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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
BEGGARS AND CHOOSERS
There is a saying that beggars can’t be choosers but in Rwanda that is not the case. There are a numbers of reasons for the phenomenon of begging, sometimes it is just poverty and lack of opportunity but sometimes it is pure business acumen. In Rwanda it is hard to tell which is which, on the road to Bugesera nearly all the peasants we passed were sticking their hands out. As if we would throw money out the window to blow in the wind, there must be some dumb Expats who do that from time to time, otherwise they wouldn’t bother. Maybe it is the huge disparity in income that makes them want to eat mere crumbs off the table, but there might be a better reason.
Rural African culture relies on sharing as a bonding agent, I remember on visits to the village as a child, my rural cousins would want to share everything. A tiny banana would split 10-ways; all you’d get is a taste, nothing to fill you up. The thought of eating alone was alien, nobody ate off their own plate; you had a large tray in the centre and bare hands for forks. It was like lions at a kill, everyman for himself and God for us all; it wasn’t a matter of size but character; a small kid could fight his way to the top of the food chain based on tenacity alone.
When you all share it is a wonderful thing, but when the urban ethos of self-determination clashes with this; you get the concept of begging. When you have a common history and homestead then it makes sense to share; for today I could eat and tomorrow I could starve. Even if it gets spread very thin, the chances of survival are greatly improved. In an urban environment in is different, there is a competitive element that makes you see your fellow city-dwellers as rivals for scarce resources. In the absence of a brotherly bond, pity is all that is left to sway the cold heart.
The first thing you notice in Africa is the crippled beggars, the dregs of society that have sunk so low that they don’t even register on the minds of locals. But a foreigner sees it, long after the beggar has passed; he is singed onto your mind, as you eat your dinner, as you take a shower, as you try to sleep. Your conscience is not just pricked it is stabbed with a rusty ice-pike, you hate yourself for ever being born with legs or money, or whatever it was the beggar lacked. The first one I saw was particularly unnerving, a crumpled pile of humanity that seemed to lack a spine. Folded up like crumpled chair; I stepped on him as he was barely two feet off the ground. He contorted in pain as I nearly tripped and in a split second, his hand was extended plaintively before I could escape his gaze.
I pathetically motioned that I didn’t have any money, which was true as I was going to the bank to withdraw $500, twice our nation’s per capita income, in order to blow it on mindless fun. I walked away with such a heavy heart, all my former- Catholic self-hatred rose in my bile. I walked into the bank, but was still distracted by the man; I couldn’t even enter my PIN. I wondered about why God made such an uneven world, all men are born equal but within a second, all that equality is gone. I was disgusted as I collected my money, I walked out and went to a coffee bar where I thought some more.
On my way back to my uncles’ place I was deep in thought, I purposefully avoided the spot where the beggar sat so I took another route. I was shocked when I saw the beggar again; I couldn’t turn around so I kept walking. I thought I should give him at least a portion of my money to ease my conscience. He was hunched and looking away from me, I went to tap him on the shoulder and was shocked to see him counting the biggest wad of money I had ever seen. I distinctly remember thinking “You fucking little bastard! I should break your legs for that!” but I realised he was already crippled. I then proceeded to spend my money in peace and even more irresponsibly than usual. I was glad about that; I was immunised with cynicism and wouldn’t bat an eyelid when cripples begged.
In town I met a young boy who nearly changed my opinion; he was the cutest raggedy little kid you saw with bright eyes and perfect teeth, cute as a bay hyena but soon he would be a rabid carnivore. He immediately slipped his has in mine like we were brothers and it felt like we were. He pleaded with me that he needed money for school fees; I informed him that school was free and he was indeed unfortunate to be the only fee-paying kid. He said he needed books, I said he should give me the names of the books and I will buy them for him. He said these books were rare and could only be purchased in a very far place. While we were discussing the best way forward I nearly failed to see his accomplice trying to pick my pocket.
In Butare, I was scared shitless by this woman-beggar whose only handicap was being extremely ugly. Then there was another Albino mother who threatened to curse me if I didn’t pay up, at least she was providing a service. Beggars are always looking for ingenious ways to reach an ever more desensitised market. This boy comes to the Estate in Gaculiro, a wealthy suburb; he has a green-rotting wound that looks gangrenous but is actually smeared with avocado for maximum shock value. Charities hand out wheelchairs to the disabled but this often curtails their finances, so the wheelchairs have to be parked at a distance while they crawl to their pavement offices.
In a society where disability is still seen a curse, where the sins of a parent are seen to be handed down to their unfortunate children in a form of physical defects, what else is there to do but beg? It isn’t enough to give them wheelchairs; we need to give them opportunities, equality, honour, value and love. That is more valuable than money; money is not a substitute for caring.
Rural African culture relies on sharing as a bonding agent, I remember on visits to the village as a child, my rural cousins would want to share everything. A tiny banana would split 10-ways; all you’d get is a taste, nothing to fill you up. The thought of eating alone was alien, nobody ate off their own plate; you had a large tray in the centre and bare hands for forks. It was like lions at a kill, everyman for himself and God for us all; it wasn’t a matter of size but character; a small kid could fight his way to the top of the food chain based on tenacity alone.
When you all share it is a wonderful thing, but when the urban ethos of self-determination clashes with this; you get the concept of begging. When you have a common history and homestead then it makes sense to share; for today I could eat and tomorrow I could starve. Even if it gets spread very thin, the chances of survival are greatly improved. In an urban environment in is different, there is a competitive element that makes you see your fellow city-dwellers as rivals for scarce resources. In the absence of a brotherly bond, pity is all that is left to sway the cold heart.
The first thing you notice in Africa is the crippled beggars, the dregs of society that have sunk so low that they don’t even register on the minds of locals. But a foreigner sees it, long after the beggar has passed; he is singed onto your mind, as you eat your dinner, as you take a shower, as you try to sleep. Your conscience is not just pricked it is stabbed with a rusty ice-pike, you hate yourself for ever being born with legs or money, or whatever it was the beggar lacked. The first one I saw was particularly unnerving, a crumpled pile of humanity that seemed to lack a spine. Folded up like crumpled chair; I stepped on him as he was barely two feet off the ground. He contorted in pain as I nearly tripped and in a split second, his hand was extended plaintively before I could escape his gaze.
I pathetically motioned that I didn’t have any money, which was true as I was going to the bank to withdraw $500, twice our nation’s per capita income, in order to blow it on mindless fun. I walked away with such a heavy heart, all my former- Catholic self-hatred rose in my bile. I walked into the bank, but was still distracted by the man; I couldn’t even enter my PIN. I wondered about why God made such an uneven world, all men are born equal but within a second, all that equality is gone. I was disgusted as I collected my money, I walked out and went to a coffee bar where I thought some more.
On my way back to my uncles’ place I was deep in thought, I purposefully avoided the spot where the beggar sat so I took another route. I was shocked when I saw the beggar again; I couldn’t turn around so I kept walking. I thought I should give him at least a portion of my money to ease my conscience. He was hunched and looking away from me, I went to tap him on the shoulder and was shocked to see him counting the biggest wad of money I had ever seen. I distinctly remember thinking “You fucking little bastard! I should break your legs for that!” but I realised he was already crippled. I then proceeded to spend my money in peace and even more irresponsibly than usual. I was glad about that; I was immunised with cynicism and wouldn’t bat an eyelid when cripples begged.
In town I met a young boy who nearly changed my opinion; he was the cutest raggedy little kid you saw with bright eyes and perfect teeth, cute as a bay hyena but soon he would be a rabid carnivore. He immediately slipped his has in mine like we were brothers and it felt like we were. He pleaded with me that he needed money for school fees; I informed him that school was free and he was indeed unfortunate to be the only fee-paying kid. He said he needed books, I said he should give me the names of the books and I will buy them for him. He said these books were rare and could only be purchased in a very far place. While we were discussing the best way forward I nearly failed to see his accomplice trying to pick my pocket.
In Butare, I was scared shitless by this woman-beggar whose only handicap was being extremely ugly. Then there was another Albino mother who threatened to curse me if I didn’t pay up, at least she was providing a service. Beggars are always looking for ingenious ways to reach an ever more desensitised market. This boy comes to the Estate in Gaculiro, a wealthy suburb; he has a green-rotting wound that looks gangrenous but is actually smeared with avocado for maximum shock value. Charities hand out wheelchairs to the disabled but this often curtails their finances, so the wheelchairs have to be parked at a distance while they crawl to their pavement offices.
In a society where disability is still seen a curse, where the sins of a parent are seen to be handed down to their unfortunate children in a form of physical defects, what else is there to do but beg? It isn’t enough to give them wheelchairs; we need to give them opportunities, equality, honour, value and love. That is more valuable than money; money is not a substitute for caring.
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