.
The next few weeks were unnerving; Kabila got air and intelligence support from the UN and the French in particular, he went from strength to strength. The media joined the band-wagon and trumpeted his victories; which seemed hourly. Nkunda seemed to be on the ropes and nearly knocked out by the combination of the FDLR, FARDC, UN and local militias. I was tremendously saddened by these losses and I wondered why; was it just because he was of Rwandan descent? The truth is that his destiny and that of Rwanda are linked. If he loses then that will give such a moral boost to the Hutu militias and Kabila will flex his muscles on the Goma-Gisenyi border. Tutsis in Congo would be wiped off the map; Hutus in Congo would be further oppressed by their own kind.
As unreliable and uncontrollable as he is; the Rwandan government cannot openly support him; neither can they let him fail. The superior artillery gave the Kabila forces a brief advantage and made them drunk on power as they pursued him into the jungle. The cracks in the armour were there for all to see; the Congolese Army is undisciplined, inexperienced, and poorly trained so few have stomach for a fight. Unlike the troops of Nkunda who are fighting for what they see as survival and some them have fought since the RPF invaded in 1996/97. So soon all these gains were being lost, Nkunda moved to guerrilla tactics against an unwieldy giant.
The crisis is bound to continue as Congo is unable to tackle the underlying issues that underpin the crisis. Congo is big and under-developed especially in the East; whole Armies can hide in its jungles undetected. Hutu militia can learn Lingala and Swahili and blend into Congolese units with ease and never be detected. There was a propaganda war to vilify Congolese Tutsis and persecution to drive them from their homes. Today it is impossible for a Congolese Tutsi to live in Kinshasa, Lumumbashi or any of the major cities let alone in rural Eastern areas where death-squads kill them. True citizenship and protection has to be extended to all Congolese provided they are born there, regardless of ethnicity.
Nkunda is not the saviour of his people; some ethnic Tutsis apparently despise him. Maybe because they are war-weary, after years of fighting they just want to go back to living again. The Banyamulenge were given a share of power during the ceasefire but they were swiftly marginalised after the elections and this has spurred on the crisis. Kabila has staked his personal reputation on winning this battle and it looked to be going his way until recently. He has shunned a meeting with Condi Rice, The Pope, and the Africa-EU summit to oversee the elimination of Nkunda. Maybe he fears a military coup hence his reluctance to leave the country but for now he is popular particularly in the East though this could erode if he fails to deliver a decisive blow to his Arch-enemy. But like the FDLR have shown; a rebel group can hide in the mountains for a long-time and he could just lie in wait while playing hit and run. The government of Congo have to see the Hutu militias as a cause of its problems not the solution; then the Rwandan Government could mediate a cessation of hostilities with Nkunda. What I have realised that while Nkunda is the rebel you love to hate; to me he is the rebel I hate to love. The kind of guy you ask “What are you rebelling against?” he says “What you got?”
Nkunda is more of a liability than a blessing to Rwanda; few in the outside world take the threat of the FDLR seriously, these genocidal remnants of the old regime are as much a threat to Rwanda as they ever were. True the Rwandan military can deal with the threat easily but they could still cause major carnage. Nkunda has made a number of mistakes that have landed him in this situation and perhaps deserves the “Rogue General” tag; he is generally assumed to have aid from Rwanda but if he did, then he would be fighting for control of Kinshasa and not Mashakye. His grievances are local and so is his scope, besides he can easily fund himself from Coltan mines and wealthy Businessmen.
His first mistake was sticking to the ethnic line; he claims to be a protector of the Tutsi when it is all Congolese in those areas that need protection from him. The Congolese army commits mass-rape, torture, killings, looting and pillages as a matter of course; as was witnessed by Arnaud Zaytman of the BBC when they took Rebel-held towns last week. He described looting and uncontrolled frenzy as they took the town; there were no townsfolk left to rape so it was held to a minimum. Even when the RPF first invaded Rwanda and was a majority Tutsi entity; their agenda was non-ethnic and in due time they were able to achieve support from all sides. By claiming to protect one side he is excluding many potential allies, and that shows that he is purely a reactionary and not a revolutionary.
The tremendous wealth that abounds in Eastern Congo has skewed his thinking and given a whole new dimension to the dynamic. Congo has always been ungovernable; I remember my Grandfather telling me stories of our greatest king Rwabugiri, who conquered parts of Congo only to find it totally unruly. Ironically Rwanda did the same 150 years later and was caught in the same quagmire. The history of Congo is peppered with countless local heroes who shone bright for a while till they were washed away by the river. The Rwandese capture of Congo is the greatest story never told; imagine a country the size of Belgium taking over a country 80 times its size, with 10 times the population. I love to sit with veterans of that war and hear those telling stories of pure insanity and I wonder why the world never hears of them.
Like the Mai-Mai; a mystical cult of savages that believe that dousing water on their bodies gives them immunity from bullets. They came screaming like banshees armed with only two or three rifles as they rush towards you in riot formation, a machinegun simply mowed them down like a harvesting scythe of death. They never stop screaming, even as they die; as they withdraw they inform you that they will be back at 3:45 tomorrow afternoon. And low and behold they arrive on time and screaming again. Every failed attack results in the gruesome death of the “Mama Social” a lady witch who blesses the water and picks the time of attack. The worst times are when they stalk you through the jungle with arrows bringing silent death to columns of soldiers.
The world still understands Congo through the prism of “The Heart of Darkness” a novella written by Josef Conrad over 110 years ago that is in everyway relevant to the current situation in Congo. Many think that the Book is a negative portrayal of Africans but in reality it is as much about the savagery of White men as it is about Primitive Blacks. The line between the Noble Savage and the Savage Noble is constantly blurred; and that is the Congo paradox: it makes corrupt men out of honest ones. Nkunda is Kurtz, Nkunda is Captain Marlowe. That is why I was at odds with my American friend; it is very dangerous to divide people into Heroes and Villains because they are fluidly changing. Nkunda may have started with noble ambitions but the “curse of wealth” struck again. Whatever you say about him he is a freedom-fighter to many, but he is also a multi-millionaire. He has taxed mines, farmers, border traffic to amass a great fortune for himself and his backers. The international dimension cannot be ignored; the information age is driving Nkundas rebellion as foreign companies vie for coltan for Laptop circuitry whatever the human cost. Dell, Toshiba, Hewlett Packard, IBM and all other computer manufacturers are equally culpable for the gang-rape of Congo; Nkunda and Kabila held her down while they ravaged her.
The war has lead to tremendous suffering in the local population; some see this war as not between Nkunda and the Government but a war against innocents. Both sides are accused of serious human rights abuses against women, children, the elderly and all these claims are justified though unverified due to the lack of independent observers on the ground. Mass-rape, torture, and death are widespread; neither side can claim innocence. When I visited Kenya I saw the biased view presented to the world; the government view was prevalent. Joseph Kabila was seen arriving in Goma to finish off the Rogue General; with sheer determination and muscles bounding out of his tight shirt. They presented short straggly mangy imps who they described as Tutsi soldiers who looked more like Eskimos than Tutsi. The government went on an offensive to win the propaganda war first; claiming to have disarmed Hutu militia, protected Tutsi from Nkunda and even giving out their rations to displaced people.
The world lapped it up; the world is fed-up with the Congo crisis after 11 years of it, plus the Rwanda war which started even before in 1990. The crisis is intertwined with Rwanda and the Great Lakes regions as a whole. Even if an almighty military presence wiped Nkunda off the map, there would still be a problem. As much as the world wants an end to this crisis, it will not come easily. Kabila was winning the media war while Nkunda kept silent and soon Kabila transformed that media bias into a real advantage. The world press became his stenographer merely stating what he instructed them. Nkunda was injured, Nkunda was dead, Nkunda was using child-soldiers, Nkunda was committing mass-rape, Nkunda was using human-shields. And Nkunda just kept quiet and soon he went from being a “Rogue” to being a common criminal in eyes of the global media.
His vilification was complete when the UN; supposedly the most impartial of organisations switched sides and started to support Kabila. Bear in mind that the UN has been accused of massive human rights abuses; from mass-rape, plundering minerals, killings of civilians and everything that the Government and rebels have been accused of. So the UN claimed to be impartial while providing logistical and military support to the government; it is like a referee playing as an extra striker for the home team. Nobody in the world media thought this was peculiar; how could the UN take sides? How was this going to make things more peaceful? As Northern Ireland, Sri Lanka, the Basque region in Spain have shown: these matters can take forever to resolve. Ending war and making peace are two different things.
The next few weeks were unnerving; Kabila got air and intelligence support from the UN and the French in particular, he went from strength to strength. The media joined the band-wagon and trumpeted his victories; which seemed hourly. Nkunda seemed to be on the ropes and nearly knocked out by the combination of the FDLR, FARDC, UN and local militias. I was tremendously saddened by these losses and I wondered why; was it just because he was of Rwandan descent? The truth is that his destiny and that of Rwanda are linked. If he loses then that will give such a moral boost to the Hutu militias and Kabila will flex his muscles on the Goma-Gisenyi border. Tutsis in Congo would be wiped off the map; Hutus in Congo would be further oppressed by their own kind.
As unreliable and uncontrollable as he is; the Rwandan government cannot openly support him; neither can they let him fail. The superior artillery gave the Kabila forces a brief advantage and made them drunk on power as they pursued him into the jungle. The cracks in the armour were there for all to see; the Congolese Army is undisciplined, inexperienced, and poorly trained so few have stomach for a fight. Unlike the troops of Nkunda who are fighting for what they see as survival and some them have fought since the RPF invaded in 1996/97. So soon all these gains were being lost, Nkunda moved to guerrilla tactics against an unwieldy giant.
The crisis is bound to continue as Congo is unable to tackle the underlying issues that underpin the crisis. Congo is big and under-developed especially in the East; whole Armies can hide in its jungles undetected. Hutu militia can learn Lingala and Swahili and blend into Congolese units with ease and never be detected. There was a propaganda war to vilify Congolese Tutsis and persecution to drive them from their homes. Today it is impossible for a Congolese Tutsi to live in Kinshasa, Lumumbashi or any of the major cities let alone in rural Eastern areas where death-squads kill them. True citizenship and protection has to be extended to all Congolese provided they are born there, regardless of ethnicity.
Nkunda is not the saviour of his people; some ethnic Tutsis apparently despise him. Maybe because they are war-weary, after years of fighting they just want to go back to living again. The Banyamulenge were given a share of power during the ceasefire but they were swiftly marginalised after the elections and this has spurred on the crisis. Kabila has staked his personal reputation on winning this battle and it looked to be going his way until recently. He has shunned a meeting with Condi Rice, The Pope, and the Africa-EU summit to oversee the elimination of Nkunda. Maybe he fears a military coup hence his reluctance to leave the country but for now he is popular particularly in the East though this could erode if he fails to deliver a decisive blow to his Arch-enemy. But like the FDLR have shown; a rebel group can hide in the mountains for a long-time and he could just lie in wait while playing hit and run. The government of Congo have to see the Hutu militias as a cause of its problems not the solution; then the Rwandan Government could mediate a cessation of hostilities with Nkunda. What I have realised that while Nkunda is the rebel you love to hate; to me he is the rebel I hate to love. The kind of guy you ask “What are you rebelling against?” he says “What you got?”
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
THE RULES OF BARGAINING
Having been back in Africa for about three and a half months now; I realised certain truths. Firstly I have been paying too much for everything; I have been ripped off at every opportunity. It is now time to get back what I gave away and the rules of bargaining will help me achieve this. There is now such thing as a price in Africa; it is what you are willing to pay. I am used to Europe, when you walk in a shop and see something costs £2.99 it means it costs £2.99. I was in Tesco with my Dad in Reading when he made me cringe by starting to bargain with the check-out girl. “If I gave you £5 can I get 3?” She had the most vacant look on her face like “What the hell is this guy smoking?” But that is natural in Africa, you can always bargain your way out of everything, even a prison sentence. “Your Honour, 5 years for the robbery and 2 years to run concurrently for the conspiracy, that’s my final offer.”
I realise I have been paying too much for stuff, I now pay 400Rwf for a Moto ride where I used to pay 1000. I now buy stuff for a third of the price as standard. I have learnt the rules of bargaining that have remained the same since the Stone age and have saved Billions of people billions since the dawn of mankind. The moto-riders are my favourites; they tell you how it is. I agreed a fee of 300Rwf with him for 2 km journey, I told him the general area I was going – SONATUBE to see my brother. We set off, when we got to a hill he started complaining “you’re a bit heavy” then “it’s a bit further than you said” when we got there the price was 700Rwf. I was gasping at the hike, he then went into a long lecture about the macro and micro economic factors that led to the hike.
Firstly he said the price of oil was $100 a barrel, the dollar was weak thus driving inflation, and his wife was spending more than he could earn, plus I was fat basically. Of course he wasn’t as eloquent as that but I really admired his chutzpah and let him have the money saying I would curse the money before I let him have it but he wasn’t bothered. I sat there wondering whether I was fat or not, I concluded that I was just heavy because I still fit into my jeans and 100kg is just heavy not fat. I realised that bargaining has no instant winners and losers; you realise in the long run. For example I bought an electrical adaptor; the first price was 5000, I cut the bullshit and offered 2000 and started to walk off but he said “OK just pay!” I was smug till I got home and realised the adaptor didn’t fit my three-pronged plugs.
It’s like in the Simpson’s when Homer shouted at Marge “You said we couldn’t go wrong buying a TV for $20 and look, 12 years later it breaks down.” Only when something lasts long enough to justify your spending can you say it was value for money. It is really tedious to try and buy something; it takes longer than it should do. In Europe you walk for hours looking for bargains but in Africa you talk for hours looking for Bargains, either way you are exhausted.
The rules of bargaining follow simple steps and in African culture it is important to follow them through.
One - Say hello, don’t go straight into the bargain coz he’ll over-charge you, try to establish a rapport. Ask about his family and stuff, talk about how hard times are financially. Always state that you are tired and haven’t eaten all day.
Two – Don’t look too interested, inquire about other stuff. Establish a first price, this will always be roughly double to three times what you will actually pay. Always react angrily to this first price, say that you feel offended by his audacity.
Three- Offer 1/3 of what he offered and start to walk away, he will offer 20% off , look a bit more interested but still disdainful.
Four – Offer 40% of his price, start to criticize the quality of the goods, if it is a tomato say it is rotten, if it is a TV say it is too small, and so forth.
Five – Hold it in your hands and look really keen, then suddenly hand it back. Make it look so close yet so far. And start to walk off and he will offer what you wanted.
That is the problem with Africa, how much tax does he pay? How can the government even know? What rate does he pay? How can someone even know what the proper price of stuff is? No wonder inflation can just jump sometimes; everyone is trying to rip you off. I used to see a taxi-driver just sit there for hours waiting for a customer and when one came along, he’d try to get the most out of them. I asked him why he didn’t just offer lower prices instead of just sitting there all day. He said “There are no nice guys in business.”
We need price-structures, not general price-ranges; we cannot just make up prices as we go.
Having been back in Africa for about three and a half months now; I realised certain truths. Firstly I have been paying too much for everything; I have been ripped off at every opportunity. It is now time to get back what I gave away and the rules of bargaining will help me achieve this. There is now such thing as a price in Africa; it is what you are willing to pay. I am used to Europe, when you walk in a shop and see something costs £2.99 it means it costs £2.99. I was in Tesco with my Dad in Reading when he made me cringe by starting to bargain with the check-out girl. “If I gave you £5 can I get 3?” She had the most vacant look on her face like “What the hell is this guy smoking?” But that is natural in Africa, you can always bargain your way out of everything, even a prison sentence. “Your Honour, 5 years for the robbery and 2 years to run concurrently for the conspiracy, that’s my final offer.”
I realise I have been paying too much for stuff, I now pay 400Rwf for a Moto ride where I used to pay 1000. I now buy stuff for a third of the price as standard. I have learnt the rules of bargaining that have remained the same since the Stone age and have saved Billions of people billions since the dawn of mankind. The moto-riders are my favourites; they tell you how it is. I agreed a fee of 300Rwf with him for 2 km journey, I told him the general area I was going – SONATUBE to see my brother. We set off, when we got to a hill he started complaining “you’re a bit heavy” then “it’s a bit further than you said” when we got there the price was 700Rwf. I was gasping at the hike, he then went into a long lecture about the macro and micro economic factors that led to the hike.
Firstly he said the price of oil was $100 a barrel, the dollar was weak thus driving inflation, and his wife was spending more than he could earn, plus I was fat basically. Of course he wasn’t as eloquent as that but I really admired his chutzpah and let him have the money saying I would curse the money before I let him have it but he wasn’t bothered. I sat there wondering whether I was fat or not, I concluded that I was just heavy because I still fit into my jeans and 100kg is just heavy not fat. I realised that bargaining has no instant winners and losers; you realise in the long run. For example I bought an electrical adaptor; the first price was 5000, I cut the bullshit and offered 2000 and started to walk off but he said “OK just pay!” I was smug till I got home and realised the adaptor didn’t fit my three-pronged plugs.
It’s like in the Simpson’s when Homer shouted at Marge “You said we couldn’t go wrong buying a TV for $20 and look, 12 years later it breaks down.” Only when something lasts long enough to justify your spending can you say it was value for money. It is really tedious to try and buy something; it takes longer than it should do. In Europe you walk for hours looking for bargains but in Africa you talk for hours looking for Bargains, either way you are exhausted.
The rules of bargaining follow simple steps and in African culture it is important to follow them through.
One - Say hello, don’t go straight into the bargain coz he’ll over-charge you, try to establish a rapport. Ask about his family and stuff, talk about how hard times are financially. Always state that you are tired and haven’t eaten all day.
Two – Don’t look too interested, inquire about other stuff. Establish a first price, this will always be roughly double to three times what you will actually pay. Always react angrily to this first price, say that you feel offended by his audacity.
Three- Offer 1/3 of what he offered and start to walk away, he will offer 20% off , look a bit more interested but still disdainful.
Four – Offer 40% of his price, start to criticize the quality of the goods, if it is a tomato say it is rotten, if it is a TV say it is too small, and so forth.
Five – Hold it in your hands and look really keen, then suddenly hand it back. Make it look so close yet so far. And start to walk off and he will offer what you wanted.
That is the problem with Africa, how much tax does he pay? How can the government even know? What rate does he pay? How can someone even know what the proper price of stuff is? No wonder inflation can just jump sometimes; everyone is trying to rip you off. I used to see a taxi-driver just sit there for hours waiting for a customer and when one came along, he’d try to get the most out of them. I asked him why he didn’t just offer lower prices instead of just sitting there all day. He said “There are no nice guys in business.”
We need price-structures, not general price-ranges; we cannot just make up prices as we go.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
ANYONE FOR TEA?
THE IMPORTANCE OF A GOOD CUPPA
George Orwell was one of the seminal writers of the 20th century, his works undisputedly changed the course of human history; 1984, Animal Farm, The Road to Wigan Pier all reflected the change that was monumental in the latter first half of the century while also being prophetic about the dangers to come from totalitarianism. All that said the most moving writings of Orwell were on tea; he loving wrote in great detail about the importance of a good cup of tea. He was meticulous about the process of tea-making, the basic elements of water, tea leaves, milk and sugar should all be balanced perfectly to make the perfect cuppa. The fact is that there are so many ways to make a cup of tea, as many as people who drink it.
When the British colonised the world; they used tea and coffee as a major driver of their economy, tea was the main reason for slavery, or more precisely the sugar in it. Sugar in the 17th-19th Century was as profitable as is cocaine today, when the USA was fighting for independence in 1776 their economy was only 10% of Jamaica which was the main producer of sugar. Imagine a country the size of Jamaica outstripping USA; that was the power of sugar. India was colonised for tea, the Caribbean for sugar, the milk came from down the road.
The legacy of colonialism is hard to define but the 3 C’s are always there. Christianity, Cricket and Chai; former colonies are usually addicted to at least two out the three. Rwanda recently joined the Commonwealth after applying in 1995; the delay was probably caused by the lack of a Cricket board and a good cuppa. The one thing I miss about England is a proper cup of tea; you never know how important it is until it is gone. It has been three and a half months since I had what I could call a cup of tea, I love my country but the tea is truly awful. Ask for tea and what you get is hot milk with so much sugar you’ll throw up while contracting diabetes. The sugar is already mixed in for you and you cannot decide how much you want.
My cousin who is a government operative chided me for my lack of patriotism but I countered that true patriotism is fighting for your country, not drinking tea. I could not walk into an RPF veterans meeting and claim to be their equal because I drink Rwandan tea. The line between jingoism and patriotism is clear. Let’s just say that Rwandan tea is terrible, it is weak and terrible. If Rwandan tea ever got into a fight it would get its butt truly spanked because it so weak beyond words. I thought this was just a Rwandan problem but I was sadly mistaken, when I was in Kenya I was drinking Brooke Bond tea and was really disappointed. PG tips in the UK uses the same tea but it tasted horrible; I came to the conclusion that all the best tea is exported.
The lack of basic quality control when making goods for Africans is astounding; when it is for foreign consumption all the steps are taken to maintain quality; but for the African? Any shit will do. In the UK, the more discerning Brit gages human character on how one makes a cup of tea. I confirmed that I was in love with my first love when she made me the perfect cup of tea. It was just so; not too strong, with just the right amount of milk, it is a perfect compatibility test. I can never make my mother a good cup of tea and this is cause of constant friction between us, it usually takes five takes to satisfy her and I usually give up.
There are so many ways to make a cup of tea; just in the UK these variations are stark. Yorkshire people make their tea so strong that you can tarmac roads with it, Londoners like it weak, Scots like with a drop of whiskey and I know I am stereotyping but I have seen this first hand. One tragedy about USA is that they do not drink enough tea; you can divide humanity into two groups; tea-drinkers and coffee-drinkers. Coffee-drinking affects the character of a nation; when the USA and French were feuding over a UN resolution, I couldn’t help but think the situation was exacerbated by the fact that they were all jacked up on coffee and looking back now it was a stupid argument.
I know that most people drink both, as I do but if there ever was a war between Tea-Drinkers Liberation Front (TDLF) and the Coffee-Drinkers Liberation Movement (CDLM) then I would be firmly in the tea-drinkers camp. Tea is more conciliatory, it is impossible to fight when you have had a good cup of tea; which doesn’t bode well for the TDLF. Coffee is really evil when you think of it; I need coffee when working, it is worse than crack. I have resorted to coffee in Rwanda since I can’t get any good tea. Today I was in Bourbon café with an insane Dane who went apoplectic when he didn’t get the cappuccino he ordered. I thought he was insane but blamed it all on the evils of coffee.
Rwanda is symptomatic of Africa; while the West in well into the age of customisation, in Africa you get what you are given. I was in Kampala when I asked for black tea and was nearly slapped; I asked for one sugar and was nearly beaten. We have a long way to go in realising that the customer is right; ask for tea and you get hot milk with so much sugar that your spoon can stand in the cup. Rwandans are addicted to sugar in a big way, as are most Africans, the dangers of sugar are not known here. I long for the day when a waiter asks me how I want my tea and I will say the following.
Take a pot full of water and boil it
Take two tea-spoons of tea leaves and put in the pot
Allow to brew for 3 minutes
Pour into cup, strain the leaves
Add milk to taste, as well as sugar
Or have it your way; you can have it black, spicy, green, camomile, milky, with ginger, cinnamon, vanilla, and a thousand other ways. When I can have that in Africa then I will know that we have taken a massive step in development. Even if we have new roads and buildings; what good is it if we can’t get a good cup of tea? We need to move to customer-driven innovation, after who is paying?
George Orwell was one of the seminal writers of the 20th century, his works undisputedly changed the course of human history; 1984, Animal Farm, The Road to Wigan Pier all reflected the change that was monumental in the latter first half of the century while also being prophetic about the dangers to come from totalitarianism. All that said the most moving writings of Orwell were on tea; he loving wrote in great detail about the importance of a good cup of tea. He was meticulous about the process of tea-making, the basic elements of water, tea leaves, milk and sugar should all be balanced perfectly to make the perfect cuppa. The fact is that there are so many ways to make a cup of tea, as many as people who drink it.
When the British colonised the world; they used tea and coffee as a major driver of their economy, tea was the main reason for slavery, or more precisely the sugar in it. Sugar in the 17th-19th Century was as profitable as is cocaine today, when the USA was fighting for independence in 1776 their economy was only 10% of Jamaica which was the main producer of sugar. Imagine a country the size of Jamaica outstripping USA; that was the power of sugar. India was colonised for tea, the Caribbean for sugar, the milk came from down the road.
The legacy of colonialism is hard to define but the 3 C’s are always there. Christianity, Cricket and Chai; former colonies are usually addicted to at least two out the three. Rwanda recently joined the Commonwealth after applying in 1995; the delay was probably caused by the lack of a Cricket board and a good cuppa. The one thing I miss about England is a proper cup of tea; you never know how important it is until it is gone. It has been three and a half months since I had what I could call a cup of tea, I love my country but the tea is truly awful. Ask for tea and what you get is hot milk with so much sugar you’ll throw up while contracting diabetes. The sugar is already mixed in for you and you cannot decide how much you want.
My cousin who is a government operative chided me for my lack of patriotism but I countered that true patriotism is fighting for your country, not drinking tea. I could not walk into an RPF veterans meeting and claim to be their equal because I drink Rwandan tea. The line between jingoism and patriotism is clear. Let’s just say that Rwandan tea is terrible, it is weak and terrible. If Rwandan tea ever got into a fight it would get its butt truly spanked because it so weak beyond words. I thought this was just a Rwandan problem but I was sadly mistaken, when I was in Kenya I was drinking Brooke Bond tea and was really disappointed. PG tips in the UK uses the same tea but it tasted horrible; I came to the conclusion that all the best tea is exported.
The lack of basic quality control when making goods for Africans is astounding; when it is for foreign consumption all the steps are taken to maintain quality; but for the African? Any shit will do. In the UK, the more discerning Brit gages human character on how one makes a cup of tea. I confirmed that I was in love with my first love when she made me the perfect cup of tea. It was just so; not too strong, with just the right amount of milk, it is a perfect compatibility test. I can never make my mother a good cup of tea and this is cause of constant friction between us, it usually takes five takes to satisfy her and I usually give up.
There are so many ways to make a cup of tea; just in the UK these variations are stark. Yorkshire people make their tea so strong that you can tarmac roads with it, Londoners like it weak, Scots like with a drop of whiskey and I know I am stereotyping but I have seen this first hand. One tragedy about USA is that they do not drink enough tea; you can divide humanity into two groups; tea-drinkers and coffee-drinkers. Coffee-drinking affects the character of a nation; when the USA and French were feuding over a UN resolution, I couldn’t help but think the situation was exacerbated by the fact that they were all jacked up on coffee and looking back now it was a stupid argument.
I know that most people drink both, as I do but if there ever was a war between Tea-Drinkers Liberation Front (TDLF) and the Coffee-Drinkers Liberation Movement (CDLM) then I would be firmly in the tea-drinkers camp. Tea is more conciliatory, it is impossible to fight when you have had a good cup of tea; which doesn’t bode well for the TDLF. Coffee is really evil when you think of it; I need coffee when working, it is worse than crack. I have resorted to coffee in Rwanda since I can’t get any good tea. Today I was in Bourbon café with an insane Dane who went apoplectic when he didn’t get the cappuccino he ordered. I thought he was insane but blamed it all on the evils of coffee.
Rwanda is symptomatic of Africa; while the West in well into the age of customisation, in Africa you get what you are given. I was in Kampala when I asked for black tea and was nearly slapped; I asked for one sugar and was nearly beaten. We have a long way to go in realising that the customer is right; ask for tea and you get hot milk with so much sugar that your spoon can stand in the cup. Rwandans are addicted to sugar in a big way, as are most Africans, the dangers of sugar are not known here. I long for the day when a waiter asks me how I want my tea and I will say the following.
Take a pot full of water and boil it
Take two tea-spoons of tea leaves and put in the pot
Allow to brew for 3 minutes
Pour into cup, strain the leaves
Add milk to taste, as well as sugar
Or have it your way; you can have it black, spicy, green, camomile, milky, with ginger, cinnamon, vanilla, and a thousand other ways. When I can have that in Africa then I will know that we have taken a massive step in development. Even if we have new roads and buildings; what good is it if we can’t get a good cup of tea? We need to move to customer-driven innovation, after who is paying?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
GHOSTS OF GENOCIDE
WARNING: THIS IS HARDCORE, VERY DISTURBING, DO NOT READ IF EASILY OFFENDED
THE ECHO OF GHOSTS OF A TRAGIC PAST
Rwanda is a new country; only 13 years old, it is racing towards modernity at a speed unseen before. You can feel the progress on an hourly basis; there is strong leadership at the top which guides this often wayward nation on a sound path. Being from Rwanda I now feel a strange sensation; I joined Facebook and have been reunited with so many University friends and they all say the same thing. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FROM RWANDA! I told them a thousand times but it didn’t register; now they’ve all seen Hotel Rwanda and think they know us thoroughly.
“It’s really tragic what’s happening out there.”
“When will they stop killing each other?” That ended 13 years ago.
Then the next question is; “Are you huti or tuti? Are you tuti or fruity or whatever the name is?”
“It’s really sad, the huti’s killed tonnes of tuties or was it the tuti’s killing the fruities? So sad, I sometimes just cry.”
I remember walking into a Rwandan party in Coventry when a woman fainted and had a fit, when I tried to approach her she got worse. Apparently I looked like her son who died and when I saw his picture there was a definite match. I was ordered to leave the party lest I make her have a stroke. In the April rains in Rwanda, survivors suffer from deep depression and psychosis. It is simply called “April Madness” as psychiatric illness is not a recognised fact of life, despite our tragic history.
That is the supreme irony of the genocide; nobody really cares and if they did, it was for the wrong reasons. Now the Genocide is an allegory of human intolerance but is rarely understood nor can it be understood even this long after 800,000 died in 3 months, plus the domino effect of 4.5 million Congolese. I have steadily avoided writing about this topic on this blog but I feel I must now; I don’t know why maybe just because it is logical to do so. There is no logic to the Genocide, one game people play is “the what if game”; what if the world intervened? What if the RPF never invaded? What if the peace deal was respected? What if this? What if that? The sad conclusion is that it was maybe inevitable, it was not random violence it as meticulously planned to the final detail and it would have been carried out whatever.
There are numerous myths about the Genocide; it is used by various parties to promote whatever theory they espouse. Being in England at the time, I had the pain of watching it live on TV while the world did nothing. It affected me in various ways, though indirectly. Firstly was survivor guilt; the fact that I was in a comfortable safe country while people were hacked to death on national TV; this destroys the first myth, that the world didn’t know. It was live on TV, so they knew, they debated in the UN, so they knew. The world still denies this till this day; as if to say “if we only knew”.
The second myth is “the domino effect”; this is mainly peddled by France and other apologists for the Hutu extremists. It says that Rwanda was a powder keg waiting to explode and the death of Habyarimana was the first domino to set off the genocide. His death was planned for what was seen as betrayal in signing the Arusha accords. The swift reaction of the extremist core is proof that they were ready to exploit the situation.
The next is that of a “Dual-Genocide”, Africa is always portrayed as a savage heart of darkness where tribal violence springs up from time to time. Like flash-floods or earthquakes; they are an inevitable inconvenience of life in Africa. Making it look like both sides killed eases the conscience of a passive World Community. But how is that so?
In Rwanda massive steps have been made to reconcile the survivors and killers; the government has made a conscious decision to do so. This is because it could not afford to wait for people to gradually feel the need to forgive; it had to compel them to, for it was too dangerous to wait. In Rwanda the development is compensating for the years of decline, when in 30 year after independence almost nothing was done to develop the country. Rwanda has never had it so good; now it produces more graduates annually than in the previous 30 years put together, in has nearly all the young attending primary education; nearly half finishing secondary, nearly 30,000 skilled graduates annually. But that said the legacy of 30 years of despotic rule still burdens this country. 70% of over 35’s are illiterate; most educated professionals were either killed or took part in the Genocide. Doctors killed, Nurses killed, Engineers killed, Lawyers killed, Admin clerks killed.
The only undisputed fact is that Rwanda was a deeply isolated country, and when faced with a threat it could only internalised it and turn in on itself; like someone slitting their wrists or cutting their leg off. The true tragedy is not what the Hutu extremists did to Tutsis; but what Rwanda did to itself. In Rwanda there is still an imbalance; those from the Diaspora are at an advantage, while the “Sopecha” who is born and bred in the country is lagging behind due to a lack of exposure. The Sopecha is often scared of change, slow to adapt, stuck in their ways. While the Diaspora is the opposite, due to the fact that they had to adapt and had be useful in foreign lands. Talking to a Taxi-man you hear this first hand, “That’s the estate where they only talk English.” As if it was pure evil he was describing.
Due to Rwanda’s small size and high population density there is a need to have intimacy rather than avoid it. It is not Gay for men to hold hands as they walk down the road; it is a sight you have to get used to. Imagine soldiers with AK-47’s strapped to their backs, walking hand in hand as they giggle like school-girls. It is common for people to touch you while they talk to you, as if to make you understand better. In a country where contact cannot be avoided, it is embraced. So you have killer living next to survivor, greeting each other over the garden fence. When I was flying here from London I met an acquaintance who was shivering with fear, he said “The people who killed my family now live in my house.” In the end he failed to board the flight as it would have been too traumatic.
That is the crux of the issue; the past is here with us today, most people just choose to ignore it. There is a blissful peace here but the threat of violence that sometimes lurks beneath the surface. A balance of fear and loathing as some unrepentant killers bide their time; waiting for the day when “The work can be completed.” In the Congo 35,000 soldiers of the FDLR await an evil second coming, but if they returned they would get lost as the whole of Kigali has changed. Rwanda is like Israel; surrounded by enemies waiting to destroy it, it is always outnumbered but never outgunned. It has one of the strongest armies in Africa. The stories you hear are amazing and worth having a book written about them; I sit with men who have killed dozens in battle. They laugh about how they shot POW’s all night after torturing them. That is against the Geneva Convention but when hear what these POW’s did then you are less sympathetic.
My friend had just finished fighting in 1994 when the real trauma started; he was charged with removing bodies from pit-latrines in Nyamata. Imagine descending into a pit full of shit, maggots and rotten bodies. I don’t know what hell is but it can’t be worse than that. He said he was looking for a particular girl, an ex-girlfriend who was the beauty queen of the town; she had been raped for 3 months and only released from her miserable life when she was killed by ramming a wooden stake through her vagina. Hers was the first body he found, I saw a photo and even while dead and covered in faeces she was still as beautiful as her reputation said. He spent days diving down the pit to harness ropes to the bodies to take them to a proper burial, after a while the maggots start to eat you like the corpses around you. The he found the soldiers responsible for this and spent several days torturing them before he killed them and narrowly avoided a firing squad as a lesser ranked soldier took the blame. For the record it didn’t make him feel better, revenge is pointless.
This is what Rwanda is dealing with; how do you undo that kind of trauma? In the West people go to a shrink because their mother didn’t give them a toy they wanted. Western psychiatrists have tried to come and give care here but have found it too traumatic. What do you say to someone who was buried alive under their family and had to eat the remains of his mother to stay alive? I wonder what Freud thought about the matter? Perhaps it is better to forget it and move on, what is left is a tragedy so great it defies logic. In the holocaust there was an industrialised murder that was cold and distant; it is silly to compare tragedies but Rwanda was personalised murder like no other. Neighbour killed friend killed school-mate killed drinking Buddy killed babysitter.
The scars are so vivid; going to an Estate Agent today, I tried not to focus on his huge machete scar across his forehead. A pretty waitress I usually see has an awful scar on a crippled arm, missing limbs and digits never surprise you. And yet these psychos run free, driving past the 1934 prison yesterday I smelt the filth of thousands of killers compacted into a hell of a stench, as if sin had a smell. The shear numbers (100,000) are what prompted their release as much as a need for reconciliation, like when someone does something so bad you just leave them.
The most powerful story I heard was told to me by a soldier; he had joined the RPF and left his family but when he returned he found them all slaughtered gruesomely and the villagers all claimed to have been out or not to have seen anything. Eventually the culprit was found returning from the Congo in 1996 and interned in 1934 prison. In about 1999 the soldier persuaded a friend who was a guard to leave him alone with the killer for a while so revenge could be dispensed. When he got there he saw such a pathetic sight he lost his anger. The killer said. “I’ve been waiting for you, I’ve always hoped you’d come. I am so glad to see you, they were brave till the end, they didn’t cry. We’ll make it look like I tried to kill you and tried to escape, use a knife it is better. Cut here.”
At that moment the soldier broke down and cried in front of the killer, the killer tried to touch him to comfort him, first he shrank from his touch but he collapsed into his arms. He lost his rage and walked out crying, the killer was pleading. “You must be crazy, I killed your mother, raped her, tortured your little sister, I raped their corpses, you coward, kill me!” That is the story of death and rebirth of Rwanda. If you don’t believe in God, you should believe there is a devil and he was in charge during the genocide. You still see his face now and again; there is sometimes an implicit look in some people’s eyes that says, “Just wait, we’ll show you”. If ever there was a lapse in security then that demon would return to haunt Rwanda.
Since I became a serious Christian I see all problems as spiritual; an evil spirit had incubated in Rwanda over centuries exploded in what we call the genocide. A spirit of self-hatred, a spirit of jealousy, a spirit of murder, a spirit of bloodlust. Killers talk of really enjoying it at the time, of rapturous joy, of carnal pleasure and joyous pain. Most of the population were infants or not born in 1994, the words; Hutu and Tutsi are alien to them but the older generation cannot expunge those words from their lexicon. The killers are as much victims of their own brutality; how do you live with yourself after that? Anyone who thinks it cannot happen again is sadly mistaken, but it won’t happen spontaneously there are 5 steps to genocide that have to take place before it explodes.
1. Identification – You identify and separate a group, nothing ill is said of them, you merely show the difference.
2. Stigmatisation – You point out negative aspects you associate with them, remember you audience has friends from this opposing group so you have to separate them.
3. Juxtaposition – Point out that your destinies are opposed, how the other group favours their own and will always seek to destroy your group.
4. De-humanise – Make the other group less than animals, remove any lingering forms of humanity left. Tutsi were called “Inyenzi” cockroaches that had to be eradicated like vermin.
5. Compulsion - Make it a duty to extinguish this other group, include all official state, religious and social institutions to give it legitimacy. Hence all government arms were involved, as were churches and societies.
So it could not happen spontaneously, the symptoms are there to be detected in advance. Sadly next time will be the same; we can never see a conflict in its own context. Darfur is the new Rwanda, Rwanda was the new Somalia, Somalia was the new Cambodia, Cambodia was the new Biafra and so forth. Just like Britney Spears is the new Madonna, George Clooney is the new Clark Gable, Pepsi is the new Coke so we can never see a tragedy for what it is. So the architects of the genocide still go largely unpunished as they sit in grandeur in France, Belgium, Kenya, USA, Canada and Congo while being heroes to millions of like-minded fools. Their pathetic minions are left to face the Gacaca court system.
The Gacaca system is not perfect but it the best we can have, it would take 200 years to try the killers in the court system so killers are left to be tried by their peers. This is the true sphere of reconciliation for the Genocide, listening to the victims is the most worthwhile aspect, they want to be heard. It is painful for all involved, to the victims, the accused and the court of local neighbours. The perpetrators will always have the net closing in on them however long it takes. One undisputed result of the Gacaca is that it has extended democracy to the lowest level of society, whatever happens at a national level, local people determine their own destiny in all matters of life.
I don’t want anybody to get the impression that Rwanda is in any way lawless, it is beautiful and progressive on a level never seen before. The astounding beauty and kindness of its people still surprise me everyday. Humanity died and was reborn here; you can trust even your enemy here. Rwanda is a nation that knows what it is capable of; it was taken to the brink and back. Not many Nations know what they are capable of, nor people neither, to quote the venerable Kanye West “the most beautiful people do the ugliest things.” Even you, the reader, are capable of the utmost cruelty and vicious murder. In certain circumstances you will kill, torture, rape, practice cannibalism and a lot easier than you think. If you disagree then you aren’t human, because Mankind is not Kind.
THE ECHO OF GHOSTS OF A TRAGIC PAST
Rwanda is a new country; only 13 years old, it is racing towards modernity at a speed unseen before. You can feel the progress on an hourly basis; there is strong leadership at the top which guides this often wayward nation on a sound path. Being from Rwanda I now feel a strange sensation; I joined Facebook and have been reunited with so many University friends and they all say the same thing. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FROM RWANDA! I told them a thousand times but it didn’t register; now they’ve all seen Hotel Rwanda and think they know us thoroughly.
“It’s really tragic what’s happening out there.”
“When will they stop killing each other?” That ended 13 years ago.
Then the next question is; “Are you huti or tuti? Are you tuti or fruity or whatever the name is?”
“It’s really sad, the huti’s killed tonnes of tuties or was it the tuti’s killing the fruities? So sad, I sometimes just cry.”
I remember walking into a Rwandan party in Coventry when a woman fainted and had a fit, when I tried to approach her she got worse. Apparently I looked like her son who died and when I saw his picture there was a definite match. I was ordered to leave the party lest I make her have a stroke. In the April rains in Rwanda, survivors suffer from deep depression and psychosis. It is simply called “April Madness” as psychiatric illness is not a recognised fact of life, despite our tragic history.
That is the supreme irony of the genocide; nobody really cares and if they did, it was for the wrong reasons. Now the Genocide is an allegory of human intolerance but is rarely understood nor can it be understood even this long after 800,000 died in 3 months, plus the domino effect of 4.5 million Congolese. I have steadily avoided writing about this topic on this blog but I feel I must now; I don’t know why maybe just because it is logical to do so. There is no logic to the Genocide, one game people play is “the what if game”; what if the world intervened? What if the RPF never invaded? What if the peace deal was respected? What if this? What if that? The sad conclusion is that it was maybe inevitable, it was not random violence it as meticulously planned to the final detail and it would have been carried out whatever.
There are numerous myths about the Genocide; it is used by various parties to promote whatever theory they espouse. Being in England at the time, I had the pain of watching it live on TV while the world did nothing. It affected me in various ways, though indirectly. Firstly was survivor guilt; the fact that I was in a comfortable safe country while people were hacked to death on national TV; this destroys the first myth, that the world didn’t know. It was live on TV, so they knew, they debated in the UN, so they knew. The world still denies this till this day; as if to say “if we only knew”.
The second myth is “the domino effect”; this is mainly peddled by France and other apologists for the Hutu extremists. It says that Rwanda was a powder keg waiting to explode and the death of Habyarimana was the first domino to set off the genocide. His death was planned for what was seen as betrayal in signing the Arusha accords. The swift reaction of the extremist core is proof that they were ready to exploit the situation.
The next is that of a “Dual-Genocide”, Africa is always portrayed as a savage heart of darkness where tribal violence springs up from time to time. Like flash-floods or earthquakes; they are an inevitable inconvenience of life in Africa. Making it look like both sides killed eases the conscience of a passive World Community. But how is that so?
In Rwanda massive steps have been made to reconcile the survivors and killers; the government has made a conscious decision to do so. This is because it could not afford to wait for people to gradually feel the need to forgive; it had to compel them to, for it was too dangerous to wait. In Rwanda the development is compensating for the years of decline, when in 30 year after independence almost nothing was done to develop the country. Rwanda has never had it so good; now it produces more graduates annually than in the previous 30 years put together, in has nearly all the young attending primary education; nearly half finishing secondary, nearly 30,000 skilled graduates annually. But that said the legacy of 30 years of despotic rule still burdens this country. 70% of over 35’s are illiterate; most educated professionals were either killed or took part in the Genocide. Doctors killed, Nurses killed, Engineers killed, Lawyers killed, Admin clerks killed.
The only undisputed fact is that Rwanda was a deeply isolated country, and when faced with a threat it could only internalised it and turn in on itself; like someone slitting their wrists or cutting their leg off. The true tragedy is not what the Hutu extremists did to Tutsis; but what Rwanda did to itself. In Rwanda there is still an imbalance; those from the Diaspora are at an advantage, while the “Sopecha” who is born and bred in the country is lagging behind due to a lack of exposure. The Sopecha is often scared of change, slow to adapt, stuck in their ways. While the Diaspora is the opposite, due to the fact that they had to adapt and had be useful in foreign lands. Talking to a Taxi-man you hear this first hand, “That’s the estate where they only talk English.” As if it was pure evil he was describing.
Due to Rwanda’s small size and high population density there is a need to have intimacy rather than avoid it. It is not Gay for men to hold hands as they walk down the road; it is a sight you have to get used to. Imagine soldiers with AK-47’s strapped to their backs, walking hand in hand as they giggle like school-girls. It is common for people to touch you while they talk to you, as if to make you understand better. In a country where contact cannot be avoided, it is embraced. So you have killer living next to survivor, greeting each other over the garden fence. When I was flying here from London I met an acquaintance who was shivering with fear, he said “The people who killed my family now live in my house.” In the end he failed to board the flight as it would have been too traumatic.
That is the crux of the issue; the past is here with us today, most people just choose to ignore it. There is a blissful peace here but the threat of violence that sometimes lurks beneath the surface. A balance of fear and loathing as some unrepentant killers bide their time; waiting for the day when “The work can be completed.” In the Congo 35,000 soldiers of the FDLR await an evil second coming, but if they returned they would get lost as the whole of Kigali has changed. Rwanda is like Israel; surrounded by enemies waiting to destroy it, it is always outnumbered but never outgunned. It has one of the strongest armies in Africa. The stories you hear are amazing and worth having a book written about them; I sit with men who have killed dozens in battle. They laugh about how they shot POW’s all night after torturing them. That is against the Geneva Convention but when hear what these POW’s did then you are less sympathetic.
My friend had just finished fighting in 1994 when the real trauma started; he was charged with removing bodies from pit-latrines in Nyamata. Imagine descending into a pit full of shit, maggots and rotten bodies. I don’t know what hell is but it can’t be worse than that. He said he was looking for a particular girl, an ex-girlfriend who was the beauty queen of the town; she had been raped for 3 months and only released from her miserable life when she was killed by ramming a wooden stake through her vagina. Hers was the first body he found, I saw a photo and even while dead and covered in faeces she was still as beautiful as her reputation said. He spent days diving down the pit to harness ropes to the bodies to take them to a proper burial, after a while the maggots start to eat you like the corpses around you. The he found the soldiers responsible for this and spent several days torturing them before he killed them and narrowly avoided a firing squad as a lesser ranked soldier took the blame. For the record it didn’t make him feel better, revenge is pointless.
This is what Rwanda is dealing with; how do you undo that kind of trauma? In the West people go to a shrink because their mother didn’t give them a toy they wanted. Western psychiatrists have tried to come and give care here but have found it too traumatic. What do you say to someone who was buried alive under their family and had to eat the remains of his mother to stay alive? I wonder what Freud thought about the matter? Perhaps it is better to forget it and move on, what is left is a tragedy so great it defies logic. In the holocaust there was an industrialised murder that was cold and distant; it is silly to compare tragedies but Rwanda was personalised murder like no other. Neighbour killed friend killed school-mate killed drinking Buddy killed babysitter.
The scars are so vivid; going to an Estate Agent today, I tried not to focus on his huge machete scar across his forehead. A pretty waitress I usually see has an awful scar on a crippled arm, missing limbs and digits never surprise you. And yet these psychos run free, driving past the 1934 prison yesterday I smelt the filth of thousands of killers compacted into a hell of a stench, as if sin had a smell. The shear numbers (100,000) are what prompted their release as much as a need for reconciliation, like when someone does something so bad you just leave them.
The most powerful story I heard was told to me by a soldier; he had joined the RPF and left his family but when he returned he found them all slaughtered gruesomely and the villagers all claimed to have been out or not to have seen anything. Eventually the culprit was found returning from the Congo in 1996 and interned in 1934 prison. In about 1999 the soldier persuaded a friend who was a guard to leave him alone with the killer for a while so revenge could be dispensed. When he got there he saw such a pathetic sight he lost his anger. The killer said. “I’ve been waiting for you, I’ve always hoped you’d come. I am so glad to see you, they were brave till the end, they didn’t cry. We’ll make it look like I tried to kill you and tried to escape, use a knife it is better. Cut here.”
At that moment the soldier broke down and cried in front of the killer, the killer tried to touch him to comfort him, first he shrank from his touch but he collapsed into his arms. He lost his rage and walked out crying, the killer was pleading. “You must be crazy, I killed your mother, raped her, tortured your little sister, I raped their corpses, you coward, kill me!” That is the story of death and rebirth of Rwanda. If you don’t believe in God, you should believe there is a devil and he was in charge during the genocide. You still see his face now and again; there is sometimes an implicit look in some people’s eyes that says, “Just wait, we’ll show you”. If ever there was a lapse in security then that demon would return to haunt Rwanda.
Since I became a serious Christian I see all problems as spiritual; an evil spirit had incubated in Rwanda over centuries exploded in what we call the genocide. A spirit of self-hatred, a spirit of jealousy, a spirit of murder, a spirit of bloodlust. Killers talk of really enjoying it at the time, of rapturous joy, of carnal pleasure and joyous pain. Most of the population were infants or not born in 1994, the words; Hutu and Tutsi are alien to them but the older generation cannot expunge those words from their lexicon. The killers are as much victims of their own brutality; how do you live with yourself after that? Anyone who thinks it cannot happen again is sadly mistaken, but it won’t happen spontaneously there are 5 steps to genocide that have to take place before it explodes.
1. Identification – You identify and separate a group, nothing ill is said of them, you merely show the difference.
2. Stigmatisation – You point out negative aspects you associate with them, remember you audience has friends from this opposing group so you have to separate them.
3. Juxtaposition – Point out that your destinies are opposed, how the other group favours their own and will always seek to destroy your group.
4. De-humanise – Make the other group less than animals, remove any lingering forms of humanity left. Tutsi were called “Inyenzi” cockroaches that had to be eradicated like vermin.
5. Compulsion - Make it a duty to extinguish this other group, include all official state, religious and social institutions to give it legitimacy. Hence all government arms were involved, as were churches and societies.
So it could not happen spontaneously, the symptoms are there to be detected in advance. Sadly next time will be the same; we can never see a conflict in its own context. Darfur is the new Rwanda, Rwanda was the new Somalia, Somalia was the new Cambodia, Cambodia was the new Biafra and so forth. Just like Britney Spears is the new Madonna, George Clooney is the new Clark Gable, Pepsi is the new Coke so we can never see a tragedy for what it is. So the architects of the genocide still go largely unpunished as they sit in grandeur in France, Belgium, Kenya, USA, Canada and Congo while being heroes to millions of like-minded fools. Their pathetic minions are left to face the Gacaca court system.
The Gacaca system is not perfect but it the best we can have, it would take 200 years to try the killers in the court system so killers are left to be tried by their peers. This is the true sphere of reconciliation for the Genocide, listening to the victims is the most worthwhile aspect, they want to be heard. It is painful for all involved, to the victims, the accused and the court of local neighbours. The perpetrators will always have the net closing in on them however long it takes. One undisputed result of the Gacaca is that it has extended democracy to the lowest level of society, whatever happens at a national level, local people determine their own destiny in all matters of life.
I don’t want anybody to get the impression that Rwanda is in any way lawless, it is beautiful and progressive on a level never seen before. The astounding beauty and kindness of its people still surprise me everyday. Humanity died and was reborn here; you can trust even your enemy here. Rwanda is a nation that knows what it is capable of; it was taken to the brink and back. Not many Nations know what they are capable of, nor people neither, to quote the venerable Kanye West “the most beautiful people do the ugliest things.” Even you, the reader, are capable of the utmost cruelty and vicious murder. In certain circumstances you will kill, torture, rape, practice cannibalism and a lot easier than you think. If you disagree then you aren’t human, because Mankind is not Kind.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
AN ODE TO AN OLD BEAUTY
AN ODE TO BEAUTY
It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in Africa, it has attracted travellers for at least 1,000 years and has accommodated every kind of change during that time. It is where Africa collided with Asia as two cultural tectonic plates smashed and created a new culture, new race, and new language. As long as 2,500 years ago, Persians, Pre-Islamic Arabs, Indians and even Chinese sailed down the shores of East Africa. The Trade winds made navigation easy as all you had to do was follow the wind, these same winds would return you after a few months of a joyous relaxation. The word got round that if you followed the winds then you would reach an enchanted place with lustful natives and true beauty.
Ibn Batutta sailed here in about 1100 and this is the oldest record of the town, nobody really knows where the name Mombasa came from, there are a number of theories but it was coined by Arab traders. The Arabs had a number of trading post dotted along the coast, from Mozambique to the Horn of Africa. These places are now legendary, Kilwa, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar, Mombasa, Malindi, Lamu, Mogadishu, Kismayu, Berbera. Before the White man brought “civilization” this was the realm of the Arab trader. They brought Islam, Silk, pottery, jewellery, learning, muskets, cannons, and everything the locals could imagine. They took back spices, exotic foods, ivory, gold, silver, iron, and eventually slaves.
Sitting on a jetty in Mombasa, with a dhow floating in the harbour in a scene that hasn’t changed for 1,000 years, you get a timeless exotic feeling. You can still catch a dhow to any city you want on the trade-winds; Dubai, Muscat, Mecca, Karachi, Doha, Aden and all manner of places that evoke Arab exoticism. Except now it isn’t slaves and ivory being loaded now, it is now plasma screens from Dubai, cheap electronics from Taiwan and Khat goes the other way.
Mombasa is the place where I became a man, a place that shielded me from the big bad world and exposed me slowly like a big brother. Mombasa is a jewel in the sea of hope, a place where the people believe it will be better everyday; if you ask how someone is they say “Nime furahi,” I am happy, you answer “nime furahi zaidi!” I am happier. Optimism is the drug of choice and all people are high.
Mombasa is divided into three parts, North Coast, Mvita, and Likoni. Mvita is the heart of it; the rest of the city has mushroomed as the trade has boomed. The original city was Mvita, the island that has now ceased to be an island now that a causeway connects it to the main land. There are districts that are all unique and different like Makupa, Tudor Docks, Majengo, Kibokoni, Ganjoni and the business district.
As a child it was like a theme park for the imagination, we would play hide and seek in Kibokoni, the Old Town, which looks more like Arabia than Africa. The streets are narrow and close together to keep the sun out of your eyes, it can be as much a 10 degrees cooler than the rest of town. It is more like the world of Ali Baba with veiled women, dusty streets, bazaars, spice stalls, donkey carts and a cool breeze. Then you turn a corner and you are in different place as the business district is all skyscrapers and plate glass. Then you can be in India with Gudwaras, Hindu shrines.
Mombasa is small and cannot afford to give everyone his own quarter so they all live side by side. A mosque next to a church, a temple next to a cathedral, there are so many denominations it can boggle the mind and they are all intermixed. Mombasa is the only place you can see a church with a minaret, St. Johns church is built in the finest Islamic architectural style. This is where Islam and Christianity coexist perfectly; intermarriage has been the founding ethos of the city ever since Arabs and Persians arrived 2,500 years ago and took African wives, their children were called the Waswahili. The language was Swahili, a mixture of Arabic and Bantu that has blended so well that it is one of the most spoken tongues in Africa with more than 100 million speakers and expanding. It is always succinct and to the point, no room for ambiguity, that’s why it is the language of business and trade and wherever there is trade Swahili can be heard.
Mombasa has such a faded beauty and easy charm, it is so understated and calm, the white-wash on the buildings always stains due to the sea air. The iron-sheets always rust to a perfect brown, the palm trees curve and swing in the wind. Houses are never flash, modesty is the way, so poor man and rich man live cheek to cheek. There is no way to tell the wealthy from the paupers, maybe from the size of the satellite dish. Tudor docks is one of my favourite suburbs, with all races living side by side. You get Muslims called Steve and Christians called Muhammed, you never know who is who.
Everything in Mombasa is just so, the best thing about it is the sunrises, being on the East Coast there are no sunsets over the sea. I wake up at around 5 AM run to Likoni; which is about 15 minutes walk from where I stay in Ganjoni, about this time the early throngs of people are making there way to the city from the South Coast. The South Coast is the cheapest place to live so every morning about 500,000 people make their way into the city on the ferries. By 5:15 the masses are a tide of bodies, there is a park full of Matatu’s by the ferry docks but if you turn left then peace abounds.
The seafront is a quiet walk away from the chaos; it curves with stone and concrete benches it is here that you see some homeless people that sleep along the shore and are woken by the sunrise. When I was young I used to jog with my friend Roger and in the morning we would jog through the parks with thugs still asleep with machetes lying in wait for unsuspecting victims. The place is floodlit now so there aren’t any people to rob now. I walk to near the Florida 2000 nightclub, just before it is a cove which you can walk down and my favourite beach is there. It is perfect, around 20 metres wide with sea hewn rocks that look like a dragon in profile. It is always low tide in the morning and only the crabs keep you company; at first they cower and run away but after a while they realise you aren’t a threat and become brazen, flashing their huge claws in a threatening manner.
I sit in the cove, awaiting the best view in the world; the sun is silhouetted under the horizon as a golden purple hazy light creeps into view. The first glimpse is the true magical moment; it is as if it peeps to see if it is safe to come out then pops up to illuminate the world. There is nothing like sunrise; it is worth getting up for, nothing fills you up with hope like a sunrise. A sunset has a certain tragic beauty like a lost dream fading; but a sunrise is pure optimism, anything is possible at sunrise and you conquer the world.
The little bay has the best view; with clouds it is even better, like shrouds of mystery and ribbons of enigmatic light. The low tide lets you walk into the bay like you are walking on water; the bay between the sea and port is actually a flooded creek, that is really deep but a ledge extends into the bay and you can walk along the reef unto you fall off the ledge. My favourite rapper Rakim said “Knowledge is: knowing the ledge”, this ledge invites you to walk it every day I used to go further into the sea but I never fell off.
You sit in the cove until the tide turns, which comes at different times; some people are picking for whelks and cockles and are amazed that you are just sitting there. Then I get up and walk up to the coconut sellers on the side; I get one costing about 20/= or 30 cents in dollars. It a serious process choosing the right one; just because they are big doesn’t mean they have the most juice, the smaller ones are sweeter, then the creamy pulp is wonderful and you can have that till lunch and you’ll be fine.
The walk back is not as relaxing as the masses chatter away as they go to work people strike up friendships for the walk to town; you can meet up with someone and chat away for fifteen minutes telling all your secrets only for them to disappear and never see them again. Everyone walks at the same pace; like the rhythm carries you along and soon I was back at the flats. The crows are always screaming away; one thing about Mombasa is that aren’t any seagulls, they are the usual soundtrack to the sea but this is the land of the crows. They make the most awful racket that drills inside your head but you learn to live with them. The crows cannot tolerate any competition; pigeons cluster in gangs to hold off the bullies. They have a curious existence; they are the most anti-social of social animals, they should avoid each other at all costs but they are stuck together.
Mombasa has a certain charm; most people are rude as drunken sailors but nothing is taken seriously. Sitting on a matatu I saw a young Arab girl arguing with the conductor; the conductor was red-eyed from stonking marijuana and with a mouthful of Khat as is the norm. She insulted him in a way that made all in the van cringe. “Your Daddy was a faggot who shat you out of his ass!” Ooh we all said, he tried to come back but he was as stunned as the rest of us. Trust me in Swahili it sounds much more painful. But we all laughed and no offence was taken and he just munched on his khat and giggled as he gave her a discount for wit. Apart from her wicked putdowns she also scented the van; no self-respecting Arab Girl would leave the house without dousing herself with at least half a bottle of perfume. For 15/= you can travel all over the city, that is like 10p in UK.
You can eat like a king for 100/= that is like $1.50 or 75p; you can have chapatti, omelette, shish kebab, a mahamri and all this on the street with out any risk of food poisoning because the food is scorching hot and all germs are nuked in heat. The Mahamri is a wonder of cuisine; it is a standard triangular donut but seems to taste magical when in Mombasa. You can catch the minibus to Reef hotel, for about 25/= most locals avoid swimming in the sea and prefer pools. Here you see a sad fact of life; all the hotels have cordoned off the beaches and you have to pay a toll to swim in them, this is to keep out hawkers and beach-boys that harass the tourists.
Instead the hotels employ their own beach-boys to keep the old women company; I felt awkward being a Black man swimming in their beach and whenever a pretty tourist girl approached me I ignored her. I was afraid to talk to them because they would have thought I was a gigolo and I was lucky to be with Roger and talking sign language so I pretended to be deaf. This American girl said I was “sweet” but I pretended not to hear, it was only when she heard me ordering drinks that she rebuked me for lying. When I was last here I met a beautiful Norwegian girl with stereotypical Nordic features, I spent a glorious few days with her but was stunned when she paid me a paltry sum for my kindness and I was so offended I almost cried.
These beach-boys are a wonder in themselves; with typically lithe bodies, dreadlocks, gold chains and gleaming white teeth. They prowl the beaches looking for lonely, old fat, divorced women who are stranded like beached whales. A young gorgeous model wouldn’t be worth their time as they wouldn’t pay as much. They are fluent in any number of languages; I remember when I wanted to take French lessons but the class was fully booked up with gigolos. These guys are thorough; the concierge briefs them in depth about their prospective victims. Something like “Alice Jones, 49, just divorced, six figure settlement, 220 pounds, 3 children, was left for an anorexic secretary”. If you were from Beloxi, Mississippi then they would tell you everything about the town and how they visited their brother there.
The sea is hot as a warm bath; I had gotten used to the utterly freezing seas of the UK, the last time I had been in the sea was when I jumped off Hastings pier in a drunken state however the cold water and the waves bashing me against the wooden columns instantly sobered me up. This was a more sedate affair despite the choppy waters; I had ignored numerous warnings of the rain but I was determined to see the sea, besides Mombasa weather changes so quickly that by the time I got there the rain had gone but the sea was still swirling. The tide was high and the boats that were usually near the shore were halfway to the reef. There is a strange sensation as the top waves are hot and the lower waves are cooler.
Sitting in the hotel I was stunned to see the prices they charge, a burger was about $8, a soda $2 so I reassured them that I wasn’t a dumb tourist with too much to spend and held my nerve until I could get some street food. I saw a French-speaking gigolo plying his trade on some gullible mademoiselle with the fattest legs I ever saw, rubbing sun-tan lotion on the smalls of her back before they retired to more suitable quarters. I left with a bitter sadness that nothing changed, all the waitresses were potential hookers and the waiters were also up for sale; tourism is like selling your body and soul.
The day after that I went to a rally competition and I saw a gaggle of mad dogs and expat Englishmen racing in the midday sun. It was crazy sight for myself as well as the locals who were befuddled by the scene as people smashed and destroyed their cars in the name of fun. We had woken up at 5 am. Waited for about an hour for our lift, got on the ferry around 6.30 and raced down the South Coast highway in a convoy of rally and support cars. Then there was a rough ride to the actual course as we drove through endless coconut groves, being Africa the 9 o’clock was actually 11. I was driven round the course by Ahmed Musa, an old childhood acquaintance who hadn’t changed much except he now was richer and more spoilt. He was now pushing 1,000 BHP round corners sharp as elbows, missing locals by whiskers while gulping Red Bull and pumping techno music.
It is good to hear Swahili spoken fluently, mine isn’t perfect but the Asians spoke it so proudly; the biggest shock was to hear Chris Bird who looks like a sunburnt toff lost in the Dark Continent but speaks it perfectly as any native. The winner was immaterial as the chaos lost the details, the best car won in the end and kudos to him. The most amazing scene was the Lionnet family; a group of motor-cross fanatics with the youngest being 10, they raced devilishly round the circuit as they trained for the Kenyan championship. By then I was traumatised by the music on the tannoy, Germans should be legally restricted from making music but German country music is truly awful and nobody seemed to care.
We drove back as we raced for the ferry and when we got there it was a 30 minute wait to board and I fell asleep in the cue with my hand hanging out of the passenger window and I woke just in time to see a thief creeping up my blind side in the mirror, I could see him crouched like a lion in wait to snatch my watch. By the time he came by I was awake and he was disgusted with the delay.
Being welcomed to people’s houses is the best feeling; I ate at my friend Ralph’s and got so used to playing with his kids, I wish for that kind of family contentment. He came home at lunch to play with his kids, and he just rolled around with them. His older kid Jeremiah was truly insane and utterly lovable, capable of the most random acts of randomness while being borderline normal. It made me wish I was kid, a kid again, it is a shame we have to grow up and lose that innocence but I suppose someone has to pay the bills.
I never say goodbye to Mombasa, I just say I’ll be back and I will, I want to retire there and just lie in a hammock while the ships go by and say farewell to time.
It is one of the oldest inhabited cities in Africa, it has attracted travellers for at least 1,000 years and has accommodated every kind of change during that time. It is where Africa collided with Asia as two cultural tectonic plates smashed and created a new culture, new race, and new language. As long as 2,500 years ago, Persians, Pre-Islamic Arabs, Indians and even Chinese sailed down the shores of East Africa. The Trade winds made navigation easy as all you had to do was follow the wind, these same winds would return you after a few months of a joyous relaxation. The word got round that if you followed the winds then you would reach an enchanted place with lustful natives and true beauty.
Ibn Batutta sailed here in about 1100 and this is the oldest record of the town, nobody really knows where the name Mombasa came from, there are a number of theories but it was coined by Arab traders. The Arabs had a number of trading post dotted along the coast, from Mozambique to the Horn of Africa. These places are now legendary, Kilwa, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar, Mombasa, Malindi, Lamu, Mogadishu, Kismayu, Berbera. Before the White man brought “civilization” this was the realm of the Arab trader. They brought Islam, Silk, pottery, jewellery, learning, muskets, cannons, and everything the locals could imagine. They took back spices, exotic foods, ivory, gold, silver, iron, and eventually slaves.
Sitting on a jetty in Mombasa, with a dhow floating in the harbour in a scene that hasn’t changed for 1,000 years, you get a timeless exotic feeling. You can still catch a dhow to any city you want on the trade-winds; Dubai, Muscat, Mecca, Karachi, Doha, Aden and all manner of places that evoke Arab exoticism. Except now it isn’t slaves and ivory being loaded now, it is now plasma screens from Dubai, cheap electronics from Taiwan and Khat goes the other way.
Mombasa is the place where I became a man, a place that shielded me from the big bad world and exposed me slowly like a big brother. Mombasa is a jewel in the sea of hope, a place where the people believe it will be better everyday; if you ask how someone is they say “Nime furahi,” I am happy, you answer “nime furahi zaidi!” I am happier. Optimism is the drug of choice and all people are high.
Mombasa is divided into three parts, North Coast, Mvita, and Likoni. Mvita is the heart of it; the rest of the city has mushroomed as the trade has boomed. The original city was Mvita, the island that has now ceased to be an island now that a causeway connects it to the main land. There are districts that are all unique and different like Makupa, Tudor Docks, Majengo, Kibokoni, Ganjoni and the business district.
As a child it was like a theme park for the imagination, we would play hide and seek in Kibokoni, the Old Town, which looks more like Arabia than Africa. The streets are narrow and close together to keep the sun out of your eyes, it can be as much a 10 degrees cooler than the rest of town. It is more like the world of Ali Baba with veiled women, dusty streets, bazaars, spice stalls, donkey carts and a cool breeze. Then you turn a corner and you are in different place as the business district is all skyscrapers and plate glass. Then you can be in India with Gudwaras, Hindu shrines.
Mombasa is small and cannot afford to give everyone his own quarter so they all live side by side. A mosque next to a church, a temple next to a cathedral, there are so many denominations it can boggle the mind and they are all intermixed. Mombasa is the only place you can see a church with a minaret, St. Johns church is built in the finest Islamic architectural style. This is where Islam and Christianity coexist perfectly; intermarriage has been the founding ethos of the city ever since Arabs and Persians arrived 2,500 years ago and took African wives, their children were called the Waswahili. The language was Swahili, a mixture of Arabic and Bantu that has blended so well that it is one of the most spoken tongues in Africa with more than 100 million speakers and expanding. It is always succinct and to the point, no room for ambiguity, that’s why it is the language of business and trade and wherever there is trade Swahili can be heard.
Mombasa has such a faded beauty and easy charm, it is so understated and calm, the white-wash on the buildings always stains due to the sea air. The iron-sheets always rust to a perfect brown, the palm trees curve and swing in the wind. Houses are never flash, modesty is the way, so poor man and rich man live cheek to cheek. There is no way to tell the wealthy from the paupers, maybe from the size of the satellite dish. Tudor docks is one of my favourite suburbs, with all races living side by side. You get Muslims called Steve and Christians called Muhammed, you never know who is who.
Everything in Mombasa is just so, the best thing about it is the sunrises, being on the East Coast there are no sunsets over the sea. I wake up at around 5 AM run to Likoni; which is about 15 minutes walk from where I stay in Ganjoni, about this time the early throngs of people are making there way to the city from the South Coast. The South Coast is the cheapest place to live so every morning about 500,000 people make their way into the city on the ferries. By 5:15 the masses are a tide of bodies, there is a park full of Matatu’s by the ferry docks but if you turn left then peace abounds.
The seafront is a quiet walk away from the chaos; it curves with stone and concrete benches it is here that you see some homeless people that sleep along the shore and are woken by the sunrise. When I was young I used to jog with my friend Roger and in the morning we would jog through the parks with thugs still asleep with machetes lying in wait for unsuspecting victims. The place is floodlit now so there aren’t any people to rob now. I walk to near the Florida 2000 nightclub, just before it is a cove which you can walk down and my favourite beach is there. It is perfect, around 20 metres wide with sea hewn rocks that look like a dragon in profile. It is always low tide in the morning and only the crabs keep you company; at first they cower and run away but after a while they realise you aren’t a threat and become brazen, flashing their huge claws in a threatening manner.
I sit in the cove, awaiting the best view in the world; the sun is silhouetted under the horizon as a golden purple hazy light creeps into view. The first glimpse is the true magical moment; it is as if it peeps to see if it is safe to come out then pops up to illuminate the world. There is nothing like sunrise; it is worth getting up for, nothing fills you up with hope like a sunrise. A sunset has a certain tragic beauty like a lost dream fading; but a sunrise is pure optimism, anything is possible at sunrise and you conquer the world.
The little bay has the best view; with clouds it is even better, like shrouds of mystery and ribbons of enigmatic light. The low tide lets you walk into the bay like you are walking on water; the bay between the sea and port is actually a flooded creek, that is really deep but a ledge extends into the bay and you can walk along the reef unto you fall off the ledge. My favourite rapper Rakim said “Knowledge is: knowing the ledge”, this ledge invites you to walk it every day I used to go further into the sea but I never fell off.
You sit in the cove until the tide turns, which comes at different times; some people are picking for whelks and cockles and are amazed that you are just sitting there. Then I get up and walk up to the coconut sellers on the side; I get one costing about 20/= or 30 cents in dollars. It a serious process choosing the right one; just because they are big doesn’t mean they have the most juice, the smaller ones are sweeter, then the creamy pulp is wonderful and you can have that till lunch and you’ll be fine.
The walk back is not as relaxing as the masses chatter away as they go to work people strike up friendships for the walk to town; you can meet up with someone and chat away for fifteen minutes telling all your secrets only for them to disappear and never see them again. Everyone walks at the same pace; like the rhythm carries you along and soon I was back at the flats. The crows are always screaming away; one thing about Mombasa is that aren’t any seagulls, they are the usual soundtrack to the sea but this is the land of the crows. They make the most awful racket that drills inside your head but you learn to live with them. The crows cannot tolerate any competition; pigeons cluster in gangs to hold off the bullies. They have a curious existence; they are the most anti-social of social animals, they should avoid each other at all costs but they are stuck together.
Mombasa has a certain charm; most people are rude as drunken sailors but nothing is taken seriously. Sitting on a matatu I saw a young Arab girl arguing with the conductor; the conductor was red-eyed from stonking marijuana and with a mouthful of Khat as is the norm. She insulted him in a way that made all in the van cringe. “Your Daddy was a faggot who shat you out of his ass!” Ooh we all said, he tried to come back but he was as stunned as the rest of us. Trust me in Swahili it sounds much more painful. But we all laughed and no offence was taken and he just munched on his khat and giggled as he gave her a discount for wit. Apart from her wicked putdowns she also scented the van; no self-respecting Arab Girl would leave the house without dousing herself with at least half a bottle of perfume. For 15/= you can travel all over the city, that is like 10p in UK.
You can eat like a king for 100/= that is like $1.50 or 75p; you can have chapatti, omelette, shish kebab, a mahamri and all this on the street with out any risk of food poisoning because the food is scorching hot and all germs are nuked in heat. The Mahamri is a wonder of cuisine; it is a standard triangular donut but seems to taste magical when in Mombasa. You can catch the minibus to Reef hotel, for about 25/= most locals avoid swimming in the sea and prefer pools. Here you see a sad fact of life; all the hotels have cordoned off the beaches and you have to pay a toll to swim in them, this is to keep out hawkers and beach-boys that harass the tourists.
Instead the hotels employ their own beach-boys to keep the old women company; I felt awkward being a Black man swimming in their beach and whenever a pretty tourist girl approached me I ignored her. I was afraid to talk to them because they would have thought I was a gigolo and I was lucky to be with Roger and talking sign language so I pretended to be deaf. This American girl said I was “sweet” but I pretended not to hear, it was only when she heard me ordering drinks that she rebuked me for lying. When I was last here I met a beautiful Norwegian girl with stereotypical Nordic features, I spent a glorious few days with her but was stunned when she paid me a paltry sum for my kindness and I was so offended I almost cried.
These beach-boys are a wonder in themselves; with typically lithe bodies, dreadlocks, gold chains and gleaming white teeth. They prowl the beaches looking for lonely, old fat, divorced women who are stranded like beached whales. A young gorgeous model wouldn’t be worth their time as they wouldn’t pay as much. They are fluent in any number of languages; I remember when I wanted to take French lessons but the class was fully booked up with gigolos. These guys are thorough; the concierge briefs them in depth about their prospective victims. Something like “Alice Jones, 49, just divorced, six figure settlement, 220 pounds, 3 children, was left for an anorexic secretary”. If you were from Beloxi, Mississippi then they would tell you everything about the town and how they visited their brother there.
The sea is hot as a warm bath; I had gotten used to the utterly freezing seas of the UK, the last time I had been in the sea was when I jumped off Hastings pier in a drunken state however the cold water and the waves bashing me against the wooden columns instantly sobered me up. This was a more sedate affair despite the choppy waters; I had ignored numerous warnings of the rain but I was determined to see the sea, besides Mombasa weather changes so quickly that by the time I got there the rain had gone but the sea was still swirling. The tide was high and the boats that were usually near the shore were halfway to the reef. There is a strange sensation as the top waves are hot and the lower waves are cooler.
Sitting in the hotel I was stunned to see the prices they charge, a burger was about $8, a soda $2 so I reassured them that I wasn’t a dumb tourist with too much to spend and held my nerve until I could get some street food. I saw a French-speaking gigolo plying his trade on some gullible mademoiselle with the fattest legs I ever saw, rubbing sun-tan lotion on the smalls of her back before they retired to more suitable quarters. I left with a bitter sadness that nothing changed, all the waitresses were potential hookers and the waiters were also up for sale; tourism is like selling your body and soul.
The day after that I went to a rally competition and I saw a gaggle of mad dogs and expat Englishmen racing in the midday sun. It was crazy sight for myself as well as the locals who were befuddled by the scene as people smashed and destroyed their cars in the name of fun. We had woken up at 5 am. Waited for about an hour for our lift, got on the ferry around 6.30 and raced down the South Coast highway in a convoy of rally and support cars. Then there was a rough ride to the actual course as we drove through endless coconut groves, being Africa the 9 o’clock was actually 11. I was driven round the course by Ahmed Musa, an old childhood acquaintance who hadn’t changed much except he now was richer and more spoilt. He was now pushing 1,000 BHP round corners sharp as elbows, missing locals by whiskers while gulping Red Bull and pumping techno music.
It is good to hear Swahili spoken fluently, mine isn’t perfect but the Asians spoke it so proudly; the biggest shock was to hear Chris Bird who looks like a sunburnt toff lost in the Dark Continent but speaks it perfectly as any native. The winner was immaterial as the chaos lost the details, the best car won in the end and kudos to him. The most amazing scene was the Lionnet family; a group of motor-cross fanatics with the youngest being 10, they raced devilishly round the circuit as they trained for the Kenyan championship. By then I was traumatised by the music on the tannoy, Germans should be legally restricted from making music but German country music is truly awful and nobody seemed to care.
We drove back as we raced for the ferry and when we got there it was a 30 minute wait to board and I fell asleep in the cue with my hand hanging out of the passenger window and I woke just in time to see a thief creeping up my blind side in the mirror, I could see him crouched like a lion in wait to snatch my watch. By the time he came by I was awake and he was disgusted with the delay.
Being welcomed to people’s houses is the best feeling; I ate at my friend Ralph’s and got so used to playing with his kids, I wish for that kind of family contentment. He came home at lunch to play with his kids, and he just rolled around with them. His older kid Jeremiah was truly insane and utterly lovable, capable of the most random acts of randomness while being borderline normal. It made me wish I was kid, a kid again, it is a shame we have to grow up and lose that innocence but I suppose someone has to pay the bills.
I never say goodbye to Mombasa, I just say I’ll be back and I will, I want to retire there and just lie in a hammock while the ships go by and say farewell to time.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
AFASANDAS
The main problem with Kenya is that Simon loves Valleria; but Valleria is in love with Salvador, soon Simon catches the previously mentioned Valleria in the arms of Salvador, this sends him into a tantrum lasting days. You seem confused; I am talking of El Cuerpo del Deseo, a Colombian Tele-novella that has Kenya engrossed. It is the usual stuff of legend, the super-wealthy Patricians and their trivial ups and downs that provide a welcome break from the mundane events of life. The show is done with the usual Latin flair and melodrama, the men are macho and heroic while the women are scheming and evil; just like in real life I hear you say. It could be a comedy, Simon looks as fruity as an orchard in bloom, and his eyebrows are more delicately plucked than his love interest Valleria. Salvador has the most ridiculous facial hair in showbiz, flowing hair like a Fabio wannabe and the magnetic charm of a lead hulk. The women always make it worth watching, Colombia has produced a great pedigree of women that have gone on to win Miss World. Valleria is in this pedigree, but her acting range is as limited as Pinocchio and as wooden, when she kisses it is like seeing a man mauled by a rabid bitch on heat. But that said, she is hot, really hot and that’s all that matters.
These shows are a fixture on Kenyan TV, when I was last here the country was going through a revolution with multi-party democracy taking hold. However instead of being engrossed in momentous change, people turned to soaps such as “No one but you” and “The rich also cry”. One cannot underestimate the social change they brought about; bars were empty as men went home straight from work to watch them. Domestic abuse was down as men were too busy watching these soaps to beat their wives. Brothels went into recession as men were too busy to frequent them; AIDS infections were down as well. The real revolution of 1992/93 was brought by TV, the revolution was televised and had good ratings too.
Today Kenyans are still oblivious to the real-life drama unfolding; the election is a farce in the great tradition of African politics. Behind every great man is a great woman, well Mwai Kibaki is not a great man and neither is his wife. Lucy Kibaki belongs in the Pantheon of colourful First Ladies, a truly illiterate and ridiculous woman, her wig is visible from space and she is always turning suddenly like an unmedicated psycho. Her greatest claim to fame was when she stormed the Nation media center to castigate the press, she ended up slapping several pressmen live on national TV; it was a ratings winner as the press just kept rolling. She slapped a cleaner thinking he was the editor when he clearly was wearing overalls marked CLEANER. She was duly quarantined to State House and rarely seen after that, no assault charges were filed and the nation got its fill of laughter.
She has recently been unleashed on the unsuspecting public again, far from seeing her as a liability she is now used to reach out to women voters. The Presidents other piece of skirt called Wambui runs his campaign but is the real focus of anger in the country. When Kibaki speaks it is like he has a time delay of 3 seconds between thought and speech, this is a result of a stroke and brain surgery. The stroke was actually a stroke of good luck as it incapacitated him during the last election and he wasn’t able to sabotage his own campaign unlike now. Raila Odinga stepped in; he is a populist with a real pedigree as his father was VP and a top power-broker in Kenya politics. He engineered Kibakis election with an arsenal of quips and sound-bites. Kibaki-Tosha (Kibaki is all you need) but now these sound-bites are against him. Kibaki – Toka (Kibaki get out) while Kibaki Tena is the incumbents slogan. Raila is way ahead in the polls, keeping it simple, he has recently proposed a system called “Majimbo” - federalism or devolution and this has caused confusion in the minds of the public. Kibaki has now tried to turn this election into a referendum on Majimbo and is muddying the waters as much as he can.
Get ready to be confused, Kenya politics is like a rash of viral infections, the parties divide like amoeba into tribal blocs. You have; PNU (Party on National Unity) it comprises of KANU, FORD-KENYA, FORD-ASILI, FORD-PEOPLE, KPP, SHIRIKISHO, TIP, DP, SDP, LP, PP, Kenda and other minor parties. I wasn’t kidding; anyone who can afford the registration fee has registered one. The opposition was the ODM but they are now split into ODM and ODM-Kenya. ODM-Pentagon as they are known are lead by Raila while ODM-K are lead by Kalonzo Musyoka who is the least tainted and best candidate of the 3 but his voice is being drowned out by the madmen.
In Kenya Democracy is up for sale, voter cards are sold for $10 – 50 depending on your haggling skills, youth sell their services as thugs to disrupt rival rallies. Food and money is promised to voters if they attend rallies. Women candidates are beaten on a daily basis; free marijuana is distributed to youth so they can march rabidly through town chanting the name of a said candidate. It is a tragic state of affairs, corruption is the cancer of nations and Kenya has no chance of remission.
One of the greatest characters I have ever met is a woman called Dorcas Ndabuki, a battleaxe of a woman, who is imposing at 4”11. Her story illustrates the scourge in Kenyan politics; she is running in Kilome against one of the richest men in Kenya, a man called Mwau who owns Nakumatt the biggest chains of general stores. She tried to bribe the people with worthwhile things like putting boreholes in arid areas, free cement for house building, bringing a clinic to the area. But her erstwhile rival arrived in a helicopter and just threw bundles of money out the window to save time. Money was blowing in the winds for days. Guess who won their hearts? The moneyman did, and that is Kenyan politics in a nutshell. The rival hired thugs to beat her up and she had to take refuge in a police station, she soon had to hire thugs of her own for protection and stoop to their level, if just to save her life.
She is a gregarious if not contentious soul, always seeking to challenge the status quo, which in Kenya is like a death sentence or career suicide in the least. She spoke quite articulately with me in English worthy of The Queen, but soon the Mukamba in her was dying to get out. She was furious at the lack of protocol at a recent ODM-K rally. She arrived in her usual flamboyant manner, late and with clique in toe. She then proceeded to the VIP section as was befitting her status and sat on the second row, when an usher intervened. Now you have to understand Wakamba to truly get this joke. They mangle and murder the English language or any given language for that matter unlike any other tribe in Africa. This is Swahili getting murdered
“Sasa we ni nani?” Said the usher (Who are you)
“Usini ulize hiyo vitu, Huni jui?” She said. (Don’t ask, don’t you know who I am?)
“Hi ni fasi yawa eshimiwa!” (this place is reserved for VIP’s)
“Mi ni afasanda!” (I am an Ambassador)
“Afansanda wa wapi?” (Ambassador of where?)
“We usijali, si hi ni fasi yawa Afansdas?” (Never you mind, this is for diplomats?)
“Wewe ni afasanda wa inchi gani?” (Which country?)
“Mimi ni afasanda wa Suntan!” (I am the ambassador of Sudan)
After an almighty ruckus she was let through and was soon castigating the head of the party, speaking on behalf of all the women there and now few would ever forget her. I want her to win her seat to shake up the system. Whoever wins the elections is immaterial, what is needed is an overhaul of the system, new faces who are untainted by the past. People who have an agenda besides self-enrichment, people who are accountable and above all full of hope. It is estimated that 90% of the MP’s will not be re-elected, I sincerely hope that is the case or else it will be more of the same.
These shows are a fixture on Kenyan TV, when I was last here the country was going through a revolution with multi-party democracy taking hold. However instead of being engrossed in momentous change, people turned to soaps such as “No one but you” and “The rich also cry”. One cannot underestimate the social change they brought about; bars were empty as men went home straight from work to watch them. Domestic abuse was down as men were too busy watching these soaps to beat their wives. Brothels went into recession as men were too busy to frequent them; AIDS infections were down as well. The real revolution of 1992/93 was brought by TV, the revolution was televised and had good ratings too.
Today Kenyans are still oblivious to the real-life drama unfolding; the election is a farce in the great tradition of African politics. Behind every great man is a great woman, well Mwai Kibaki is not a great man and neither is his wife. Lucy Kibaki belongs in the Pantheon of colourful First Ladies, a truly illiterate and ridiculous woman, her wig is visible from space and she is always turning suddenly like an unmedicated psycho. Her greatest claim to fame was when she stormed the Nation media center to castigate the press, she ended up slapping several pressmen live on national TV; it was a ratings winner as the press just kept rolling. She slapped a cleaner thinking he was the editor when he clearly was wearing overalls marked CLEANER. She was duly quarantined to State House and rarely seen after that, no assault charges were filed and the nation got its fill of laughter.
She has recently been unleashed on the unsuspecting public again, far from seeing her as a liability she is now used to reach out to women voters. The Presidents other piece of skirt called Wambui runs his campaign but is the real focus of anger in the country. When Kibaki speaks it is like he has a time delay of 3 seconds between thought and speech, this is a result of a stroke and brain surgery. The stroke was actually a stroke of good luck as it incapacitated him during the last election and he wasn’t able to sabotage his own campaign unlike now. Raila Odinga stepped in; he is a populist with a real pedigree as his father was VP and a top power-broker in Kenya politics. He engineered Kibakis election with an arsenal of quips and sound-bites. Kibaki-Tosha (Kibaki is all you need) but now these sound-bites are against him. Kibaki – Toka (Kibaki get out) while Kibaki Tena is the incumbents slogan. Raila is way ahead in the polls, keeping it simple, he has recently proposed a system called “Majimbo” - federalism or devolution and this has caused confusion in the minds of the public. Kibaki has now tried to turn this election into a referendum on Majimbo and is muddying the waters as much as he can.
Get ready to be confused, Kenya politics is like a rash of viral infections, the parties divide like amoeba into tribal blocs. You have; PNU (Party on National Unity) it comprises of KANU, FORD-KENYA, FORD-ASILI, FORD-PEOPLE, KPP, SHIRIKISHO, TIP, DP, SDP, LP, PP, Kenda and other minor parties. I wasn’t kidding; anyone who can afford the registration fee has registered one. The opposition was the ODM but they are now split into ODM and ODM-Kenya. ODM-Pentagon as they are known are lead by Raila while ODM-K are lead by Kalonzo Musyoka who is the least tainted and best candidate of the 3 but his voice is being drowned out by the madmen.
In Kenya Democracy is up for sale, voter cards are sold for $10 – 50 depending on your haggling skills, youth sell their services as thugs to disrupt rival rallies. Food and money is promised to voters if they attend rallies. Women candidates are beaten on a daily basis; free marijuana is distributed to youth so they can march rabidly through town chanting the name of a said candidate. It is a tragic state of affairs, corruption is the cancer of nations and Kenya has no chance of remission.
One of the greatest characters I have ever met is a woman called Dorcas Ndabuki, a battleaxe of a woman, who is imposing at 4”11. Her story illustrates the scourge in Kenyan politics; she is running in Kilome against one of the richest men in Kenya, a man called Mwau who owns Nakumatt the biggest chains of general stores. She tried to bribe the people with worthwhile things like putting boreholes in arid areas, free cement for house building, bringing a clinic to the area. But her erstwhile rival arrived in a helicopter and just threw bundles of money out the window to save time. Money was blowing in the winds for days. Guess who won their hearts? The moneyman did, and that is Kenyan politics in a nutshell. The rival hired thugs to beat her up and she had to take refuge in a police station, she soon had to hire thugs of her own for protection and stoop to their level, if just to save her life.
She is a gregarious if not contentious soul, always seeking to challenge the status quo, which in Kenya is like a death sentence or career suicide in the least. She spoke quite articulately with me in English worthy of The Queen, but soon the Mukamba in her was dying to get out. She was furious at the lack of protocol at a recent ODM-K rally. She arrived in her usual flamboyant manner, late and with clique in toe. She then proceeded to the VIP section as was befitting her status and sat on the second row, when an usher intervened. Now you have to understand Wakamba to truly get this joke. They mangle and murder the English language or any given language for that matter unlike any other tribe in Africa. This is Swahili getting murdered
“Sasa we ni nani?” Said the usher (Who are you)
“Usini ulize hiyo vitu, Huni jui?” She said. (Don’t ask, don’t you know who I am?)
“Hi ni fasi yawa eshimiwa!” (this place is reserved for VIP’s)
“Mi ni afasanda!” (I am an Ambassador)
“Afansanda wa wapi?” (Ambassador of where?)
“We usijali, si hi ni fasi yawa Afansdas?” (Never you mind, this is for diplomats?)
“Wewe ni afasanda wa inchi gani?” (Which country?)
“Mimi ni afasanda wa Suntan!” (I am the ambassador of Sudan)
After an almighty ruckus she was let through and was soon castigating the head of the party, speaking on behalf of all the women there and now few would ever forget her. I want her to win her seat to shake up the system. Whoever wins the elections is immaterial, what is needed is an overhaul of the system, new faces who are untainted by the past. People who have an agenda besides self-enrichment, people who are accountable and above all full of hope. It is estimated that 90% of the MP’s will not be re-elected, I sincerely hope that is the case or else it will be more of the same.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Of gods and monsters
The border crossing into Kenya said a lot about life, I had to bribe the guard in order to bypass the conventional law of things. It raised a serious moral question in me; who was corrupt? Was it the guard or myself? I hadn’t waited for the man to ask for a bribe I had simply slipped in the cash in order to speed up the process. What impressed me the most was how he extracted the money with such skill that even his colleague inches away failed to see it. It was like a magician’s slight of hand; now you see it, now you don’t. I sat on the bus and thought about my actions; I realized it takes two to tango or to be corrupt, one to bribe and one to accept it. How could I ever be indignant about corruption when I was party to it? One the hand I could have been delayed several hours missing my bus and costing me another $20 and endless heartache.
When I crossed I had expected civilization as Kenya is the most Westernized African country after South Africa. The road up to Kisumu was perfect, as smooth as butter on hot toast, we stopped in the capital of the Western Province and used one of the usually foul toilets that are a fixture in Africa, you have to hold your breath otherwise the ammonia will sting your nose and eyes. As I haggled over the price of fake mineral water (which was most likely lake water or sewerage packaged in a neat bottle) I met two dogged travelers that informed my opinions of East Africa. One was a short stubby White South African with an Amish goatee. The other was an Australian Greek called Spiros as brown as the people around him. Both were looking for opportunities in the heart of darkness.
They had traveled separately along the same route more or less, from the Congo, to Rwanda, to Uganda. They were amazed by the Congo and the utter chaos they saw. The South African had hoped to bring high-speed internet connection but found that basics such as electricity were lacking. He still had a fear of being eaten that he wasn’t able to either appease or articulate without sounding racist, so he squirmed around the topic. The Australian was a happy go lucky chap who had the misfortune of being a hypochondriac in the middle of an ebola epidemic, suddenly all the economic opportunities didn’t seem worth it. His exact words were, “I said sod this for a laugh! And left pretty sharpish.”
I was pleased to hear one thing they agreed on “The one place I liked was Rwanda, the man in charge is a serious chap. They got good order, it’s clean. That place is going somewhere. It shows what a bit of planning can do.” The Australian said as he pulled out his anti-bacterial soap to have another wash. I gave him a look that made him feel obsessive but he reassured me. “When I was in the Congo mate, some kid cut his self and the next day he was dead.” And Pilate was off for serious hand-washing. The South African waxed lyrical about his favourite place in Africa. “Cyangugu, is the most wonderful place I have seen, I almost died when I saw it. I have to die and get buried there.” The Boer had a near-religious experience there, in a place that is kind of secluded and few people in Rwanda have been there but it took a foreigner to see its true beauty. I was embarrassed by the praise he had for the country.
The road was so bumpy after Kisumu, and dusty, the trip was truly ruined. The conductor kept himself entertained by picking fights with the passengers. He was picking up passengers along the way and taking the payment for himself, therefore people were traveling for a fraction of the cost of the official ticket. When he was asked about this he went on a 2-hour tirade about the lack of respect and etiquette, as he repeatedly insulted this young lady. When I interjected to try and rescue the damsel I became the focus of his ire, I told him that he shouldn’t insult customers when he was a representative of Akamba bus but he then questioned my mothers parenting skills. I wished I had an i-pod because I was lambasted from Kisumu to Kericho, which is a fair way. The sleepy towns we saw along the way highlighted the neglect of provincial areas by the centre.
The road was going to be bad till girigil or gilgil and the dust was terrible, when we got past the road works, we had the nuisance of roadblocks set up by police to elicit bribes from traveling motorists, luckily Akamba pays protection money to the top to avoid such inconveniences. The Rift valley is an awesome geographical feature that divides and defines Kenya, it is ever-present as a depression and its ridges are always in the backdrop like a wall. We climbed it and rose into the highlands, which were colder and look like the Home Counties in England. This is what caused the Mau Mau rebellion and ultimately Kenyan independence as after WWII thousands of Kikuyu were marched off their land to make way for veterans and settlers. This resulted in the killing of white settlers and the internment in camps of almost the entire Kikuyu populace. This still has consequences today.
By the time we got to Nairobi it was dark and the city lights blazed, there were a lot more buildings but the roads were neglected and the Jam was horrendous. When I arrived I was happy to see Lucy, my host, then another jam as we went home. Lucy had just been to court for a minor traffic offence and failure to pay a bribe. Her Christianity forbade her to pay it, and it was then that I decided to never pay a bribe myself. It will make my life hard and I will suffer as a consequence but I will be rewarded in the end.
Nairobi has a one thing I like, you don’t see idiots walking around with mobile phones stuck to their ear, shouting and pretending to be important. This is because thieves would relieve you of it quicker than a flash; the government had made a point of cleaning up the city of thugs but had relented in the wake of the up-coming election. Hawkers were also back in town; this was to elicit votes as hawkers are voters. But with hawkers comes all the scum of muggers, pimps, pick-pockets, conmen and idlers. The government needed these thugs to control the population, besides there are more thieves than middle-class in Nairobi so it was a vote-winner.
In Kenya the political system is polarized between two camps, the voters vs. the political elite. These two utterly despise each other but have to tango every 5 years in elections. It doesn’t matter who you vote for, the party is irrelevant, and you will get the same. Imagine if the British voted for Cameron but he did a deal with Brown to rule, or if the Republicans did a deal with Hillary to take over. That is the situation in Kenya, the ground is fluid and all parties are out to plunder the treasury as swiftly as possible. The voter is screwed because you will get the same whatever choice he or she makes. This is because the system is not corrupt, corruption is the system. Whereas in other systems, the parties fundraise from the masses, in Kenya the masses expect bribes from the parties who will later recoup this money from corruption.
Watching the Kenyan version of Question time, I saw this first hand, the voters were disgusted with the politicians while the politicians were equally disgusted with the voters. I was impressed with the Trade minister Kituyi, a man who is as educated and articulate as he is arrogant. He was disappointed by the corruption in society “When I go to rallies, the citizens expect me to give them more money than I can afford.” Others on the panel where engrossed in the pedantic definitions of corruption. “Corruption is the systemic abuse of public funds.” No, no, no. “Corruption is the misallocation of public funds.” No, no, no “Corruption is the conscious abuse and misallocation of public funds”
The truth is that even a child knows corruption when they see it and that is the obvious. When you look at Kenya, it is a miracle because even after the Moi regime plundered $ 5 billion, the country is still fully operational. The thieves always leave just enough to keep it going. But the nation has tremendous luck to have a tourist industry that is one of the best in the world, Tea and Coffee that are the envy of the world, Flowers that save marriages all over the world, a port that is the gateway to 5 countries. It somehow ambles along. Despite one of the best educated populations, they cannot break free of the political elite.
This is the result of 40 years of KANU, it ruled with a grip of iron using tribal blocs to build its power base, now these big-men still prevail and the merry-go-round of marriages of convenience ensue. All the politician are vampires that have been bitten by the curse of corruption, they need an over-haul of the political class. The Kenyans are beginning to be wise to this and realizing their power are tax-payers, they are the most heavily taxed of all Africans but they are still bound to tribal loyalties when it comes to voting.
Majimbo is the latest buzzword gripping the nation, in Swahili it means Federalism, but others see it as regional devolution, others see it as tribalism and the definition is taxing on the brain. There is a need for fairer distribution of the national pie away from Nairobi and Kikuyuland but the question is how to do it without destroying the Union of the Nation. I await further developments.
When I crossed I had expected civilization as Kenya is the most Westernized African country after South Africa. The road up to Kisumu was perfect, as smooth as butter on hot toast, we stopped in the capital of the Western Province and used one of the usually foul toilets that are a fixture in Africa, you have to hold your breath otherwise the ammonia will sting your nose and eyes. As I haggled over the price of fake mineral water (which was most likely lake water or sewerage packaged in a neat bottle) I met two dogged travelers that informed my opinions of East Africa. One was a short stubby White South African with an Amish goatee. The other was an Australian Greek called Spiros as brown as the people around him. Both were looking for opportunities in the heart of darkness.
They had traveled separately along the same route more or less, from the Congo, to Rwanda, to Uganda. They were amazed by the Congo and the utter chaos they saw. The South African had hoped to bring high-speed internet connection but found that basics such as electricity were lacking. He still had a fear of being eaten that he wasn’t able to either appease or articulate without sounding racist, so he squirmed around the topic. The Australian was a happy go lucky chap who had the misfortune of being a hypochondriac in the middle of an ebola epidemic, suddenly all the economic opportunities didn’t seem worth it. His exact words were, “I said sod this for a laugh! And left pretty sharpish.”
I was pleased to hear one thing they agreed on “The one place I liked was Rwanda, the man in charge is a serious chap. They got good order, it’s clean. That place is going somewhere. It shows what a bit of planning can do.” The Australian said as he pulled out his anti-bacterial soap to have another wash. I gave him a look that made him feel obsessive but he reassured me. “When I was in the Congo mate, some kid cut his self and the next day he was dead.” And Pilate was off for serious hand-washing. The South African waxed lyrical about his favourite place in Africa. “Cyangugu, is the most wonderful place I have seen, I almost died when I saw it. I have to die and get buried there.” The Boer had a near-religious experience there, in a place that is kind of secluded and few people in Rwanda have been there but it took a foreigner to see its true beauty. I was embarrassed by the praise he had for the country.
The road was so bumpy after Kisumu, and dusty, the trip was truly ruined. The conductor kept himself entertained by picking fights with the passengers. He was picking up passengers along the way and taking the payment for himself, therefore people were traveling for a fraction of the cost of the official ticket. When he was asked about this he went on a 2-hour tirade about the lack of respect and etiquette, as he repeatedly insulted this young lady. When I interjected to try and rescue the damsel I became the focus of his ire, I told him that he shouldn’t insult customers when he was a representative of Akamba bus but he then questioned my mothers parenting skills. I wished I had an i-pod because I was lambasted from Kisumu to Kericho, which is a fair way. The sleepy towns we saw along the way highlighted the neglect of provincial areas by the centre.
The road was going to be bad till girigil or gilgil and the dust was terrible, when we got past the road works, we had the nuisance of roadblocks set up by police to elicit bribes from traveling motorists, luckily Akamba pays protection money to the top to avoid such inconveniences. The Rift valley is an awesome geographical feature that divides and defines Kenya, it is ever-present as a depression and its ridges are always in the backdrop like a wall. We climbed it and rose into the highlands, which were colder and look like the Home Counties in England. This is what caused the Mau Mau rebellion and ultimately Kenyan independence as after WWII thousands of Kikuyu were marched off their land to make way for veterans and settlers. This resulted in the killing of white settlers and the internment in camps of almost the entire Kikuyu populace. This still has consequences today.
By the time we got to Nairobi it was dark and the city lights blazed, there were a lot more buildings but the roads were neglected and the Jam was horrendous. When I arrived I was happy to see Lucy, my host, then another jam as we went home. Lucy had just been to court for a minor traffic offence and failure to pay a bribe. Her Christianity forbade her to pay it, and it was then that I decided to never pay a bribe myself. It will make my life hard and I will suffer as a consequence but I will be rewarded in the end.
Nairobi has a one thing I like, you don’t see idiots walking around with mobile phones stuck to their ear, shouting and pretending to be important. This is because thieves would relieve you of it quicker than a flash; the government had made a point of cleaning up the city of thugs but had relented in the wake of the up-coming election. Hawkers were also back in town; this was to elicit votes as hawkers are voters. But with hawkers comes all the scum of muggers, pimps, pick-pockets, conmen and idlers. The government needed these thugs to control the population, besides there are more thieves than middle-class in Nairobi so it was a vote-winner.
In Kenya the political system is polarized between two camps, the voters vs. the political elite. These two utterly despise each other but have to tango every 5 years in elections. It doesn’t matter who you vote for, the party is irrelevant, and you will get the same. Imagine if the British voted for Cameron but he did a deal with Brown to rule, or if the Republicans did a deal with Hillary to take over. That is the situation in Kenya, the ground is fluid and all parties are out to plunder the treasury as swiftly as possible. The voter is screwed because you will get the same whatever choice he or she makes. This is because the system is not corrupt, corruption is the system. Whereas in other systems, the parties fundraise from the masses, in Kenya the masses expect bribes from the parties who will later recoup this money from corruption.
Watching the Kenyan version of Question time, I saw this first hand, the voters were disgusted with the politicians while the politicians were equally disgusted with the voters. I was impressed with the Trade minister Kituyi, a man who is as educated and articulate as he is arrogant. He was disappointed by the corruption in society “When I go to rallies, the citizens expect me to give them more money than I can afford.” Others on the panel where engrossed in the pedantic definitions of corruption. “Corruption is the systemic abuse of public funds.” No, no, no. “Corruption is the misallocation of public funds.” No, no, no “Corruption is the conscious abuse and misallocation of public funds”
The truth is that even a child knows corruption when they see it and that is the obvious. When you look at Kenya, it is a miracle because even after the Moi regime plundered $ 5 billion, the country is still fully operational. The thieves always leave just enough to keep it going. But the nation has tremendous luck to have a tourist industry that is one of the best in the world, Tea and Coffee that are the envy of the world, Flowers that save marriages all over the world, a port that is the gateway to 5 countries. It somehow ambles along. Despite one of the best educated populations, they cannot break free of the political elite.
This is the result of 40 years of KANU, it ruled with a grip of iron using tribal blocs to build its power base, now these big-men still prevail and the merry-go-round of marriages of convenience ensue. All the politician are vampires that have been bitten by the curse of corruption, they need an over-haul of the political class. The Kenyans are beginning to be wise to this and realizing their power are tax-payers, they are the most heavily taxed of all Africans but they are still bound to tribal loyalties when it comes to voting.
Majimbo is the latest buzzword gripping the nation, in Swahili it means Federalism, but others see it as regional devolution, others see it as tribalism and the definition is taxing on the brain. There is a need for fairer distribution of the national pie away from Nairobi and Kikuyuland but the question is how to do it without destroying the Union of the Nation. I await further developments.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
LESSONS FOR A TEENAGE COUNTRY
Rwanda as we know it is only thirteen years old, like any fresh faced teenager she is going through changes. She is experiencing growth in places she never had growth before, she is now attracting attention as an up and coming contender for the years to come. When she looks around at her older sisters around her namely Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania; she can learn valuable lessons about the road to development. Rwanda bears little resemblance to its namesake of 13 years ago, indeed the name and geographical location is the only commonality. It has been changed by the influence of many returnees take this conversation I heard when I first returned to Rwanda.
“Gute rero?”
“Niko Bien sana!”
“Ibyanje ni sawa.”
“OK. Co-paye, ubundi”
That is a typical conversation in Rwanda, it contains Rwandese, Kirundi, Swahili, French, English and just about every influence that Rwandese face. In my travels in East Africa, I had fresh eyes because I had not seen Africa for so long that things jumped up at me. In Uganda and Kenya I saw the result of corruption and a stagnant political system that relied on patronage.
I can honestly say that my first ever hero was not Superman, or Batman, or Spiderman; it was Yoweri Museveni. I was playing in our house in Westlands, Nairobi in January 1986 when I heard the news that we Rwandans were one step closer to home as the NRA; which contained thousands of our Rwandan boys had liberated Kampala. My father left a comfortable life in Nairobi to return to Uganda. Life was hard at first; money was worthless as there weren’t any products in the shops to buy. It was a daily struggle following the rumor-mill that someone somewhere had some sugar for sale or rice or bread. As times got better the circumstances changed; Rwandese went from being Liberators to foreign invaders and despite all the blood we shed for that country and being born there we couldn’t even get basic citizenship.
Museveni went from viewing the Rwandese as his main asset; as we were deeply loyal and unquestioning, to seeing us as a liability; as he was first accused of favouring them to even being accused of being one himself. Despite the deep historical ties that bind Rwanda and Ankole, it was step too far for him to accept us and thus the seeds of the RPF movement were sown. The reasons for this go back to colonial times with the divide and conquer tactics of the British.
When the RPF government abolished all tribal recognition in 1994, it was for several reasons. The first was to stop all potential for future tribal enmity that had resulted in the genocide. However there are other reasons for this, tribalism fuels nepotism, ignorance, and corruption, it hinders any chances of equal development. You see this first hand in Uganda. Museveni went from trying to abolish tribal politics to perfecting it to his own needs. The Baganda were the first test case for him; the 1900 Buganda treaty had given them preferential treatment as a reward for being the first to accept British rule. The first mistake the British made was giving them special status and naming the country after them, it has meant they view themselves as the defining force in the country. When the NRM came to power it faced it first big problem in whether or not to restore the Buganda Kingdom; it did after much prevarication and in so-doing had to restore all the other kingdoms and thus fragmenting an already fragmented country.
Today Uganda is an absolute mess, the prevailing story is that is developed and has moved forward but in many ways it has moved backwards. Sure there are new buildings everywhere and some of the money has gone good use but there was absolutely no planning involved. Buildings have sprouted up everywhere with no thought given to the location and needs of the user. It is still donor-funded after 21 years and the IMF need a a success story so it has to keep pressing the message that it is doing well.
CALIFORNICATION
The Red Hot Chili Pepper had a big hit song called “Californication” which is a corruption of “Californialisation” which generally alludes to the world simply imitating California. This is what has happened in Uganda, malls have sprung up everywhere and poor locals can spend an afternoon wandering like Jews in the desert of modernity. I saw this first hand in Shoprite; a South African chain that defines this new African modernity. A family was shopping but you could tell they were not even used to wearing shoes as they were walking funny, they filled their trolley with goods and took their time as they walked around only to leave the trolley at the till because the fantasy was over. For the hour they walked around they were just as good as anybody.
I heard a Ugandan say to me with the utmost pride “we are just like Europe, we even have Gay bars!” and within a minute the power cut. Yup, you still have regular power-cuts, you still have bad slums, and you still have one of the dirtiest cities you’ll ever see. I longed for the days when Baganda women were all fat and waddling along in their Gomis dresses. It took me a week to see a fat woman in a Gomis and that was in Busoga. The infrastructure is creaking, not much has been built in decades since the British left; the traffic was atrocious, the manners and lack of general etiquette was astounding.
Kampala is a big lie; it is the result of centralization, all the development that was meant for the whole country is compacted into one city. The rest of the country is a barren wasteland but Kampala is a dirty jewel and all the money meant for the nation is ploughed into the city. The North is choking from neglect, the west is developing a little, the East is decaying but the centre in just moving along. The chief architect of this is Yoweri Museveni; a man purely concerned with his own survival.
Corrupt Head of Government – Museveni
The Swahili have a saying “Siku za Mwizi ni arbaini” a thief only has 40 days, it isn’t to be taken literally but it means the days of a thief are finite. Museveni has just tottered along for 21 years, growing in greed but he might have met his demise in a moment of hubris. The Commonwealth Heads of Government was meant to Uganda moment of pride, a great coming out party but it could be its moment of shame. The dirt is worse than ever, the corruption is worse, the potholes are bursting and Uganda will be exposed for being over-ambitious. The fleet of BMW’s that have been bought for the occasion will scrape their bottoms along potholes and he might realize why BMW’s with lowered suspension aren’t popular in Uganda. The graft is stuff of legend; some cronies have been given as much as $ 1 million yes, $1 million to buy cutlery, according to Charles Onyango-Obbo, a big tax-evasion racket has been successful with hotels buying equipment for 20,000 rooms when they only have 2,000 and selling the rest on the black-market.
The tribal patronage is still the same, big-men or top cronies are meant to deliver tribal blocs under his rule. The usual suspects are still there Ruhakana Ruganda delivers the Bakiga, Kirunda Kivejinja brings home the Basoga, Chairman Mao the Acholi, and a host of other cronies abound. I even saw a funny article where Museveni advised the Teso to vote “wisely next time if they wanted more ministerial seats” that showed that he didn’t choose his ministers on merit but on a quota system based on cronyism.
As I left Uganda I saw one of the worst roads I have ever seen, 300 km of sheer hell that was a bumpy as a rocking chair. Ugandans have to realize they deserve more than this, gone are the days of war, when they slept under their beds and didn’t have sugar, now they need a new vision. A new direction because their leader is clearly out of ideas, the opposition doesn’t offer that vision, they just want change for the sake of it.
When I got to the border, I was glad to see the back of Uganda, I remember a border guard asking me for some money after I had crossed; which showed his lack of basic common sense. I remember a saying of a Western Journalist in his travels in Africa “If a border-guard asks you for a bribe then you are in a democracy, if they just rob you then it’s a dictatorship.”
I got to the Kenyan border and was asked for my yellow-fever inoculation, I realized I didn’t have one. The woman in the next counter was smug as she produced hers on demand, only to be asked for her dengue-fever card. If she had that then it would be a ebola card, or a malaria card. The moral of the story was she had to produce a bribe, I swiftly slipped 200 shillings into my passport and the matter was dealt with, while the lady sweated for a hour and nearly missed her bus. WELCOME TO KENYA the sign said.
“Gute rero?”
“Niko Bien sana!”
“Ibyanje ni sawa.”
“OK. Co-paye, ubundi”
That is a typical conversation in Rwanda, it contains Rwandese, Kirundi, Swahili, French, English and just about every influence that Rwandese face. In my travels in East Africa, I had fresh eyes because I had not seen Africa for so long that things jumped up at me. In Uganda and Kenya I saw the result of corruption and a stagnant political system that relied on patronage.
I can honestly say that my first ever hero was not Superman, or Batman, or Spiderman; it was Yoweri Museveni. I was playing in our house in Westlands, Nairobi in January 1986 when I heard the news that we Rwandans were one step closer to home as the NRA; which contained thousands of our Rwandan boys had liberated Kampala. My father left a comfortable life in Nairobi to return to Uganda. Life was hard at first; money was worthless as there weren’t any products in the shops to buy. It was a daily struggle following the rumor-mill that someone somewhere had some sugar for sale or rice or bread. As times got better the circumstances changed; Rwandese went from being Liberators to foreign invaders and despite all the blood we shed for that country and being born there we couldn’t even get basic citizenship.
Museveni went from viewing the Rwandese as his main asset; as we were deeply loyal and unquestioning, to seeing us as a liability; as he was first accused of favouring them to even being accused of being one himself. Despite the deep historical ties that bind Rwanda and Ankole, it was step too far for him to accept us and thus the seeds of the RPF movement were sown. The reasons for this go back to colonial times with the divide and conquer tactics of the British.
When the RPF government abolished all tribal recognition in 1994, it was for several reasons. The first was to stop all potential for future tribal enmity that had resulted in the genocide. However there are other reasons for this, tribalism fuels nepotism, ignorance, and corruption, it hinders any chances of equal development. You see this first hand in Uganda. Museveni went from trying to abolish tribal politics to perfecting it to his own needs. The Baganda were the first test case for him; the 1900 Buganda treaty had given them preferential treatment as a reward for being the first to accept British rule. The first mistake the British made was giving them special status and naming the country after them, it has meant they view themselves as the defining force in the country. When the NRM came to power it faced it first big problem in whether or not to restore the Buganda Kingdom; it did after much prevarication and in so-doing had to restore all the other kingdoms and thus fragmenting an already fragmented country.
Today Uganda is an absolute mess, the prevailing story is that is developed and has moved forward but in many ways it has moved backwards. Sure there are new buildings everywhere and some of the money has gone good use but there was absolutely no planning involved. Buildings have sprouted up everywhere with no thought given to the location and needs of the user. It is still donor-funded after 21 years and the IMF need a a success story so it has to keep pressing the message that it is doing well.
CALIFORNICATION
The Red Hot Chili Pepper had a big hit song called “Californication” which is a corruption of “Californialisation” which generally alludes to the world simply imitating California. This is what has happened in Uganda, malls have sprung up everywhere and poor locals can spend an afternoon wandering like Jews in the desert of modernity. I saw this first hand in Shoprite; a South African chain that defines this new African modernity. A family was shopping but you could tell they were not even used to wearing shoes as they were walking funny, they filled their trolley with goods and took their time as they walked around only to leave the trolley at the till because the fantasy was over. For the hour they walked around they were just as good as anybody.
I heard a Ugandan say to me with the utmost pride “we are just like Europe, we even have Gay bars!” and within a minute the power cut. Yup, you still have regular power-cuts, you still have bad slums, and you still have one of the dirtiest cities you’ll ever see. I longed for the days when Baganda women were all fat and waddling along in their Gomis dresses. It took me a week to see a fat woman in a Gomis and that was in Busoga. The infrastructure is creaking, not much has been built in decades since the British left; the traffic was atrocious, the manners and lack of general etiquette was astounding.
Kampala is a big lie; it is the result of centralization, all the development that was meant for the whole country is compacted into one city. The rest of the country is a barren wasteland but Kampala is a dirty jewel and all the money meant for the nation is ploughed into the city. The North is choking from neglect, the west is developing a little, the East is decaying but the centre in just moving along. The chief architect of this is Yoweri Museveni; a man purely concerned with his own survival.
Corrupt Head of Government – Museveni
The Swahili have a saying “Siku za Mwizi ni arbaini” a thief only has 40 days, it isn’t to be taken literally but it means the days of a thief are finite. Museveni has just tottered along for 21 years, growing in greed but he might have met his demise in a moment of hubris. The Commonwealth Heads of Government was meant to Uganda moment of pride, a great coming out party but it could be its moment of shame. The dirt is worse than ever, the corruption is worse, the potholes are bursting and Uganda will be exposed for being over-ambitious. The fleet of BMW’s that have been bought for the occasion will scrape their bottoms along potholes and he might realize why BMW’s with lowered suspension aren’t popular in Uganda. The graft is stuff of legend; some cronies have been given as much as $ 1 million yes, $1 million to buy cutlery, according to Charles Onyango-Obbo, a big tax-evasion racket has been successful with hotels buying equipment for 20,000 rooms when they only have 2,000 and selling the rest on the black-market.
The tribal patronage is still the same, big-men or top cronies are meant to deliver tribal blocs under his rule. The usual suspects are still there Ruhakana Ruganda delivers the Bakiga, Kirunda Kivejinja brings home the Basoga, Chairman Mao the Acholi, and a host of other cronies abound. I even saw a funny article where Museveni advised the Teso to vote “wisely next time if they wanted more ministerial seats” that showed that he didn’t choose his ministers on merit but on a quota system based on cronyism.
As I left Uganda I saw one of the worst roads I have ever seen, 300 km of sheer hell that was a bumpy as a rocking chair. Ugandans have to realize they deserve more than this, gone are the days of war, when they slept under their beds and didn’t have sugar, now they need a new vision. A new direction because their leader is clearly out of ideas, the opposition doesn’t offer that vision, they just want change for the sake of it.
When I got to the border, I was glad to see the back of Uganda, I remember a border guard asking me for some money after I had crossed; which showed his lack of basic common sense. I remember a saying of a Western Journalist in his travels in Africa “If a border-guard asks you for a bribe then you are in a democracy, if they just rob you then it’s a dictatorship.”
I got to the Kenyan border and was asked for my yellow-fever inoculation, I realized I didn’t have one. The woman in the next counter was smug as she produced hers on demand, only to be asked for her dengue-fever card. If she had that then it would be a ebola card, or a malaria card. The moral of the story was she had to produce a bribe, I swiftly slipped 200 shillings into my passport and the matter was dealt with, while the lady sweated for a hour and nearly missed her bus. WELCOME TO KENYA the sign said.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The pearl is dirty but it still shines
OH UGANDA MAY GOD UNFOLD THEE
I decided to come to UG after 15 years away and didn’t now what to expect, the ticket was cheap about $15 by bus, to be honest I preferred it this way because I wanted to see one of the most scenic routes you could ever see by car. Rwanda has such an easy-going lackadaisical charm so I wanted to contrast it with some hyper speed activity. The bus was Jaguar, it has a daily service to Kampala and the trip was to take 8 hours or so. The bus was already Uganda, I got on at 8:30 and some money-changers saw how green I was. They approached me talking in Luganda, I told them I didn’t speak Luganda and resented their familiarity, and they switched to French which I found even more annoying. They settled on English but I replied in Rwandese. They offered me 28,000 UGS for my 10000 RWF a lot less than the going rate but delivered me 21,000 plus a long bullshit story of how the rate had really jumped over-night but they were deeply disappointed that I didn’t have more. They assured me I would receive the rest in due time, I have been spoiled in Kigali because people are honest. I gave a random guy $50 to change for me and he came back with the correct amount.
So I asked the man sat next to me whether I had gotten a good rate, he assured me that I had been swindled so I got off the bus to search for the thugs in question. They were stood round the side of the bus giggling like little kids, happy at their little con trick. I walked up to them with pure rage in my eyes, they knew I wasn’t joking; they then laughed and said they were coming to give me the rest but couldn’t find me. I pushed one against the bus and stared him in the face; his friend had shrunk like a coward and dashed away. My money was swiftly handed over and the thug in question was happy not to be reported to the police. That reminded me of the essence of Uganda; a nation of conmen and thieves who would rob their own mother on her deathbed. It pains me to say that because I was born there and had Ugandan nationality until recently.
The ride was spectacular; we rose up into the mountains with terraces on the hills, neat symmetrical plots of green that circled the dome-like terrain. This is mainly to stop erosion and maximize space. You see the fields of green that make Rwanda the real beauty of Africa. We wound our way around the hills and you see what a logistical conundrum it was to build roads in this kind of country. There is never any straight road, you are either going up or down. The tea plantation of Mulinde has a real significance in Rwandan history; this was where the RPF hid as rebels, in underground bunkers and secret lairs. It showed the scale of Rwanda because within one hour and a half we were at the border. We all disembarked to go through customs and were swiftly through in no time; most of the border-crossers were captivated by a Nepalese man who was crossing the world on his Harley-Davidson. The lack of a common language added to their bewilderment, he spoke in broken English while they tried pigeon-French. The impasse was palpable, but with a few grunts and nods a basic communication was established.
Crossing the border into the “Pearl of Africa” was a 100 meter walk and the difference was instant. My first sight was the cops; in Rwanda the police are a select bunch, they make you feel proud and safe. They are tall, even the short ones have an imposing stature; they dress in a Spartan dark blue with a confidence that reassures you. The Uganda cops were like mangy dogs, dressed in a colonial khaki with beer guts denoting their rank and size of bribe. The tallest was 5’5 with a dirty uniform and a venal glare; he checked my passport with glazed eyes and a drooping chin. The difference was amazing with utter chaos in full command; it was like a stampede to customs. I was faced by a horde of malcontents stomping on anything in their path and had to get out of their way.
Customs took about 40 minutes and I was glad to get back on the bus and my panoramic widescreen adventure resumed. There is no difference in terrain between Kigezi in Uganda and Rwanda; they were once the same country until the Berlin Conference divided it. The hills were truly spectacular; the tops are shrouded in mist and clouds while the bottoms are as green as Ireland. On the higher hills rocks and outcrops jut out of the ground with artisans trying to harvest rocks for various purposes, such as building. It is now that you see the difference between the two nations. Here you saw a variety of crops being grown, such a cabbage, vanilla, sorghum, lettuce, and so many others; while in the less exposed Rwanda you see mostly banana groves and beans.
We drove into a cloud and were covered in spray as opposed to rain, the driver simply ploughed through because he knew the road so well. It struck me that in Uganda they never make roads that are wide enough, whenever the bus encountered another car, it had to swerve off the road to make room. The bus stopped to buy matoke, the local plantain was much bigger and juicier that the ones you get in Rwanda, just one could feed you quite well. People ran and brought sizzling sticks of barbequed meat; the type of meat was never mentioned, they just said “Nyama”. I used one stop to relieve myself and while doing so I was offered a sizzling stick to eat but I declined.
We rolled down into the hills of Ankole; where my grandfather was born on a long cattle drive. The banana groves gave way to flowing savannah, with acacia and thorny bushes dotting the landscape. The sight of long-horned cattle stirred my soul, it was a truly awesome sight, there was room enough for thousands to roam and they waved their horns at me as if to acknowledge a brother. I was truly stunned by their numbers, in Rwanda there isn’t room to swing a cat let alone breed cattle so I was slightly jealous.
I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up till Mbarara, I was surprised to see it has grown substantially, which is not surprising seeing as it is the presidents hometown. The stop was brief; we had a refuel and pee. The sizzling sticks were abundant; the shop was full of hungry customers so I munched on the dry rock-hard tasteless cakes I bought at the border. My brother had recommended these egg-chapati rolls so I bought one off a street-boy. This turned out to be a mistake, while it was no doubt delicious it had an added ingredient, soil, it crunched against my teeth like a screeching blackboard, it was like eating crushed glass. I shouted at the boy even though he wasn’t the one who sold it to me; he shouted in Kinyankole while I shouted in Kinyarwanda. He was kindly offering me another but I declined and quite rudely threw it at him.
The road was clear and the driver floored it till Kampala, sadly we got there when it was dark, the one thing I saw was a traffic jam, from 25km out. The number of car was astounding; when I left traffic jams consisted of 10 cars, now it was 25km long. We inched through fumes of sulphur and carbon-monoxide and soon we were in town. The light were blinding, the sound deafening, the feel was numbing. I waited to be picked up so I went to the nearby café, I ordered a cup of tea but was told it was 500 but I only had 400. The owner was a Rwandan lady so she gave me a cup for free, when she asked how many sugars I wanted I said only one and she freaked out, I lied that I was diabetic but she was still perplexed.
My cousin Tim picked my up and I was glad to see him healthy and glowing, fresh from a trip to Dubai where he was blown away by the decadence and obscene amounts of money on display. “I couldn’t believe. Imagine walking around with a briefcase with $100,000 and not being afraid of anyone stealing it. The taxis are all Mercedes S-class; you see money that is off the scale. Then you come back here and realize that the richest man is a pauper. The next day I drove around Kampala and was appalled. WHAT HAD THEY DONE? It was development but with no planning whatsoever. Like they blindly put up buildings in the most inappropriate places, you just had to feel for them.
The rubbish was as abundant as ever, they are preparing for CHOGM, the Commonwealth heads of government meeting but the potholes were like Olympic swimming pools while goats chewed on rubbish in the middle of town. Pickpockets just walked up to you to ply their trade. In the town center you had the usual miscreants; the cornerboys who specialized in wise-cracking, in Uganda it is called “Lugezigezi” a woman in high-heels who happened to be a dwarf walked passed them and they actually took the time to remind her of her stature, it made you wonder why they bothered.
My cousin was supervising a project in Bugoloobi, a mini-hotel and guest house that was having the usual difficulties that construction in Africa has. Delays, delays and even more delays; like it was the world frustrating championships, materials were being pilfered by the minute, disgruntled workmen were vandalizing the building and laziness was rife. There was as much destruction as construction going on; you find a general need to destroy what they can’t own. Everyone from the engineers to the labourers was trying to hold the project to ransom, knowing that delays cost money. Even a kid is out for his cut; I love an entrepreneurial sprit but not when a 10-year old is trying to rob you.
I needed some peace so I went to Makindye; the house stood magnificently but was a lot smaller than I remember. The road was a lot shorter; it shows that when you are a child your sense of scale is smaller, I was a lot shorter, and my stride was shorter. I met the English couple who lived there now, they had lived there for 10 years and I understood why. They house was like a person; it welcomed you into its heart and kept you warm. The garden is my place of refuge I keep in my mind when I want to get away, if I could buy anything in the world then the house would be it. It is my world and will always be, how can you explain that? I said to them “This house brings back so many memories to me; I guess in life you never know when you are happy you never know it. It is only when you look back and think about it that you realize it was a happy time.” I had to leave before the tears became too much. As dirty and chaotic as it is I love it.
I decided to come to UG after 15 years away and didn’t now what to expect, the ticket was cheap about $15 by bus, to be honest I preferred it this way because I wanted to see one of the most scenic routes you could ever see by car. Rwanda has such an easy-going lackadaisical charm so I wanted to contrast it with some hyper speed activity. The bus was Jaguar, it has a daily service to Kampala and the trip was to take 8 hours or so. The bus was already Uganda, I got on at 8:30 and some money-changers saw how green I was. They approached me talking in Luganda, I told them I didn’t speak Luganda and resented their familiarity, and they switched to French which I found even more annoying. They settled on English but I replied in Rwandese. They offered me 28,000 UGS for my 10000 RWF a lot less than the going rate but delivered me 21,000 plus a long bullshit story of how the rate had really jumped over-night but they were deeply disappointed that I didn’t have more. They assured me I would receive the rest in due time, I have been spoiled in Kigali because people are honest. I gave a random guy $50 to change for me and he came back with the correct amount.
So I asked the man sat next to me whether I had gotten a good rate, he assured me that I had been swindled so I got off the bus to search for the thugs in question. They were stood round the side of the bus giggling like little kids, happy at their little con trick. I walked up to them with pure rage in my eyes, they knew I wasn’t joking; they then laughed and said they were coming to give me the rest but couldn’t find me. I pushed one against the bus and stared him in the face; his friend had shrunk like a coward and dashed away. My money was swiftly handed over and the thug in question was happy not to be reported to the police. That reminded me of the essence of Uganda; a nation of conmen and thieves who would rob their own mother on her deathbed. It pains me to say that because I was born there and had Ugandan nationality until recently.
The ride was spectacular; we rose up into the mountains with terraces on the hills, neat symmetrical plots of green that circled the dome-like terrain. This is mainly to stop erosion and maximize space. You see the fields of green that make Rwanda the real beauty of Africa. We wound our way around the hills and you see what a logistical conundrum it was to build roads in this kind of country. There is never any straight road, you are either going up or down. The tea plantation of Mulinde has a real significance in Rwandan history; this was where the RPF hid as rebels, in underground bunkers and secret lairs. It showed the scale of Rwanda because within one hour and a half we were at the border. We all disembarked to go through customs and were swiftly through in no time; most of the border-crossers were captivated by a Nepalese man who was crossing the world on his Harley-Davidson. The lack of a common language added to their bewilderment, he spoke in broken English while they tried pigeon-French. The impasse was palpable, but with a few grunts and nods a basic communication was established.
Crossing the border into the “Pearl of Africa” was a 100 meter walk and the difference was instant. My first sight was the cops; in Rwanda the police are a select bunch, they make you feel proud and safe. They are tall, even the short ones have an imposing stature; they dress in a Spartan dark blue with a confidence that reassures you. The Uganda cops were like mangy dogs, dressed in a colonial khaki with beer guts denoting their rank and size of bribe. The tallest was 5’5 with a dirty uniform and a venal glare; he checked my passport with glazed eyes and a drooping chin. The difference was amazing with utter chaos in full command; it was like a stampede to customs. I was faced by a horde of malcontents stomping on anything in their path and had to get out of their way.
Customs took about 40 minutes and I was glad to get back on the bus and my panoramic widescreen adventure resumed. There is no difference in terrain between Kigezi in Uganda and Rwanda; they were once the same country until the Berlin Conference divided it. The hills were truly spectacular; the tops are shrouded in mist and clouds while the bottoms are as green as Ireland. On the higher hills rocks and outcrops jut out of the ground with artisans trying to harvest rocks for various purposes, such as building. It is now that you see the difference between the two nations. Here you saw a variety of crops being grown, such a cabbage, vanilla, sorghum, lettuce, and so many others; while in the less exposed Rwanda you see mostly banana groves and beans.
We drove into a cloud and were covered in spray as opposed to rain, the driver simply ploughed through because he knew the road so well. It struck me that in Uganda they never make roads that are wide enough, whenever the bus encountered another car, it had to swerve off the road to make room. The bus stopped to buy matoke, the local plantain was much bigger and juicier that the ones you get in Rwanda, just one could feed you quite well. People ran and brought sizzling sticks of barbequed meat; the type of meat was never mentioned, they just said “Nyama”. I used one stop to relieve myself and while doing so I was offered a sizzling stick to eat but I declined.
We rolled down into the hills of Ankole; where my grandfather was born on a long cattle drive. The banana groves gave way to flowing savannah, with acacia and thorny bushes dotting the landscape. The sight of long-horned cattle stirred my soul, it was a truly awesome sight, there was room enough for thousands to roam and they waved their horns at me as if to acknowledge a brother. I was truly stunned by their numbers, in Rwanda there isn’t room to swing a cat let alone breed cattle so I was slightly jealous.
I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up till Mbarara, I was surprised to see it has grown substantially, which is not surprising seeing as it is the presidents hometown. The stop was brief; we had a refuel and pee. The sizzling sticks were abundant; the shop was full of hungry customers so I munched on the dry rock-hard tasteless cakes I bought at the border. My brother had recommended these egg-chapati rolls so I bought one off a street-boy. This turned out to be a mistake, while it was no doubt delicious it had an added ingredient, soil, it crunched against my teeth like a screeching blackboard, it was like eating crushed glass. I shouted at the boy even though he wasn’t the one who sold it to me; he shouted in Kinyankole while I shouted in Kinyarwanda. He was kindly offering me another but I declined and quite rudely threw it at him.
The road was clear and the driver floored it till Kampala, sadly we got there when it was dark, the one thing I saw was a traffic jam, from 25km out. The number of car was astounding; when I left traffic jams consisted of 10 cars, now it was 25km long. We inched through fumes of sulphur and carbon-monoxide and soon we were in town. The light were blinding, the sound deafening, the feel was numbing. I waited to be picked up so I went to the nearby café, I ordered a cup of tea but was told it was 500 but I only had 400. The owner was a Rwandan lady so she gave me a cup for free, when she asked how many sugars I wanted I said only one and she freaked out, I lied that I was diabetic but she was still perplexed.
My cousin Tim picked my up and I was glad to see him healthy and glowing, fresh from a trip to Dubai where he was blown away by the decadence and obscene amounts of money on display. “I couldn’t believe. Imagine walking around with a briefcase with $100,000 and not being afraid of anyone stealing it. The taxis are all Mercedes S-class; you see money that is off the scale. Then you come back here and realize that the richest man is a pauper. The next day I drove around Kampala and was appalled. WHAT HAD THEY DONE? It was development but with no planning whatsoever. Like they blindly put up buildings in the most inappropriate places, you just had to feel for them.
The rubbish was as abundant as ever, they are preparing for CHOGM, the Commonwealth heads of government meeting but the potholes were like Olympic swimming pools while goats chewed on rubbish in the middle of town. Pickpockets just walked up to you to ply their trade. In the town center you had the usual miscreants; the cornerboys who specialized in wise-cracking, in Uganda it is called “Lugezigezi” a woman in high-heels who happened to be a dwarf walked passed them and they actually took the time to remind her of her stature, it made you wonder why they bothered.
My cousin was supervising a project in Bugoloobi, a mini-hotel and guest house that was having the usual difficulties that construction in Africa has. Delays, delays and even more delays; like it was the world frustrating championships, materials were being pilfered by the minute, disgruntled workmen were vandalizing the building and laziness was rife. There was as much destruction as construction going on; you find a general need to destroy what they can’t own. Everyone from the engineers to the labourers was trying to hold the project to ransom, knowing that delays cost money. Even a kid is out for his cut; I love an entrepreneurial sprit but not when a 10-year old is trying to rob you.
I needed some peace so I went to Makindye; the house stood magnificently but was a lot smaller than I remember. The road was a lot shorter; it shows that when you are a child your sense of scale is smaller, I was a lot shorter, and my stride was shorter. I met the English couple who lived there now, they had lived there for 10 years and I understood why. They house was like a person; it welcomed you into its heart and kept you warm. The garden is my place of refuge I keep in my mind when I want to get away, if I could buy anything in the world then the house would be it. It is my world and will always be, how can you explain that? I said to them “This house brings back so many memories to me; I guess in life you never know when you are happy you never know it. It is only when you look back and think about it that you realize it was a happy time.” I had to leave before the tears became too much. As dirty and chaotic as it is I love it.
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