bruce's rwanderings

Rwanda - the final reckoning

2010-03-09T15:55:00.001+02:00

OK, its three months since I left Rwanda and I’ve had time to adjust to life back in the “real world”. Christmas and New Year have been and gone; I’ve seen most of the relatives; I’ve even met up with a group of past and continuing volunteers.

Here in England we’ve had the coldest winter for years; I managed to arrive at Gatwick airport just as the bad weather started and it certainly made an abrupt transition to have to cast aside sandals and short-sleeved shirts for thermal undies and many layers of clothes!

I’ve got myself a job, and been approached for another one only to have to turn it down. I’m working part time for our local museum in Bridport as “community engagement officer”. My role is to co-ordinate the rota of volunteers who man the museum during its opening season; to write press releases and generally extend the reach of the museum; to help find funding to enable us to stay open and remove admission fees for 2010. For the first time in 40 years I have left the world of education. I’m discovering a whole new world in which not only do I not have the long school holidays, but the holidays are to be my busiest work periods.

I’ve put on at least a stone in weight due to Teresa’s cooking; my belt has gone out at least one notch since Gitarama I’m back on my bike and rediscovering my cycling muscles. (The Bridport hills seem to have got steeper and longer during my absence).

I’ve already done around ten talks and slideshows to various groups about my time as a VSO to audiences ranging from Womens Institutes to schools to our Town Twinning association and church groups. I have bookings to do talks as far into the future as September, and there will be more to come.

In my final blog from Africa I promised to write a summing up entry, and I’ve rightly been taken to task for dawdling over the job. OK, I apologise for the delay, and here comes the collected wisdom(?) of Brucey Baby

What did I learn, what did I achieve and was it all worth the effort?

Firstly, my experience in Africa has affected me profoundly. It has enormously deepened my understanding of poverty, under development, and the problems faced by countries like Rwanda. It has taken me way beyond the stereotypes of helpless, lethargic Africans as passive recipients of aid. It has shown me that Rwanda truly is “a country in a hurry”, with some educated, energetic and visionary people. In particular it has taught me that just as there is no single cause of underdevelopment, so there is no single (or simple) solution. It’s like trying to untangle a ball of knotted string. You cannot, even with all the goodwill and best intentions in the world, try to resolve Rwanda’s problems by focusing on any one aspect of life such as education.

To give you an example – you try to persuade children to complete their primary education. But you soon discover the reason why children don’t finish to the end of year 6 is because they have to leave school to work and earn money. Or there are family members who are ill and need nursing. Thus you can’t solve an education issue without doing something about agriculture and food security, or about creating local employment in the non-agricultural sector, or about public health. This is very demoralising. No single person has the time or resources to intervene in all the areas of education, health and job creation, and because you can’t tackle all of these you tend to feel helpless. What’s the point…… You eventually learn that you have to plug on with those things you can influence, hoping that you are creating the conditions for fast progress when some other agency addresses those areas you can’t reach.

And your fumbling, well-intentioned efforts to help can produce unfortunate side effects. I channelled money from my local community in Dorset to install or repair water tanks in schools. All well and good, and nobody could possibly object to providing clean water as a worthwhile project. But I now discover that the fact that the schools have water on hand, while the villages themselves often do not, is a cause of friction. The schools are usually reluctant to share their water with the villages because there isn’t enough for everyone, and the villagers are resentful of the school having water while they themselves have to walk long distances to find polluted water from streams or springs. So my altruistic attempts to solve one problem have inadvertently led to another. So you have to sit back and take stock. Do you abandon the school projects because you can’t afford something which embraces the local community as well? Answer - no; you do what you can in the schools and let the Rwandans sort out the other issues.

A second thought on my experience is that it has made me into an enthusiastic “ambassador” for the country. Most people in my little corner of England have absolutely no idea what Rwanda is like. The opportunity to speak to various groups and show lots of good quality photos is going down a storm. For me, I’m re-living my time in Africa. I’m able to raise awareness and dispel many myths. People are interested; they ask penetrating questions; they are desperate to get beyond the image of Africa as a place of disasters and emergencies and learn about what it’s like to live there. Its empowering to be able to tell them about the good things as well as all the problems.

One question I am always asked is “Would you like to go back?”, to which the answer is always “Yes, definitely, but in a couple of years’ time and for a short placement”. I would be intrigued to go back to Muhanga district and see just how much and how fast things have changed, especially in the countryside.

People are still amazingly generous, and even though I have finished my stint at Gitarama, I have sent £1000 out to Ken, my replacement, for him to continue getting water into schools. And money is still coming in.

A third thought is that I have made an entire new set of friends as a result of my experience. When I applied to do VSO I imagined that the majority of volunteers would be men, and recently retired like me. It came as quite a shock to discover that most volunteers were young women in their twenties. (Not that I’m complaining!). I never cease to be surprised at just how international the volunteer community is; how knowledgeable so many volunteers are on such an enormous range of topics, and just how lovely they are as people. The friendliness and energy and enterprise of other volunteers becomes infectious, and it gets you through the difficult times.

What did I achieve in two years as a volunteer? Did I “make a difference”, as I hoped? I had too many schools to be able to make a difference in them, though I did have a lot of influence in those I managed to get to. My input was mainly to give new ideas – of teaching techniques, of ways to timetable, for example. I shared good practise between schools. I acted as advocate for schools suffering intolerable problems with buildings (Bikombe) or staffing (Ruli, Buramba, N). I praised whatever I found was good.

Some of our ideas do seem to have been taken up. There are classrooms with wall posters drawn on old rice sacks which make cheap alternatives for expensive western wall charts. Schools are using the action songs we taught them, albeit often to different tunes. Some schools have taken on board the idea of making learning active, so children are getting up and moving about instead of always being sat passively in the classroom. Some teachers are beginning to feel free to use their own initiative to very how they teach; to experiment and not feel crushed or humiliated if the experiment fails; to be more imaginative.

One of my more useful roles was to act as a conduit to enable schools to vent their frustrations over buildings, late payment of wages, lack of resources and the like, to the District office. Country schools feel abandoned; the difficulties of transport mean they aren’t visited for years at a time, and they feel that nobody in the District cares about them. To have a westerner visit them, blow a fuse at the state of the place and promise to take it up with the Director of education next morning made them feel that someone was listening to them; someone was on their side.

Am I leaving behind something which is sustainable? Sadly, no. VSO aims that placements should create sustainability so that after a few years international volunteers are no longer needed in the post. But what I found was that I was doing things precisely because there was nobody else to do them. The entire education, youth service, sport and culture for 100,000 people in an area the size of Dorset was being run by three full time people with one part time secretary. These people were competent and effective, but the job was just too much for them to do properly. I can’t see the need for a volunteer diminishing in the foreseeable future unless the Rwandan authorities increase staffing levels in the District offices. The trend is the other way – to increase workloads on those people already employed.

I like to think that the education service in Muhanga is better organised and runs more smoothly as a result of my efforts, and my main success was at the level of the District Office. In terms of my work with statistics I have changed the way things are run. Information is accurate and readily accessible, and planning and policies are much more school friendly.

In terms of physical legacy, my main achievement is the water tanks. Three complete cisterns. Replacements or repairs to five others. £10,000 of aid into eight schools, benefiting well over 8000 children and their teachers. The lifespan of the tanks is 20-30 years; the cost per pupil per year is about 6p.

Some achievements are less tangible. The people I worked with, without exception, found it comforting to think that people in the developed world were interested in them and concerned enough to want to help them. I think there’s a deep sense of abandonment in Rwanda originating in the unfortunate way they were left to their own devices during the Genocide of 1994. The outside world either didn’t intervene, or, as in the case of the French, intervened disastrously. To have westerners living among them, working with them, sharing their everyday hardships and in every way identifying with them was enormously appreciated.

Was it all worth the effort? – Yes, definitely. I was very lucky in my placement, but the majority of VSO colleagues thrived, and a large proportion extended their contracts.

I think a good placement is like a chair. It needs four legs to be effective. These legs are:
• A secure and viable place to live
• A sense that there is a real job for you to do
• A local boss who is supportive, gives you room to manoeuvre and values you
• Friends and colleagues to interact with.
If any one of these “legs” is weak, the placement becomes like a three-legged chair: it is possible but not very effective. If two or more of the legs are weak the placement is unviable, like a two-legged chair.

If you are thinking about volunteering, my advice would be definitely to go or it. You will certainly be put well outside your comfort zone, but you won’t be put in real danger. You will certainly suffer from discomforts, bugs, ailments and the like, but not such as to put your health and wellbeing at serious risk. There will be boring “what am I doing wasting my time here?” days, but they will be outweighed by the highs you get when everything comes together. You will make a lot of new friends. You will do things you never imagined you could. You’ll learn a lot about yourself.

And the rest of the world, when you return back home, will appear in a very different perspective.

So take the plunge and volunteer. I’m sure you won’t regret it!

Saying goodbye is so hard

2009-12-03T09:00:00.000+02:00

December 1st

Today is my last full day in Gitarama. This will also be the last daily entry on the blog, although I’ll try to summarise two years of a life changing experience when I get home.

The rainy season seems to be ending; we haven’t had a heavy downpour from some time. This means the weather is absolutely idyllic. I wrote a couple of days ago about how clear and fresh and sharp the air was; well today is even more so. Gitarama has a fabulous climate and these days during the transition period from wet to dry are simply the best. No Garden of Eden could ask for better temperatures, sunlight, and general loveliness of nature around it.

Mind you, you’ve got to look over the choking traffic fumes, the throngs of people hanging around waiting for anything to happen, or trudging to and from the market. You’ve got to close your ears to the constant din from many sound systems, all tuned into different radio stations, all turned up way beyond distortion level, and all broadcasting different types of music from Tammy Wynette to Congolese dance. You’ve got to walk quickly past the free evangelical church, a couple of rooms above a parade of shops, where there’s always a service going on at half past six in the mornings and where the preacher is bellowing at his flock like a headmaster trying to cow a bunch of naughty schoolchildren. You’ve got to zip past the market with its revolting smells of fermenting cassava and the riper, sweeter smell of decomposing unsold fruit and over-ripe fish.

This is Africa – colourful, noisy, frenetic and indolent at the same time, hopeless and ambitious at the same time, grasping and giving. I love it here.

I have to stay at home till half past seven because Dieudonnée, the head at Rutarabana, stopped me in the street yesterday and demanded I give him a leaving present for his school. Sheer cheek, but it’s very Rwandan and if I were in his position I would do the same. I decide I can afford to give him a very small sum to buy dictionaries for his senior classes, and have the money all set aside in an envelope for him. But he never shows up. That’s a nuisance because it means I’ve missed the golden time of 7 – 7.30 in the office when it’s easy to collar people and get things done. I’m miffed at his no show, and decide I’m not going to pursue him. If he really wants this money then it’ll be his job to come and find me. I’m the one with the deadline.

In the town centre it looks as if a vehicle has lost its oils sump or fuel tank; there’s oil or diesel spread right across the road and the stench is overpowering. It’s nobody’s job to clear up the mess, so it will just remain forever there, a stain on the heart of Gitarama.

At the office there’s no sign of Claude. This is the day when I’m supposed to be saying all my formal farewells, but Claudine isn’t there either, and Valérian is in and out all the time, so there’s not a lot to do. Soraya and I stay for two hours. Claude’s been and gone, and left his modem behind so I’m able to do some internetting. Both power points in my office have stopped working, so I sit at Claude’s desk and use his wall socket, much to everyone’s amusement. (But hot desking is common here, and Claude’s computer is always being shared around the other District Office people. At one point someone comes in and thinks my computer is Claude’s and demands to use it in ten minutes’ time).

There’s no post for us, either, and when Karen comes in from Shyogwe the three of us go to the little café across the road for a fanta. Meanwhile I’m waiting to collect some money from Marin from last weekend; eventually she sends a driver specifically to find me and give it to me.

By this point I’m getting worried that I still haven’t started putting things in my suitcase, and I’m also worried about how heavy it’s going to be. So I abandon the office and leave word that I’ll come in first thing tomorrow before I set off for Kigali. Charlotte has come up trumps and is going to take me to Kigali on her way back from Shyogwe; I’m mightily relieved that I haven’t got to juggle a suitcase and two rucksacks on the buses, especially those in Kigali town.

Back at the flat I find packing relatively straightforward. I’m leaving behind almost all my clothes except those I’ll wear for the journey; I’m leaving all my toiletries and medicine, and, of course, my motor cycle helmet. That means that even with souvenirs there’s no problem of space in the luggage; it becomes a question of weight. Tom arrives with a spring balance and when we weigh all my stuff I’m below the flight limit so all’s well.

Épi texts to say she’s meeting me in Kigali tonight; that’s perfect because we can swap photos and music.

I have a packet of cake mix from my sister, and the plan is to bake it up into little buns and take some to Janine to make her feel better. But for some reason the only adaptor plug I have left out and available decides not to work, so I can’t get our oven to operate. No matter, I’ll bequeath the cake mix to Tom and he can sort it out at the weekend.

For my final lunch in Gitarama I decide to go to Nectar and have omelette special; it’s one of my favourite delights of Rwandan cuisine. Then I get a moto round to Janine’s house. At last she is back home from hospital, and starting to make progress. She is out of bed, and has been walking around in the house and garden. But sitting up for any period of time is painful, and after twenty minutes I can tell she’s had enough. The room is full of people, her brothers and their friends are watching a DVD on a laptop. It’s an odd feeling – you’re having a private conversation in a room full of people because everyone except Janine and myself is glued to the Kinyarwanda soundtrack on the DVD.

Saying goodbye is always hard, but in Janine’s case it is particularly difficult. She’s such a lovely girl, and has been so unlucky. Things have really knocked the stuffing out of her. But she has Tom, Christi and all the FHI volunteers looking after her, and a supportive fiancé and family, so she’s not cut adrift. She is signed off work for at least three weeks, but Tom’s inviting her to drop in at the FHI office now and then, unofficially, to keep up to date with what’s happening rather than to do actual work.

Back to the flat. My bedroom cupboards are bare; the walls are bleak except where we’ve agreed I’ll leave my Dorset calendar pictures and clippings from newspapers as decorations. It doesn’t feel like my space any more.

On one of the chairs there’s a big pile of clothes to go to the FHI office for the artisans to help themselves when they bring in their offerings next week. I really brought far too many clothes, and definitely far too much medicine. But as for the medicine, when you come to Rwanda as a VSO you have no clear idea what your living conditions are going to be like, and had I been way up in a remote place or more unlucky with my health, then I would have possibly needed everything that came out with me. In general we always come to Africa as if we’re on an expedition to Antarctica. The reality is that almost everything you need is available here, but it might take you a year to find out just how to get things. And clothes here are ridiculously cheap, and after a few months all the men get African shirts made up and so on, so there isn’t a need to bring more than a week’s worth of clothes!

In the evening Tom and I go up to Green Garden for brochettes and ibirayi. Even with two orders of these, they still manage to screw up the quantities, but we just laugh. We’re joined by Nathan, Marin, April and Helen and stay for a couple of hours. Marin has her bodyguard with her; he also gets brochettes and stays in the shadows a discreet distance from us. It’s a hell of a situation for her; let’s hope the catch the man who is threatening her and lock him away soon.

Back to the flat and to bed. My last night in Gitarama and there’s at least a couple of mosquitoes in the room. I really can’t get my head round this. Joe Walk’s right by the lake, at a lower altitude, and yet he has almost no trouble with mozzies at all. But we always have them in the flat – not swarms but enough to make it uncomfortable to sleep without a net – and Moira has them as well just up the road in Kavumu. I’m looking forward to being able to sleep without a net in England. The news from home is that the rain and floods seem to have finished for a while, but when I land at Gatwick it will be bitterly cold with snow across the whole of the north of England. So it looks as though there’ll be no mistaking where I am when I land!.

Finally, as a full moon rises across the town and Africa glistens under its light, a word of thanks to all those of you who have been reading the blog. According to my tracker there have been some 15000 visits to the site, from around 30 different countries. If it has given you some insight into what Rwanda is really like; if it has shown you what it means to be a volunteer in one of the poorest countries in the world, then it has served its purpose. I started it for my family and friends back in England as an alternative to writing endless letters, it then spread to prospective volunteers about to come to Rwanda.

I came to Rwanda absolutely petrified that I wouldn’t be able to cope with the heat, the crowds, the language, the work, the insects and diseases – my biggest fear was that I would collapse and be sent home in ignominy as a failed volunteer. Two years later I find that Africa has become home; the strangeness of everything has become normality. I’m operating well within my comfort zone, and I find I’m apprehensive about returning to an England where there is economic recession, political lethargy and general malaise. I feel out of step with the way of thinking in the west and I’m going to find the materialism difficult to adjust to. For all long term volunteers the “re-entry” period is not easy; perhaps I’m lucky in that I’ve got all the Christmas business to distract me.

Would I volunteer with VSO again – YES! I’ve been lucky, but I’ve had a tremendous time.

Out in the sticks - pictures fom Rutarabana village

2009-12-03T08:53:00.004+02:00

One of my absolute favourite shots of Rwanda. This is the kind of footpath you follow if you step off the earth roads to take shortcuts. Deep under the banana and mango trees it's difficult to see where you're going!

It doesn't take long to leave the town behind, leave the earth roads, and get deep into solid greenery. This is a long shot across a sea of banana plantations and crop fields towards my part of Gitarama (Gahogo). Double click the image to get it enlarged.

Another view looking towards Gitarama in the distance

Fighting the same old battles

2009-12-02T15:29:00.002+02:00

It's World Aids Day. This is an extract from Wednesday's "New Times" and applies to my own district of Muhanga, showing that we've got a long way to go to change people's attitudes.

Religion hampering condom use

MUHANGA – Religious teachings in Muhanga district are causing residents to shun condom use and thus involve in risky sexual behaviours, Joel Serucaca, the district health coordinator said yesterday.

“We need combined efforts in educating residents on the dangers of HIV/Aids because it has become evident that few people are using condoms due to religious conviction.

This has impacted on the HIV prevalence levels,” Serucaca said during the commemoration of the World AIDS Day.

Residents in Meru trading centre, in Muhanga sector noted that condoms are easily accessible, however, they said, recent increase in condom prices has subsequently affected their use.

“The price of ‘Prudence’ condom has increased from Rwf50 to 100, while the ‘Life-Guard’ condoms have increased from Rwf200 to 500 in the past weeks. The condoms are expensive and we cannot afford it,” one cyclist said.

Other youths who spoke to the New Times said they are afraid of buying condoms for fear of being ‘regarded people with multiple sexual partners.’

Over 10,000 condoms were distributed in Kibangu sector during the world Aids Day commemoration, according to Serucaca. The district has planned to distribute over 100,000 condoms in the next three months during promotion campaigns.

The HIV prevalence rates in Muhanga district are estimated at 3.9% according to 2007 report.

Fresh strawberries in November

2009-12-01T09:29:00.001+02:00

November 30th

Claude has asked Soraya and I to go into the office for a meeting, but when we arrive we find the meeting doesn’t take place. Also the internet is down. At least Claude seems to have shaken off his malaria and is back in the saddle. The problem is that he’s now besieged with people all morning, and there’s the big meeting of everyone who works in the akarere after about eight o’clock. So Soraya and I are left to our own devices.

At eight o’clock I take a moto out to Mushubati and pay the remaining money into Nyarusange’s school so that they can complete their water tank. That’s the absolute last slice of water money – three complete systems, and about five repairs or improvements in other schools. 8500 pupils with access to clean water.

It is turning out to be another of the beautiful mornings at the end of the rainy seasons, the visibility is pin sharp. Muhabura volcano is clear and well defined from my lounge window, and the mountains around Gitarama look inviting. If I had my own moto I’d be sorely tempted to cut work today and go off into the hills for a good walk.

I have to wait a while at the office for some money I’m owed, but then I take off back to the flat and pack a bag with clothes that I won’t be using any more. I’m going out to Rutarabana to say goodbye to Delphine and her family (in Rwanda goodbyes are very formal occasions), and I might as well give them my unwanted clothes. The alternative would be to give the clothes to a market trader to sell, or leave them in Tom’s FHI office for his suppliers to pick through. But I decide if I’m going out to Rutarabana to say goodbye to her family I might as well give them my cast offs and save time. With eight children there’s no question but that they need them, and even though I’m twice the size of some of them they’ll either cut and adapt them or sell them. I’m welcomed like a hero and fed.

Delphine repays me the loan she took out from me to buy beans a couple of months ago. I lent her 100,000 francs and she bought a huge consignment of beans at the height of the season when prices were low. She has since sold them to secondary schools with boarding accommodation in Ruhango District to feed to their pupils and has made a return of 30% on her outlay. She’s what we call “une bonne commercante” – she’s got a head for money. Clarisse, the next youngest sister, has just finished secondary school and has applied to join the police. She’ll be fed, given a uniform, accommodation and generally well looked after if they accept her. (It’s very competitive; at least 74 people are applying for around 12 places). The oldest son is in his final year at ETEKA technical school and will also be looking for a job soon.

In the afternoon we take lots of photos, and I’ll print some off when I get home and send them to the family via Moira (Delphine is Moira’s domestique). I notice that getting photos printed here is hideously expensive, so photos become a luxury. Everyone has a small album which is trotted out whenever there are visitors. Even at Claude’s house, all the pictures of Keza which I printed off last time I went home are up on the walls in places of honour; it’s as if the only pictures he has are the ones Soraya and I have taken of her.

As we walk back home we pass the family’s patch of strawberry plants; they are just coming into fruit again (in Rwanda most growing things have three or even four seasons a year), and we stop to sample the crop. Just imagine – fresh strawberries on the last day in November. Britain is bracing itself for frosts, snow and goodness knows what else; I’m sauntering around in shirtsleeves with my hands stained red from strawberries!

In the evening I go round to see Helen and April and we swap pictures from the weekend, as well as stuffing ourselves with honey pancakes. Then April tests my hearing (she’s an audiologist and for all I know may be the only one working in schools in the whole of Rwanda). I have significant high end hearing less, which is apparently normal for someone my age. It explains why I’ve been finding it difficult to follow conversations in noisy bars where the TV or sound system is at full blast, or where there are bare concrete walls and very echoey sound. It’s tough getting old and decrepit!

Teresa rings and we talk through the final lists of what to bring and so on. I’m running out of time fast, and really need to start throwing things into the suitcase tomorrow.

Mugged by a monkey at Kibuye

2009-12-01T08:36:00.000+02:00

November 27th-29th

Into the office to tidy up a few odds and ends. It’s a glorious morning; bright and sunny. The mist is rising as usual from the valleys. The sky is clear blue, and all the buildings in Gitarama are glowing in the low angle sun (this is half past six in the morning, folks). Just when I think it’ll be a quiet morning I find that Claude is not in; his malaria is getting him down. So Valérian is in charge. I tell Valérian that I want to be able to say a few words to all the heads at the big meeting, and he agrees. Claude also wants me to summarise what I’ve found over the past two years and do a report to all the heads. This is not as easy as it sounds. There’s so much variation between schools that whatever I say, either in praise or criticism, won’t apply universally. And, of course, I’ve only been dealing with the primary and new tronc commun schools.

I quickly note down some things on a power point, but there will be no digital projector at the meeting so it’ll be all wind and bluster when I speak. As it happens, Valérian puts me on almost the first item on the agenda, so I’m able to do all my bits. It seems to go down OK; they all agree with me about the things I praise; there’s some toe-shuffling moments when I tell them what I think should be the priorities for the next year or two, but that’s understandable. If three quarters of them haven’t finished their strategic plans after a year in office they’ve got every reason to feel uncomfortable. After all, none of these heads teach; they don’t have anything like the workload of an English primary or secondary head, and there’s really no excuse for not getting some of these key parts of their jobs done. I know that this probably sounds presumptuous on my part, but then it’s exactly what Claude has been asking me to do, and what some of these heads have been asking for is an outsider’s take on how well they’re doing. No doubt most will ignore what I say, but if even a few take it all on board their schools will be improved and eventually their jobs as managers will be made more effective.

I say my formal thanks to all the heads, and get a very fulsome response from both Valérian on Claude’s behalf, and from Emmanuel on behalf of the heads. They’re seem really serious when they’re asking me to come back at some time in the future.

I nip back home quickly for some lunch, then pack up ready for the weekend. I’m taking Delphine with me to the Kibuye weekend, and we end up sharing a small matata all the way. She’s never been to Kibuye and in going as part of a big group it will all be very proper; it’s not as if we’re running off to spend a weekend together. The big coaster bus is already fully booked, and until the last minute I haven’t been sure whether Delphine’s parents were going to give her permission to go. As things turn out she has one of the best weekends of her life. This girl has never been across the Nyaborongo river before, and that’s only 20km from Gitarama. In the course of twenty four hours she discovers the western province of her country, discovers Kibuye town, sees Lake Kivu for the first time, has the first boat trip of her life, visits an island in the lake, gets her first experience of swimming in deep water, eats western food like pizza for the first time ever, and generally gets accepted by a bunch of sixteen muzungus. That’s all heady stuff for a young Rwandan girl, and she’ll be telling the tale to her family and friends for weeks to come! Rwanda is a small country, and it turns out that one of the staff at Home St Jean, where we stay, is a former classmate from the secondary school in Karama. So she’s even got someone to talk to in Kinyarwanda while she’s there.

The weekend is lovely and gets better as time goes on, except for Friday’s weather. Friday turns cold and grey by the afternoon, and even down on the lakeside it is decidedly chilly in the evenings. The wait for food at Home St Jean is interminable, but the rooms are cheap and the view and general ambiance make up for the delays (and we can eat elsewhere tomorrow).

On Saturday we decide to hire a boat and all go across to Peace Island. We are decidedly “out of season” here at Kibuye at the moment, which means we can hire a boat very cheaply. Joe and Nathan are a bit late getting down to the boat, and by the time they get to the jetty our boatman has already left without them. This is because he’s trying to earn more money by piggybacking us onto a group of local government official who are visiting one of the tiny inhabited islands to do a census. (I suspect they work for Rwanda Revenue, the income tax service of the government). We drop them off on a tiny shore, like castaways, with the islanders cautiously coming down to the water’s edge to see who is visiting their little patch. The islands in the lake are the tops of submerged hills. There’s virtually no flat land at all, just steeply sloping mounds of rock which rise straight out of deep water. They’re only fit for goats, and it’s surprising to see a few cows in places. There seems precious little cultivation of crops and I really can’t work out how they scrape together enough to eat. The vegetation looks very dry and scrubby, surprisingly so because it is within feet of a huge lake and in one of the wettest parts of the country. Houses are on little ledges hacked out of the hillsides. I don’t think any of the islands have the slightest trace of running water from streams; they’re far too small. You just use the lake for your water supply; let’s hope they don’t use the same area as their toilets!

Having dropped off the officials we persuade the boat crew to go back to the jetty and pick up our two colleagues. So we get an extra long boat ride for the same money. The boat rocks in swell from a passing launch and Delphine grips the sides with white knuckles; she’s never realised that boats aren’t as stable as buses. The water is crystal clear and calm; in the lee of the dozens of little headlands there are patches of water like glass, which mirror the encircling islands perfectly. It’s turning out an idyllic day. We reach Amahoro (Peace) Island and disembark. Our boat is going to do other runs, but one of the crew is staying with us; when we’re ready to return he’ll phone his mate to come and collect us. I don’t want to be cast away like Robinson Crusoe just a few days before I’m due to fly home. It is getting very hot, so we strip off and swim. There’s a tiny ramshackle jetty on the island which sticks out just far enough to use as a diving platform. The water is clean but cold, and we only stay in for ten minutes. It doesn’t compare with Zanzibar, but then we’ve been spoiled by our fortnight in paradise there…. We do have little fish swimming around our feet, and cormorants are diving after them just a few score feet away from us. The views in every direction are breathtakingly beautiful; from time to time Karisimbi and Mikeno volcanoes shed their cloud cover and peep out at us in the distance. The far shore of Congo, and the edge of the rift valley, is just visible as a blue line against the sky. Every so often a dugout canoe paddles away in the distance. There’s no sound of engines, no planes, and above all no crowds of people. Peace indeed. By this time it is seriously hot in the sun, so we come out of the water and toast ourselves to get dry and work on our tans, but the wise ones among us are covering up after fifteen minutes or less. We’ve ordered food, but everything on the island is exorbitantly expensive and many of us opt not to eat until the evening.

While the food is arriving I go to explore the little island. It consists of two little hills, each about a quarter of a mile across, with a rocky beach joining them. It’s shaped like a figure “8”, and the swimming place is in the middle. On the far end there are ledges cut into the hillside for camping, and a path goes all round the shore line. From the furthest point the views out across the lake are breathtaking and it’s the only place I know where you can begin to visualise just how vast this lake really is.

But Amahoro Island is also home to a monkey. The beast is usually kept chained up, but unknown to any of us it has managed to untie the rope from the tree and is roaming the island. I encounter the monkey at almost the furthest point on the island, and for some reason it really goes for me. I haven’t done anything to provoke it; it just decides to launch a full-on attack at me. I’ve got nothing to protect myself and get a whole series of deep scratches on my back and arms trying to throw the thing off. It is amazingly agile; leaping into the little trees at this end of the island and launching itself down onto my neck. Fortunately I manage to stop it biting me. All I have to defend myself with are stones from the path. I’m trying to run backwards while defending myself; the ground is uneven and I fall backwards once which gives the monkey another chance to attack. Three times I have to fight it off. Where there is a clear space on the path there is a stalemate between us; I’m picking up rocks from the edges of the path and hurling them at the monkey to keep it at bay, but whenever we pass under a tree it leaps up and comes within striking distance. Eventually I get out of the tree cover and onto the rocky beach in the middle of the island; The monkey doesn’t dare attack me anymore because it has no trees for cover; I have tons of rocks all round me, and the rest of our group have seen something’s wrong and are beginning to gather. It’s been quite an experience. I’ve been prepared to find snakes, or scorpions or things like that in Rwanda but never to be attacked by a monkey.

I later discover that the animal also attacked Marion a few weeks ago, bit her, and that she needed extra anti-rabies jabs to make sure she was OK. The monkey never bit me (we examined all my wounds very carefully). I have several deep scratches but no bites. So far as I know it is only saliva which carries rabies, so even if the animal is infected it won’t have been able to pass rabies on to me. My tetanus jabs are up to date, and we swab the wounds thoroughly with antiseptic wipes, but I’ll see a doctor when I get home.

I have no idea why the monkey attacked, nor why it should choose me. I was not taunting it, or threatening it. I don’t think the monkey has a territory into which I was intruding – it usually lives next to the island owner’s house at the other end of the island. Either it has been mistreated in the past, possibly by a muzungu, and is taking its revenge on any other muzungu it can reach, or, more frighteningly, there is something seriously wrong with it which is making it attack people.

We come back from the island to the mainland. The weather is changing fast – the skies are cloudy, there’s a lot of wind, the lake is no longer glassy but full of little waves which strop and splash over the sides of the boat. We ask the driver to drop us at Béthanie and walk back to Home St Jean to warm up. In the evening the intention is to do salsa dancing to Marin’s music, but by the time we’ve eaten we all feel overdone with sun, swimming, fresh air and general excitement, so we settle for an early night.

Kibuye is a magic place and remains my favourite spot for a relaxing weekend. To anyone reading this who is a volunteer about to come to Rwanda – don’t let the episode with the monkey put you off. The beast is usually tied up and harmless if you stay out of range. But if you do go to the island and it is loose, then stay with the rest of your crown and beware!

Final postcards from Kibuye

2009-12-01T08:31:00.006+02:00

A few shots from last weekend's trip to Kibuye
All aboard for Peace Island

April and Helen.

Soaking up the sun on Peace Island

Catherina and Tom at Hotel Bethanie. Catherina is one of two very young German girls who have been placed to work in our Gitarama special school with handicapped children.

Some last views from Gitarama

2009-12-01T08:20:00.008+02:00

Pretentious gateways like these are all the rage in the houses of Gitarama's elite. This one controls the entrance to the Lando bar and nightspot, but many private houses have similar gates. They remind me of medieval castles with barbican towers.

A typical quiet sidestreet in the upmarket part of the town. This shot is about 500m from the District Office.

The "Hotel Spendide", set in a leafy part of town near the small stadium. When the Scottish teachers arrive in March they will stay here.

Very few buildings in the town have any form of decoration on their facades, so these lions stand out as being unique.

The little triangular patch of grass near the small stadium; Gitarama's only approximation of a park. Can you see our brand new public clock?

A row of shops; they include tailors, cobblers, a knitting workshop, dressmakers, a stationery shop and the usual alimentation or two.

Keza at One

2009-12-01T08:14:00.007+02:00

Keza is Claude and Immaculee's little girl, just one year old and an absolute poppet. Soraya and I went to see them one evening last week.

Daddy's girl!

Look, I've got lots of teeth

Cuddles with mum

Only one year old and toting two mobile phones already!

Maxime and Giudi's wedding

2009-11-27T09:45:00.010+02:00

Maxime and Giudi

Dancers....

Singers and drummers

Maxime's worried that his model on the cake looks a bit too "muzungu"-like!

All smiles!

With Kersti at the meal in "Republika"

Final postcards from Gisenyi

2009-11-27T09:32:00.008+02:00

Sunset over the Congo - 1

sunset over the Congo - 2

April, my Australian colleague

Tropical lushness at Rubona

Afternoon sun on Kivu

Staring into my suitcase

2009-11-27T08:53:00.000+02:00

November 26th

A quiet day today. In the morning there are a lot of letters to write, and I decide to work from home. We’re almost completely out of vegetables and most other food, what with me being away in Gisenyi and Tom up and down to the hospital to see J, so I go to the market and do a big shop-up. What I buy will probably last me until I leave.

I spend the rest of the morning cooking up an enormous batch of vegetable stew, which we can either liquidise for soup, or use as stock to make a base for other meals. From previous experience this system works well, and the cooking is child’s play with Tom’s pressure cooker.

By now its late morning. Soraya is preparing one of her final training sessions before she goes home. April is down at the internet café trying to download the latest iPod software to run on her new machine. She gets half way through when there’s a power cut and she loses the lot. Oh, the joys of going online in Rwanda…. I ring her and she comes round for lunch to sample my cooking.

I start dusting off my rucksack and suitcase; the real goal for today is to start packing, but as soon as I start I realise that there are too many days left before I go, and too many variables, to allow me to make a sensible job. I even think about trying to put all my stuff into two piles (take and leave), but there’s not enough floor space to do that. “Nakibazo”, as they say here, it will all fit in the case and I’ll set aside some time early next week. But with suitcase and rucksack on the floor, and a steadily growing pile of souvenirs by my bedside, it really feels like final days now.

In the afternoon I go to the internet café; power seems reliable and I’m able to get all my messages sent. Karen and Léonie come round to ask me to deal with a problem over mail – the women at the post office seem reluctant to give Karen a parcel which has arrived for her and we can’t put our padlock on the new outside mailbox until Becky comes back from Zanzibar. So tomorrow first thing I’ve got to go to the post office and sort things out.

Then in the evening Soraya and I are out to eat at Claude’s. (Our guard is smirking at me; Soraya is the fourth young woman to come round to my flat today….) There’s some catching up on news to do. Rwanda is starting to resume diplomatic relations with France after two years of bitter hostility; that will make a huge difference here. (But things will never reach their former level of closeness because of the country’s switch to English as its second language). The disturbance in the market yesterday was not over a fight, but to enable a meeting to be held, in the stadium, of all the market traders. All the licensed traders, more likely, because as far as we could see the vast majority of fringe traders were continuing to see as usual and steered well clear of the stadium. The market was closed and locked to prevent any thieving from unmanned stalls, and to force the registered traders to attend. Very Rwanda, that!

Claude fills us in on more details about the “Global Links” exchanges next year. There will be just three Rwandan teachers – Claude and two others yet to be determined – travelling to Scotland; dates yet to be fixed but at the end of May or beginning of June. There is a set budget for the exchanges, and Rwanda is penalised in its links with the north of Scotland because of the extra cost of having to travel from London up to Inverness. If Rwanda had been linked with, say, Essex or Dorset things would possibly have allowed another person to travel. And the Scottish delegation will be in Rwanda at the very end of March. They’ll be here for the last couple of days of the first term, but leave just before Genocide week.

Keza, Claude and Immaculée’s daughter, is growing up fast. She has plenty of teeth, is almost able to stand unaided, is vocalising well and has already learnt to say “papa”. She’s still amazingly well behaved but doesn’t miss a thing. Whatever is happening in the room, she follows it intently. And she’s a born mimic. If we clap or rub our hands, she does the same. If we blink our eyes at her, she blinks back. If we touch our noses, she touches hers. She’s going to be a very bright little thing. She’s much more wary of strangers than last time we saw her, and my glasses unsettle her. So we take pictures but she’s nervous about letting us cuddle her.

Claude’s illness on Tuesday turns out to have been a case of malaria. Now that’s worrying. Claude has lived for 32 years without ever needing to take time off work for illness. So why has he suddenly succumbed to malaria? Soraya and I immediately put it down to the stress of his new job – being the chief of education, health and good governance is a ridiculous workload and I think he is running himself into the ground. Even Claude admits that the job is too big to keep on top of, and that if he doesn’t keep up his major input into education, then Valérian won’t be able to cope with all the work on his own. It’s an untenable situation, but at least all the country’s directors are feeling the same pressure. The degree to which they’re getting stressed out will be down to the level of commitment they put into their work, I suppose. I wish Claude wouldn’t talk to often about finding another job, too – he’s absolutely on top of his game as education director and he’s exactly what Muhanga needs to run the system efficiently. I think our District is beginning to get a good name within Rwanda for being organised, and it would be a shame if Claude left and everything crumbled.

During the meal Claude says a very generous thank you to me for all the things I’ve done during the two years at Gitarama. He’s become a real friend, and I have no doubt that we’ll meet up again at some time in the future. Possibly he’ll come and stay a few days at the end of the Scottish visit in June.

Tomorrow there’s one of the big meetings of all headteachers and Claude wants me to talk to them and give them a summary of my “end of year report” which I wrote for the District. This is also the perfect opportunity to say farewell to all my friends, the headteachers of a hundred and fifty schools scattered among the mountains and valleys of the beautiful part of Africa. Things couldn’t have worked out better if we’d planned them years in advance!

After the meal Soraya and I walk through the empty streets back home – two miles on a cold, starlit night. There’s a ring round the moon, and you would never ever think you were living on the Equator. Soraya’s bundled up in layers of jerseys and a coat, and even I’m glad that we’re walking to keep warm!

Best thing about today – a chance to start thinking back over asll the things I’ve done during the past two years.

A glimpse into our local hospital

2009-11-26T16:17:00.001+02:00

November 25th

A very busy day today. This may well have turned out to be my last “working day” in any normal sense of the word. Into the office well before seven. No sign of Claude or the modem. Valérian is there, and I have some files to put on his computer for him. There’s no other work to do; Soraya has a few trainings left but they tend to be at weekends and I can’t share them with her.

At the post office there are a couple of packets for April, one of which contains her new iPod to replace the one which was stolen just after she arrived. Not only that, but she can use the iPod for a lot of her audiology work, so it’s very much one of the tools of her trade and certainly not just an entertainment device.

And there’s more news from the post office. They have installed a new batch of outside post boxes, including ours. This means that we have to fit a lock to it, but when the lock is operational we can access our mail at any hour of day and night. I have a combination padlock on loan to Becky; that will be the ideal one to use. (With so many volunteers using the box, we can’t use keys and we will have to use a combination lock). I take the opportunity to say farewell to the post ladies and explain that Tom is taking over as the “titulaire” for the box. So BP146 will remain the muzungu mail address for the Gitarama gang, especially all the VSOs.

Next I go to the FHI office where I have some artefacts waiting to be picked up to use as presents back home. Tom’s there and I’m able to quickly check my emails on his laptop. In doing so I discover there’s a volunteer coming to Ngororero, the next district over from me in the West of Rwanda, and I’ll send her some info. She’s going to feel very isolated to begin with in Ngororero, and we will be her nearest fellow volunteers.

Back up through the town to one of the little clinics which have sprung up. Here comes the highpoint of my day. I deposit a little pot with a poo sample and wait a few minutes while they analyse it to see what manner of nasties I’m carrying inside me. I’ve convinced myself that I’m going to need deworming, or at least that I’ll have vestiges of amoebae crawling through my guts and multiplying.

To my considerable surprise the technician tells me that he can’t find any evidence of worms, or of amoebae. Apparently my bacteria count is high, but that’s nothing serious and it should adjust itself back to normal when I return home. So my immediate reaction is not one of relief, but rather of doubt – does he know what he’s looking for; has he been thorough? I think a bit more deeply and conclude that I’m just being irrational. He seems to have all the kit; I’ve explained to him exactly what I want him to check for and I’ve no reason to doubt his competence. Certainly it means that I can’t be badly infested with anything nasty or he’d have seen it.

A bit of shopping on the way back to the flat; then it’s about turn and off to Kigali. I’m not staying long in Kigali but I need to draw out money to finish the water tank at Nyarusange. Moira’s in on the project with me, too. I celebrate both getting the money and being “clean” with lunch at BCK, the first time since my family came out last summer. Club sandwich and “thé africain” – how’s that for fusion food? Kigali is hot and stuffy as usual and there’s a storm brewing. I get straight back home, all the way to Kabgayi to see J.

J is in the hospital at Kabgayi and will be there several more days. The details are not for a public blog, but she’s going to need all the support we can muster, and I’m cursing the fact that this has happened just when I’m about to leave. The timing couldn’t possibly be worse in so many ways. She’s become a very close friend and it really hurts to be on the point of leaving when a friend is damaged and needing support.

What depresses me further is how bleak the hospital is. Tom explains to me that they are desperately short of money – the volume of patients is so great, and the amount of funding they get to buy drugs and equipment is so low, that conditions are appalling. P has just come back from Uganda and apparently had to smuggle quantities of drugs into Rwanda just to keep the hospital going. They have used up all their credit with local pharmacies, who will no longer supply the hospital without cash up front. It’s a desperate situation. There’s no catering in the hospital; if you are an inpatient it is expected that your family will effectively camp at the place and bring a charcoal stove to cook all your meals. Doctors and nurses are in short supply, overworked, and can’t cope with complicated cases. For specialist care you have to transfer to the King Faisal hospital in Kigali, but that is very expensive and way beyond the means of almost any Rwandans. Honestly, before any English person reading this ever criticises our NHS again, they ought to come and spend a day at Kabgayi.

Back at the flat I write up some notes from yesterday’s Global Links meeting and I’m just about to go shopping when the heavens open and it pours for an hour. By then its dark and Tom’s home, soaked through.

All day long there has been trouble in the market. I don’t know what’s happening; perhaps there has been a major fight between stallholders. The police have weighed in and closed the market down, but all that means is that the women have set up stalls all along the side of the main road. They’re not going anywhere until they’ve sold their produce. It’s absolute chaos trying to get through the town. All late afternoon there seem to be gangs of men hanging around in groups; there’s lots of shouting and you get the feeling that it wouldn’t take much to start a riot. None of the tension is directed against muzungus and we’re safe unless we’re unlucky enough to get caught in crossfire, but it’s unsettling.

Because of this we decide to cook a meal from left overs, and as usual we dine in style. It’s my turn to cook tomorrow and by then I’m sure the market will be back to usual.

It’s been a busy day. Best thing – discovering that I’m in good health after two whole years of living in equatorial Africa and doing a lot of eating out.

Worst thing – J is in a desperate place both physically and psychologically. The physical side is short term; she will come home by the time I leave unless there are major complications. The emotional side is going to take years to heal and will need lots of love from everyone around her. Life in Rwanda is harsh; early deaths are common and if they threaten someone close to you it hits you like a thunderbolt. (Fortunately J seems to be getting stronger each day, but the sooner she’s out og Kabgayi and back home, the better).

2009-11-26T16:14:00.000+02:00

November 24th

To anyone who has just discovered my blog it must seem that being a VSO is a sort of permanent paid holiday. Not so. It’s just that I’m at the very end of my placement; I’m also in the situation where it’s the school holidays, so I can’t visit schools, and all my office work has been completed. So I’m spending my time doing some travelling and saying my goodbyes to various people.

Today finds me waking up in the men’s dorm at the Presbyterian Guest House in Gisenyi. I’ve come up with April, an Australian VSO, to get away from Gitarama for a bit and to have a last look at Gisenyi before I leave. We had intended to go to Lake Ruhondo, an extravagantly beautiful lake hidden away in the hills of northern Rwanda. Unfortunately the only accommodation there is a church guest house, and this weekend it is closed to the general public because they are running a retreat until next Friday. So it’s Gisenyi for us, not that Gisenyi should ever be thought of as a second best choice. It’s one of my all-time favourite places in Rwanda.

We have spent a lazy Monday swimming in Lake Kivu, eating well and doing the sights. The Congo looks peaceful and affluent (appearances are so deceiving!), and watched a fabulous sunset over the Congolese side of the rift valley. Nyiragongo volcano is steaming well, and the red glow from its lava lake against the night time clouds is just as spectacular as ever. Lots of buildings in Gisenyi are being demolished and it feels as if they are planning major improvements. If only these would extend to the roads – dusty, sharp edged lava stones which tear your shoes to shreds.

All this has been rudely interrupted by a phone call from Claude past on Monday night. He’s not feeling well and there’s a big meeting tomorrow of the people involved in our Global Links project. He wants me to deputise for him, and to be at Gitarama for 9.30 on Tuesday morning. I have to explain that I’m up in Gisenyi; I’ll get back as quickly as I can but it will take me most of the morning. He agrees to that, but it means we have to leave Gisenyi on the first available bus and clatter back to Gitarama like a couple of naughty schoolchildren.

“Global Links” is a DFID and British Council supported programme (VSO are also heavily involved) which links schools in three countries. In our case there are three schools in Lilongwe, Malawi, three in Muhanga District in Gitarama, and three in the far north of Scotland (one in Nairn, one in Inverness and one on a Hebridean island). The plan is for the Scottish group to visit Rwanda in march, and the Rwandans to return the visit in the summer. The meeting is to see what progress has been made in establishing links so far, and to work through everybody’s expectations of how the links will operate and what they’re for. (This is crucial for the Rwandans; global links don’t work if there’s a donor-recipient relationship, with one country using the link as a vehicle to ask for financial aid all the time). There has to be equity in expectations. The problems lie with language, and the physical difficulties of communication. Gahogo primary, one of our three, still doesn’t have a laptop. It has electricity, but will not have a modem in the foreseeable future, so any internet linking will have to be done through one of the café’s in town.

The meeting goes right through until half past five. I’m unshaven, and wearing tee shirt and jeans – not exactly the formal wear which I’ve been so conscientious in trying to present myself throughout my placement. Claude comes in for the afternoon session; ill or not I’m as always impressed by his grasp of details and his speed of thinking. This guy is definitely going places.

Fortunately we are fed at lunchtime, because in the evening it is Charlotte’s last night before she flies home at the end of her service in Gitarama. We all pack into “Orion” and wait ages for brochettes from a waiter who behaves as if he’s a stand in come off the street. You want cutlery? – OK, I’ll bring cutlery for one. You want salt? OK, I’ll see if I can find some. You want serviettes? OK. I’ll see if there are any. And so on.

Our numbers are thinning rapidly. Moira back home for Christmas; also Christi. Charlotte finished and gone. Me about to go. Nathan going home soon. Becky on Zanzibar. Michael going home for Christmas on the same plane as me.

I’m glad I was able to take part in the Global Links day. Even though it won’t concern me – I’ll be long gone and finished before any visits take place – it’s nice to know what’s being planned. If only Inverness was not so far away from my part of Dorset (it must be about 900k; about as far away as you can get within the British isles) I might be able to help by giving the Scottish group some idea of what they can expect in Rwanda.

We’re also going to miss Charlotte. The clothes, the diet, the sense of fun, the couch surfers…. Lots of happy memories. VSO is such a transient experience – when you sign up you think that two years is a ridiculously long piece of your life to be committing to Africa. In reality it’s all far too short. And you seem to spend all your time either getting to know new arrivals, or saying farewells to friends you’ve just got to know.

Wedding in the time of umuganda

2009-11-26T16:12:00.000+02:00

November 21st

Today is G’s wedding, and today’s blog gives you an insight into the fraught world of trying to plan anything in advance here in Rwanda.

G and M have been planning their wedding for months and months, and have all the arrangements in hand, all the bookings made. They are going to have the civil ceremony at the district office, followed by a reception in the grounds of St Paul centre in the middle of Kigali. Everything’s ready for the big day. Then, about three days before the wedding day, an official rings them to say that the government has decided there will be a complete shutdown on Saturday morning because it’s part of tree planting week, and that all public buildings must be closed for the morning. It’s too late to rearrange things, so they decide they’ll postpone the civil wedding until the office reopens after twelve, and the guests will just have to hang around a while before the reception starts. OK, here we’re used to “African time” and people would be content to wait a while. Next, a couple of hours before the wedding, they are rung again to say that the office staff have some function to go to in the afternoon, so the wedding will have to be at twelve sharp. By this time everyone needed for the wedding itself has been contacted to put them off until half past twelve, and because of the transport shut down they won’t be able to start making their way to the district office until after twelve, when public transport resumes and the police stop blockading all the roads in the town centre. So they say to the office staff they will stick with twelve thirty, and explain why. At twelve o’clock they are rung again by the office, demanding to know why aren’t they there, and saying that the officials are waiting for them and unless they get here immediately they’ll lose their slot for the wedding….. But eventually the ceremony happens at half past twelve. But not exactly the relaxed run up we would have wished them

Meanwhile, prompt on twelve, a massive rainstorm and thunder has broken out over Kigali, there is torrential rain and everybody is pinned down for two hours until the rain eases off. Nobody travels in heavy rain; it’s a perfectly acceptable excuse for lateness. Meanwhile the dancers have all arrived for the reception and are hanging around St Paul’s.

I’ve gone in to Kigali very early to beat the bus shutdown, but find myself with three hours and nothing to do until life resumes at twelve. Police are everywhere manning roadblocks and turning people away from the city centre. Even if you’re not actually planting trees (and I don’t see any being planted all day), they have orders to prevent normal life continuing in the capital. I have to walk all the way up from Nyabugogo to the town centre, which is a long, hot, sweaty distance, three kilometres, uphill all the way, on a sticky morning. I go to St Paul to see if I can book a room for the night, but the reception is closed, and stays closed for the entire day. I’ve decided St Paul’s is a waste of time if you try to get a room on a Saturday.

Fortunately I meet Eric, who has come up the night before and managed to get a room at St Paul’s, and we go to see a friend of his to pass the time until the shutdown ends. The friend is a woman living in one of the very poor areas of town. She has a five year old daughter, Joie. The woman’s home is tiny – two rented rooms, about ten feet by eight feet each. There is electricity but no water. There is almost no furniture and few possessions. The woman was about to move elsewhere, had all her possessions boxed up ready for the move – and was then robbed. Thieves took her mattress, clothes, even some of the little girl’s toys. All the houses in this part of Kigali are so on top of each other and so intertwined that it’s inconceivable that someone could carry off a mattress and not be seen. I think it must have been somebody local. So much for community solidarity. The destitute are robbing the poor.

We just get back to St Paul’s before the storm breaks, and shelter in the Economat – the supermarket and café attached to the big catholic church next door. While we’re sheltering we’re found by Nick who tells us the wedding reception is expected to start at 2.30. By now it’s already close to 2 and we know full well what it’ll be at least 3 before people venture out after the rain and get themselves in position for the reception. We both need to use an internet café, so we race up into the town centre, where everything has reopened and business proceeds as usual. So I find myself sending emails home two hours after I’m supposed to be at a wedding reception….

We get back to St Paul’s for three, and people are gathering. Catherine is a maid of honour, also Polly; both are in formal Rwandan robes. M’s family (Rwandans) are sitting to one side, a solid mass of people. We’re on G’s side, and the gathering is much thinner. There’s a handful of VSOs – Kersti, myself and Eric, Épi (who shared a house with G all last year) and G’s mum who has come all the way from Canada. It’s her first visit to Rwanda; she arrived here about six days before her daughter’s wedding.

The reception finally starts around four o’clock. And it’s wonderful. G looks stunning in a simple white dress with lots of gold decoration. M can’t keep the grin off his face the entire afternoon. They look absolutely right for each other, and I’m so pleased that everything seems to be coming right for them. The dancers are superb; the speeches mercifully short and most of them translated into English for us; we are fed very well indeed, and because most of this is happening in daylight we all get some good pictures. By the time we have cut the cake and given presents, though, it’s dark.

I still haven’t got anywhere to spend the night. The reception at St Paul’s has never opened. I had intended to get the last bus back to Gitarama, but by the time the reception has finished it’s too late. Fortunately Kersti and Nick come to my rescue, as usual, and offer me a bed at their place for the night. But meanwhile I’ve left my backpack safely locked away in Eric’s room, and he and Becky are off to Zanzibar early tomorrow morning. Things are getting complicated.

After the reception we gather up the wedding cakes, presents etc and pile everyone into two cars, and set off for the Serena Kigali hotel. Kersti, Nick and Catherine have clubbed together to book a room for the newlyweds on their wedding night. This particular wing of the hotel has only been open a fortnight, and the room is opulent beyond belief. Outside there is the heated swimming pool. Glass lifts swish up and down between the floors. The ground plan of their room is about the same size as the flat I share with Tom. The bed could easily sleep three or four people without being cramped. There are eight of us in the room and it doesn’t even feel remotely crowded.

The maids of honour change out of their robes into something more practical and we go round to Republika, one of the best restaurants in town. Here we have a really super buffet meal –so two big meals today in a very short time, and sit and chat until nearly midnight. Then it’s time for the bride and groom to leave; Nick and Kersti’s car is being used as the runabout to ferry people around the town. We also pile into the car for a second run and leave, the youngsters off to Cadillac to club the night away; the old stagers (i.e. the over 30s) back home to get some sleep.

It’s been a crazy, crazy day, but the wedding was lovely and despite all the interruptions – officialdom, rain, lack of transport etc – everything has gone to plan.

G and M will stay in Rwanda until next November, by which time we hope M will be given a Canadian visa. By next Christmas we hope they will be in Canada and that everything will go well for them.

The key to organising a major event such as a wedding in Rwanda is to allow lots of time between the various parts of the affair, to expect delays and last minute frustrations, and to be patient.

Human shuttlecock

2009-11-26T16:10:00.000+02:00

November 18th

There’s still no word from Paulin as to whether the student teacher mentor training at Kavumu is taking place or not, so I have to assume it’s on. I get there, and I’m just walking up the steps to the staffroom, when I receive a message from Paulin saying the training has been postponed till January. So I won’t be involved in doing it after all. Well, I’m pleased I don’t have to hang around till ten o’clock this morning to discover there’s nothing to do here. I have a “plan B” for the day because I had a feeling this was going to happen.

So I go back on the bus to the town centre, and Gatete who is passing on his moto takes me for free up to the Akarere. He has some form to hand in there and get signed, so it’s not totally altruistic on his behalf, but it’s certainly a very nice gesture.

In the office I sort out some documents and get another blog, the final one of the Zanzibar holiday, ready to send. Meanwhile I’ve booked a ticket to Kigali on the ten o’clock bus, and off I go.

On the way, as we leave Gitarama, I notice there seem to be a lot more traffic police about than usual. Then, some way further on, there seem to be an unusually large number of people waiting at the road side. We just get round a sharp bend and onto a relatively straight stretch of road when the police pull us over, and suddenly there’s loads of motor bikes and sirens and flashing lights. It’s the “Tour De Rwanda” cycle race again, and from the raised seats in the bus we all get a grandstand view. There must some sixty riders, many of whom are muzungus. (I’m later told that many international professional cyclists are using the Rwanda tour as a training ground ready for the Tour de France and other better known events). As happened last year, I don’t have my camera with me, so I don’t take any pictures. However, unknown to me Soraya is also on her way to Kigali in the previous bus; she is better organised than I am and takes some pictures which I’m posting for you.

So it’s an exciting run in to Kigali today. At the VSO office I return DVDs and books, and give Charlotte the l.ist of furniture and other equipment VSO needs to arrange to pick up from Tom’s flat when I’ve gone. That’s another two boxes ticked off on my pre-departure list!

There are several other volunteers in the office, some, like Els, are getting ready to go to Zanzibar as their end of service holiday; others are just working. I meet up with Eric and we go together to the Ministry of Justice to hand in our papers for police clearance. For once the office isn’t too busy, and they tell us to come back later in the afternoon. Now that’s a turn up for the books – to get any official document the same day is most unusual!

For the rest of the middle of the day I post blogs, check emails and generally do boring things. I send my ideas for the mentor training to both Paulin and Moira, hoping they might be able to improve on it and adapt it for their January training day. At least they’ll have a starting point to knock around!

Having picked up my police clearance documents in the afternoon I head into the town centre. It’s been threatening to rain heavily all day; it comes on a few drops and everyone runs for cover, but then the sun comes out again and normal life resumes. My purpose in the town centre is to change a large amount of money for a third water tank, this time at Nyarusange School. Time is running out for me and I need to move quickly. When I leave the forex I have nearly 2 million francs in my bag, and I feel vulnerable. I had it in mind to do some shopping, but decide with all this money I’d better get back home as fast as possible. So it’s back to Gitarama on the next bus.

Back home I recount the money and stash it away. The situation is complicated. The tank will cost 2.67 million francs. I have told the school that we will provide 2.5 million, and the head has pledged to get his parents to find the extra 167000 francs (no easy task in a poverty stricken secteur, but at least if they have had to stump up some of the money they will feel more of an ownership of the tank and my plan is that ownership will make them look after it). Then Moira has some money left from her community in Bray which she will contribute, but I don’t know how much. It’s certainly less than the 600000 francs the project still needs. So I’m going to have to send her an email and find out how much she’s putting in. What a shame she’s had to go back home just at this time.

I think the best thing will be for me to draw out all the remaining 600000 so that I know that all the project money is in the school’s bank account before I leave, and sort out the Irish contribution privately with Moira. That’ll make for a lot of emails flying around, but I’m up against a deadline of two weeks’ time and there are many other things to get done between now and then. I’ll be in Kigali for Giudi’s wedding on Saturday so I hope I can draw the rest of the money providing the banks are open.

In a further complication to life it seems that somebody has decided to make umuganda this coming Saturday to align it with national tree planting week. I’m not doing a blog entry for November 17th, but on that day all the district office staff, including Claude, were sporting natty teeshirts and off to plant trees in Shyogwe. Why Shyogwe? – easy to answer – the illegal brick making that’s been going on there has resulted in large-scale felling of trees without the authorities’ permission, and the damage is being put right to teach everyone a lesson (and stop any erosion that hasn’t already taken place). Claude’s name is prominent in today’s “New Times” with a picture of somebody’s backside as they bend over to plant saplings. According to the government everyone in the country is supposed to plant three trees this week – that’s up to 30 million trees.

So umuganda this Saturday will pose problems for me – not only might the bank not be open, but also we might have trouble getting to Kigali for the wedding. I think we’ll have to leave Gitarama really early – before eight o’clock – to be sure of arriving. It just shows that even when you think you’ve got everything here planned down to the last detail, someone in Government changes everything to suit their political agenda and everyone is thrown into confusion.

In the evening we all go round to Becky’s. Not only is it April’s birthday but it’s also Becky’s big day. The girls have made us a feast with “chapizzas” – pizza toppings on a chapatti base – and very nice they are too. Tom’s brought fresh bread from Kigali and I come with a whole cheese and biscuits to go with it. The evening is livened up with power cuts, but that helps when Becky has to blow out her candles. Sneaky Christi has put two of the re-igniting ones in with the others and by the time Becky has finally blown them all out the candle is almost down to cake level!

The original idea was to show a film, but what with power cuts, Piet being very late arriving with the digital projector because he’s had another series of days with 30 eye procedures per day (how on earth does he manage to keep that up?), and many of us are really tired and feeling the strain at the moment. So we play silly games like “Humdinger” and set off home relatively early.

It’s been another good day overall, and for any potential VSO reading this it’s a classic example of how you always have to have a “plan B” for the day and just shrug and get on with the alternatives when your intended programme falls apart.

Best thing about today – getting police clearance done in one day.

Preventable hospital infections

2009-11-19T20:54:00.001+02:00

I've been asked to publicise this website giving information about how to prevent hospital based infections such as MRSA. I take no responsibility for the contents of the site, but it seems a worthy cause.
Follow this link:
http://haiwatchnews.com

The "Tour de Rwanda"

2009-11-19T20:44:00.004+02:00

Soraya's pictures snatched through the windows of the bus en route to Kigali

Bikes and chapizzas

2009-11-19T20:44:00.001+02:00

Reliving Zanzibar through writing

2009-11-18T14:33:00.000+02:00

November 15th

I’m up early and get stuck into writing up my Zanzibar blogs. Not going to church today; there’s too much to do at the flat. Each day’s write up is like a small essay; even with notes I made during the trip it seems to take forever to explain all the things we saw and did. When you’re travelling you live life much more intensely than back at home, and when you’re writing for people who were not there with you it is even harder; you have to put everything in context and explain the background.

Tom was really ill last night; didn’t properly get off to sleep to 4 and not awake again till mid day, so it’s very much a “morning after the night before” scenario.

April comes round in the afternoon with our dishes which we left at her place yesterday. We chat about possibly going down to Bujumbura next week – she is at a loose end and if I can get all my final chores done I’ll have some days free. Failing that we might go up to Lake Burera which is one of the places I really regret not visiting yet in Rwanda.

I go to try to send some emails and post some blogs, but everywhere is closed – unusual because Sunday afternoon is usually a busy time for them.

At the muzungu meal there are only seven of us, yet it still takes the best part of two hours to get served. I really can’t understand why everything seems to take so long. I order goat stew (kumumdera); it turns out they don’t have that so I get a cow brochette instead with no explanation. We’re all fed up with the waiting. Next week Charlotte will have gone, then it’ll be my final weekend, so the numbers are dwindling fast.

Back to the flat and try to catch up on some more writing before bed. I’m also listening to some of the music from Helen’s iPod. Stuff which I should have listened to years ago but somehow never made the time – Portishead; Ben Harper and an outfit I’ve never heard of called Badila. Some I like, some I don’t, but I’m never going to get another chance to access to so much music.

Best thing about today – reliving our Zanzibar trip as I write it up. It’s like going there all over again.

April and Helen's party

2009-11-18T14:32:00.000+02:00

November 14th

A very lazy Saturday today. Tom gives me a bunch of DVDs from home including a whole series of Torchwood and a three part Doctor Who mini-saga. I start the day with all sorts of expectations of writing up the Zanzibar trip, but in the end I spend most of the day watching videos – and feel much more relaxed at the end of it! There’s something about Doctor Who which is quintessentially English, and I think Russell T Davies’s imagination and the gee whiz special effects are unbeatable.

I also spend a long time sorting through papers in the flat, making a pile of stuff to go to VSO office in Kigali and others to go to the District Office to wait for Ken to arrive. I’m almost at the point where I could start stuffing things into my suitcase and it’s nice to feel on top of events. If I can carry on like this I’ll have a couple of days when I could do some more visits before I leave Rwanda.

This evening is April and Helen’s party. We have to bring pot luck food and dress in bad taste. The latter is relatively straightforward. My shorts are droopy where I’ve lost so much weight. If I wear socks with sandals and pull them half way up my legs it will look spectacularly bad taste. I find my most “square” shirt to complete the outfit with my baseball cap. I suppose I look like an elderly rap star on a (very) bad night, but it’ll do. Tom wears his USA shirt, saying that to many people America is the height of bad taste. A bit of a cop out in my book!

We make separate forays out to buy ingredients for our food offerings. Tom makes a juicy salsa and mini bread pizzas. I experiment. We have a tin of condensed milk lurking in our cupboard, close to its “best by” date. There’s a recipe in my VSO cookbook for banoffee pie, and that’s what I make. The worst part is that I have to boil the milk, in its tin, for two hours to convert it into toffee. But (I’m really bragging here) the final result is wonderful. I had no idea that banoffee pie would be so easy to make.

We meet Soraya and Léonie just as we’re setting off, and Nathan too, and we descend on the girls’ house. Most of Helen and April’s batch of volunteers have come, as well as established friends like Ruairi and Martine. The French and Irish contingent leave after a while to watch the football (France beats Ireland, much to the chagrin of the emerald volunteers). We dance away the night. By the end of the party Tom is plastered and dancing with April and most of the food has gone.

We lurch unsteadily on foot through the lanes up to the main road at well past one in the morning. All the moto drivers have gone home, but at the plateau there’s somebody washing a car – in the middle of the night! It’s been a great party.

Oh dear - back into the real world at last!

2009-11-18T14:31:00.002+02:00

November 13th

Into the office fairly early, but I miss Claude and with him I miss the internet modem. I spend the morning writing up my final placement report for VSO. This is the last of the formal documents I need to produce. When its done all that remains is some procedural stuff like getting police clearance and personal stuff like buying last minute souvenirs.

By late morning I’ve written emails to all sorts of people and been to the internet café in town to do all my business there. Unfortunately there are a couple of messages I don’t have time to deal with; they can wait till Monday.

In the afternoon I work at the flat and one of the things I do is try to plan for next week. If all goes well I can most of my remaining business done by the weekend; that’ll give me a relaxed final week to say my goodbyes to people.

In the evening we cook and watch videos. For once we decide not to go out for Friday night because there’s a big party tomorrow. Tom’s tired from work and I’m still getting over the Zanzibar trip. My stomach is still delicate; I don’t think I’ve got a bug, it’s just that three days of virtually constant travel and meals at funny times are catching up with me.

In which we spend our second day on a bus

2009-11-18T14:31:00.001+02:00

November 12th

So now we’re sitting in the coach through our second dawn. The road seems endless. Outside the scenery is getting greener and hillier as we approach the Rwandan frontier. Armed soldiers stop us and hitch a ride to their duty post somewhere close to the border. Crops are being planted and in some places early planting are already sprouting in flushes of green. Life continues; there will be a good harvest in a few months. It’s a marked contrast to the landscape deep within Tanzania where, despite all the rain and standing water, the land still looks parched and unproductive. I’m so fortunate to have spent my two years in a place as green and fertile as Rwanda. We’re finished with baobabs now, we’re beyond the donkey carts.

In the bus they crank up the music to a ridiculously loud level. After a while the driver puts on a compilation of Congolese stuff and lets it cycle through about three times; at least I like the music even if the volume is almost painful. We ask them to turn it down, but after a few seconds somebody else decides to turn it up. We don’t want to get into a game where they can feel they’re baiting us or controlling us, so we endure it for a while and then look for clothes to stuff in front of the loudspeakers in the rear of the bus. At that point they turn the volume down a fraction and keep it down.

The floor of the bus is rolling in litter; there are no bins so everybody either throws their rubbish out of the window or onto the floor. At the last stop before the border a lad comes onto the bus selling peanuts; they’re just off the oven and almost too hot to hold. We stuff ourselves silly with them for about 50p a time!

As we get within a few miles of the border the land becomes seriously hilly. Our bus labours up the hills in low gear, then charges down the other side. It’s all a marked contrast to the flat, hell-for-leather progress of yesterday evening. The downhill sections right on the border are notoriously dangerous and many, many lorries have come to grief here. Drivers overtired and waiting to rest at the border have frequently misjudged these hills, and simply run off the road wherever there are bends. There are rumble strips everywhere and graphic signs warning everyone to slow down.

At Rusomo our personal formalities are done very quickly (after all, the bus is only half full), but we have to wait more than two hours for the coach to come through. I know the luggage compartments are probably stuffed with sacks of rice etc, but it still seems an inordinately long time. If people want to increase trade and promote free movement of people and goods within the East African community they’re going to have to speed up the bureaucracy at these frontiers. I think of the borders within Benelux countries which are usually unmanned; you just drive through without stopping…

We drink tea, fill our stomachs with heavy pancakes and wait, and wait. The waterfall is even better than on the outbound trip; Rwanda has had a lot of rain while we’ve been away. But nothing can hide the feeling of depression as we leave the relaxed atmosphere of Tanzania and enter the more opaque ambiance of Rwanda. Within seconds of crossing the bridge we’ve had “muzungu” yelled at us and been asked for money.

Eventually we embark and move on. The speed limits in Rwanda are enforced rigorously and the driver is taking no chances, so our progress back towards Kigali is sedate, to put it mildly. We pass Épi’s house at Kibungo; the easiest thing would be for her to get out here but we tried to contact Jeannot in Kigali and we don’t know if he’ll be waiting for her there, so we decide to carry on in the bus.

By the time we reach Nyabugogo we’ve been on the road for 35 hours – easily the longest bus journey I’ve ever made. It’s not been physically difficult – even in the ordinary seats there’s plenty of legroom. The stops every four hours or so mean you never get seriously uncomfortable. The secret with eating and drinking is to have plenty of water and sip frequently rather than swig masses at any one time. Eating also is better if done little and often, but in truth if you’re not exercising and in tropical; heat you don’t need to eat lots. The worst problem is toileting, especially during long segments between stops or where the toilets are so disgusting as to be unusable. People simply disappear into the nearest bush, and if there’s an emergency the bus will usually stop for you; it’s just a case of having to have the nerve to go and tell the driver you need to stop NOW!

I get the first bus back to Gitarama. Tom’s already at the flat and very surprised to see me; my phone battery has gone flat and I’m also out of credit so I haven’t been able to warn him I’m coming home. The evening I spend unpacking my festering kit and generally getting sorted out. I download my photos and find I have some really nice ones; tomorrow I’ll get Soraya’s and exchange with mine and between us we’ll have around 400 pictures of this adventure.

Despite all the dozing on the bus I find I’m tired and I sleep well, but my stomach is very unsettled and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to do tomorrow. Irregular meal times seem to wreak havoc with my system!

In which we start a thirty five hour bus journey

2009-11-18T14:30:00.000+02:00

Wednesday November 11th

I’m woken up by the night watchman at half past four and I’m showered and ready before five o’clock – before even the morning call to prayer has sounded over the sleeping city. The morning is cool, a few puffy clouds dot the sky but even in the middle of Dar you can see a skyful of stars. When the girls are ready we get a taxi out to Ubungo bus terminal. In the city centre the roads are almost deserted, but even in the ten minutes or so that we take to get to Ubunbo the place comes alive. By the time we arrive dawn has well and truly broken, the matatas are jostling each other up and down the road, and Ubungo is a heaving mass of peop[le, cars, taxis and muses.

For some reason known only to Tanzanians they have arranged that just about every long distance bus leaves at the same time – six o’clock in the morning. So whether you’re going to Mtwara in the far south, to Mbeya near Lake Nyasa, to Kigoma on Lake Tanganyika or in our case to Kiugali, everyone is trying to find their bus. Even sores, just before six all the buses try to pull away to get ahead of the queue, then wait, blocking the exit, for their final passengers to arrive. The result is mayhem – even the local bus terminal in Kampala is orderly compared to this shambles. Instead of a six o’clock departure it is well after half past six before we’ve travelled the few hundred yards out of the terminal and onto the main road. The dual carriageway is blocked by traffic trying to get in and out of the bus terminal. Everyone seems convinced that if they just edge that bit close to each other they’ll be able to spot a gap and get through. Everything is assertiveness and testosterone fuelled. The result is gridlock. Of course there’s not a policeman in sight, and where are traffic lights when you need them? Not here, that’s for sure.

We have ordinary seats on the bus. The legroom is adequate (just); it’s a lot more generous than you get on a charter flight but will be a tough call for a very long journey. Let’s hope there are the same numbers of leg stretching stops as on the outward run. We can’t see very much out of the windows, and the scenery on this first leg of the journey isn’t anything to write home about, so we doze all the way to Morogoro. Here there isn’t time to get out of the bus. We fill up with extra passengers so that every seat is taken. We buy rolex omelettes in foil boxes through the bus window and eat out first meal of the day at about ten in the morning.

Four hours later we arrive at Dodoma; this time we have a half hour stop and get some exercise. We buy more food; by the time we leave we realise that two greasy omelettes in one morning isn’t such a great idea and my stomach keeps reminding me of the fact for the rest of the journey home.

This time we are able to see something of Dodoma. The new government buildings are suitably impressive, but the town feels very spaced out and the kind of place you’d need a car to be able to live in. I wonder how many of the people who are forced to live and work here can afford to run a car?

As we leave Dodoma the sky clouds over. It is cool – excellent for us on our journey. All the passengers are either dozing or glued to the Nigerian soaps on TV. We pass the same blocky mountains again as on our outward trip (well, they wouldn’t have run away, would they), and pass from them to the dry savannah. Soon we blow a tyre in the middle of the bush and lose another half hour while the crew change it. With the slow departure from Ubungo we’re now a good hour behind schedule.

Eventually we reach the long stretch of earth road between Dodoma and Singida. By now it is raining intermittently, and there are large pools of water over the countryside, evidence of heavy rain in the past few days. (We later learn that the drought has broken here with a vengeance; while we are on the bus there is a major landslide up in the far north of the country with an entire hillside giving way under the weight of rain soaked earth, and lots of casualties). The earth road becomes slippery and treacherous to drive on; the bus slows to jogging pace, sliding and slaloming from one side of the carriageway to the other. It is difficult to hold a line and steer accurately, and we have some close brushes with articulated lorries coming the other way. At one point a huge wagon lies completely on its side. Goodness knows how anyone’s going to get it back up again. The ground is like porridge. In places there are shallow lakes and we begin to understand why on the outward journey we crossed bridges and culverts where there seemed to be no evidence of running water anywhere around.

Late in the afternoon we reach Singida. By now we’re all jaded with the journey; Tanzania is losing its appeal and we all just want to get home. People leave the bus, others join. After Singida we have more heavy rain, but at least we are on a proper road.

During this journey I have been sitting next to a middle aged Tanzanian who speaks good English (he’s reading an English novel). He’s on his first visit to Rwanda but is buying all sorts of things through the bus window at every opportunity. Sandals, a walking stick, a big flagon of cooking oil, a woven basket to put everything in. His main concern is whether the puddles of rainwater we’re ploughing through will have seeped into the coach’s luggage compartment and ruined the clothes in his suitcase. Other people are coming on board wish massive sacks of rice. These get laid out along the gangway like a carpet. Tanzanian rice is much cheaper than in Rwanda (a lot of our rice comes from Tanz) and people are stocking up on cheaper items like oil, rice and similar before we cross the border. So many people have disembarked by this time that the bus is only half full, and to my joy I see that the entire back seat is empty. I can lie down along it, raise my feet and try to sleep.

Unfortunately the driver uses the next stretch of road, and the night-time lack of policemen, to try to catch up on his schedule. We race along the road at full speed. We have to slow down for the big speed bumps, but the driver just ignores the smaller ones. That’s OK for the folk in front of the bus, but the bounce effect is magnified the further back you are sitting. I’m at the extreme rear. Every time we go over one of these bumps I get catapulted into the air and land with a jolt back onto the uneven seat. It’s exciting for a while but means I don’t get properly off to sleep.

Somewhere, perhaps at Nzega, we stop for a longer break. It’s still raining heavily outside, so there’s no point in getting off. I make myself as comfortable as I can on my back seat and try to snatch a few hours dozing. In Dar es Salaam I’ve torn out a small map of the country from a tourist magazine. We have been travelling for eighteen hours already, and we’re still a long way from the border at Rusumo.

Best thing about today – I always enjoy travelling because I like to watch the changing scenery. But this particular journey is something of an ordeal. It’s not that it has been uncomfortable, far from it – I’ve had worse experiences on far shorter plane journeys – but we’re tired and rather deflated after our precipitous exit from Zanzibar, and all we want to do is be back in Rwanda.

Pictures for November 10th

2009-11-18T14:23:00.003+02:00

Four dubious characters seen hanging around in Stone Town...

Typical Zanzibari menu.

The Kendwa beach guest houses seen from sea.

Last look at the sea at Kendwa.

In which we find ourselves catapulted back to the mainland faster than expected…

2009-11-18T14:22:00.000+02:00

November 10th

Yet another dawn swim; and our final indolent breakfast on the beach. The weather is different today; the sky is overcast and threatening and there’s a gusty wind. The waves are too big to make swimming easy. We think there’s probably going to be rain before mid day. The girls are having a lie in; Épi had a bad night with mosquitoes; Soraya is peeling all over her shoulders from where she caught the sun on the cycle ride. On the other hand, keeping our hut door wide open gave me enough ventilation and the best night’s sleep for days. (I’d set a booby trap in the shadows of the doorway just in case someone was tempted to try to steal from us during the night. In the event it was me, of course, who knocked the stuff over with a large clatter as I stumbled out of bed in the morning). Good job it didn’t wake the girls!

Épi and Soraya are desperate to come back to Zanzibar next year; I wonder if there’s a possibility that Tina might be back in Rwanda and able to travel with them? We put off leaving until the very last minute; Simon the patron owes Épi some change and we have to virtually twist his arm behind his back to get it before we finally say our farewells.

Leaving our departure till mid morning turns out not to have been our best move. The rain clouds have moved on and the sun is at full strength. Épi’s foot is still giving her trouble and she isn’t really up to a long walk with full pack up to the bus stop on the main road. On the other hand the prices being asked for taxi rides back to Stone Town are just crazy. So we compromise. One of the taxis is keen to get back to Stone Town and we make a deal with him to take us just up to the daladala stop. So for one mile we ride in armchairs, in air conditioned luxury, with tinted windows. We all gain; the money we give will certainly pay for petrol for their journey to Stone Town, and we’ve avoided a real slog to the main road.

Our luck is in and there’s a daladala waiting for us at the stop. It’s not too overcrowded but has an unusually low roof. I have difficulty in positioning myself so that I’m not constantly banging my head against the ceiling. There are two teenage Muslim girls sitting next to me and opposite me; they are in fits as I continually get bumped up and down against the ceiling. We have the usual variety of passengers and baggage; women going to market; tradesmen clattering their tools in the middle of the gangway as they take a ride to their next call out; mothers with crying babies.

We arrive at Creek Road bus station in the hottest part of the day and make straight for Flamingo Hotel. We’ve booked rooms there and the plan is to go souvenir shopping this afternoon and tomorrow morning before catching the 1230 ferry back to Dar es Salaam.

I take a cold shower, do some laundry ready for the journey home, and get changed. We ring the bus company just to check seats and times for our departure from Dar on Thursday. PANIC! We are told that we have been misinformed; the buses to Kigali leave on Wednesdays and Saturdays. This throws us. Do we have time to get back to the mainland today and catch the bus at 0600 tomorrow, or will we have to stay on the island till Saturday’s departure? We have a hurried discussion. We’d prefer not to have to wait until Saturday. But getting off the island today means we have to find another ferry back to Dar, find a hotel room for the night, and book and pay for seats on Wednesday’s bus. If any of these arrangements falls down, we’re stuck till the weekend.
By now it’s two o’clock. We leave Épi in the hotel room and Soraya and I quick march to the ferry terminal. Here we find that there are three different ferry companies operating to Dar. The night boat doesn’t get in till 0600 and is therefore too late to connect with our bus. The only chance of getting back is to catch the fast ferry leaving in around one hour’s time. I have to buy new tickets for all of us. (That gives us an extra problem in that we’ll have to try to get refunds on our original return tickets at Dar, but if the ferry booking office closes early then we’ve had it…)

We race back to the hotel, pack our things, and explain our predicament to Alif, the manager. Predeictably, in the urgency and confusion I take several wrong turns and by the time I make it back to our room we only have a bare 30 minutes before the ferry is due to leave. Worse than that, I have soaking wet washing to pack into my rucksack.To our amazement he doesn’t bat an eyelid, and doesn’t ask for any payment for the room we’ve occupied for a couple of hours! We’re about to discover more of the kindness of strangers, too.

We catch a taxi to the harbour, fuming at all the delays and hold ups in Creek Road’s chaotic traffic; the actual entrance is blocked off because another ferry has just docked and the entire place is streaming with passengers and papasi. We barge into the ferry terminal and heave a sigh of relief when we see that our boat hasn’t even started boarding yet. We have the emigration formalities to complete, and eventually take our seats in a very old catamaran. Fortunately we leave slightly late. At least we have resolved the first problem, that of getting back to Dar es Salaam today.

The ferry is very fast, very bumpy, and nowhere near as pleasant as the outbound one. (So to any VSOs reading this, it really definitely is best to get the slower ferry). When we reach Dar we make a beeline for the “Flying Horse” ferry office to get our refunds. Joy of joys, it is still open – just! Our friend Bashir is on the point of closing for the day. He remembers us and waves us into his little office. He’s wearing a neck brace where he’s damaged his neck from spending all day being stooped in front of a computer or a ticket sales window. He couldn’t have been more helpful if he tried. This man is truly a friend to us. We get a full refund without anything being deducted for his administration time. On a whim I ask him if he can ring the bus company and confirm our seats for tomorrow morning – he does so, even though it involves at least three separate phone calls.

“Where are you staying tonight?” he asks (a man from the bus company, Salim, will be bringing our tickets round to us later in the evening and will require payment; we need to tell him where we’re staying so he can find us). We say to Bashir that we’re staying at the Holiday Hotel – we aren’t; we haven’t got as far as making a booking. There didn’t seem to be any point until we knew we’d be able to get to Dar. And on top of everything else my phone battery has died, and I’ve got the only phone between us. Stressy or what?!

Bashir insists on driving us to the hotel; we wait a few minutes while he locks his office (involving three padlocks and a massive, heavy, steel security door), and duly drops us off at the hotel.

Again, if any VSO is reading this and intending to travel to Zanzibar by ferry, please patronise “Flying Horse” and give our greetings to Bashir. I think he’s going to remember us for a while!

Dar es Salaam is experiencing a city wide power cut; the entire hotel is in darkness and they’re fiddling around for ages trying to get their emergency generator working. They’ve closed the security gate at the main entrance, which in itself is up two flights of stairs over shops. It’s not the most auspicious welcome to a hotel but in our nerve-jangling state it’s enough for us that we have rooms for the night.

So far so good – fery back to Dar, refunds on original tickets, and hotel room found. All we need now is to have the bus tickets in our hands and we can relax. We go out for a meal (“Jambo Hotel” again, because we know the food is good and it’s close to our hotel). I have to leave messages with the Holiday hotel staff in case Salim comes to find us while we’re eating. He doesn’t. The girls are tired and take themselves off to bed; I decide to have another shower. Why hasn’t Salim come with our tickets – after all our luck this afternoon are we going to be bounced off the bus at the last minute?

While I’m actually in the shower there a lot of banging on my room door opposite; Salim certainly chooses his times to arrive! He has come up trumps; we have three tickets all in a line together on the bus. I have to wake up the girls to pay him, but we are happy now that the last main piece in our jigsaw has fallen into place. We have arranged wake up calls with the hotel, and asked them to find us a taxi for half past five in the morning to take us to the airport.

We can’t believe that this is still the same day that saw us start with a dawn swim, east breakfast on a paradise beach, and laze away the morning back at Kendwa.

On the other hand, it shows how experienced we’re getting as travellers and as “Africa hands” that we can take the initiative and change plans so effectively. I think in situations like this you make your own luck, but I want to salute three good people – Alif, Bashir and Salim – who went out of their way to accommodate and be helpful to three total strangers. It restores your faith in people!

Pictures for November 9th

2009-11-18T13:57:00.014+02:00

Street scenes in Nungwi village.

The village centre of Nungwi.

Beach babes.

The lighthouse at Ras Nungwi.

The beach at Ras Nungwi.

A series of pictures to show you different stages in the building of dhows at Nungwi.

Using a bow drill - surprisingly fast and efficient!

Raising the sail on our dhow.

Captain of my very own dhow.

The beach at Kendwa in hot afternoon sun.

Feeding seaweed to turtles.

Beau Geste cuddles a green turtle.

That's how blue the sea was.

In which we have a day of dhows

2009-11-18T13:56:00.000+02:00

November 9th

Before the girls are up I go for a dawn swim. The water is decidedly cool, but the visibility is amazingly clear and for most of the time I’m the only person in the water. The tide is fully in – I’ve been woken up by the crash of waves on the beach – and at high tide it’s almost impossible to encounter a sea urchin even if you intended to, so I’m not worried.

This morning is bright and sunny. While we’re breakfasting there are white sails dotted all along the horizon like a row of jewels. Some are almost out of sight beyond Tumbatu Island, others are setting off with divers or snorkelers or going fishing.

Épi draw my attention to what looks like a piece of black masking tape on the top of my mosquito net. We look close and find that it’s a giant millipede, a good six inches long and about an inch in circumference. The thing isn’t venomous but we decide to put it out in the garden. As I write this I’m kicking myself that none of us thought to take a photo – it is easily the biggest millipede we’re ever seen.

We decide to have an active day today; it’s our last full day on the beach. We agree to go up to Nungwi at the northern tip of Zanzibar, about three miles up the road. It’s the most overdeveloped touristy spot in the whole of Zanzibar, but it’s in the guidebook and it’s the end of the road so we want to be able to say we’ve been there. Épi’s still having trouble with her foot, and it’s blisteringly hot, so we wonder about taking a private taxi. They want 10,000 for a ride that costs 200 in a daladala. No way!

In Kendwa village we see about hiring bikes, but the amount they want per day - $15 – is more than we’re paying for our accommodation and the women isn’t interested in trying to cut us a deal. So no way again!

So we plod up the long mile to the main road. As we walk we pass Muslim women from the village; they’re plaiting coconut leaf fibres into strips to make baskets or other goods while they’re walking. They’re so adept they can weave, walk, and talk to each other all at the same time. Everywhere there are children; here they are starting to get used to tourists and a few of them ask us for money. It’s more or less the only time we get pestered during our entire holiday. Just near the junction there’s an enormous baobab tree with candy stores in its shade. We wait there a few minutes for our bus, munching sugary peanut treats, and within ten minutes we’re in the middle of Nungwi.

Having got off the bus we make for the turtle sanctuary more to escape the hustlers than for any other reason. Nungwi is the same dusty, sandy, coral stone type of place as Bwejuu, but it very much divided into two parts. Along the beach are the lines of luxury apartments, walled off, security guarded and exclusive. The village proper is ramshackle but, as the “Rough Guide” accurately put it, seems to go on its own traditional way and manages to largely ignore the tourist development alongside it. Chickens scatter as we pass. There are no other animals visible, and no dovecots as at Bwejuu. There are just a few tourists in the streets, and the locals greet us politely as we saunter through their lives.

The turtles are right at the extreme tip of the island, and therefore at the extreme north of Zanzibar proper. Next to the sanctuary is the squat lighthouse, a series of cubes one on top of another, each slightly smaller than the one below, rather like a Chinese pagoda. The proper name for the headland is Ras Nungwi. There is also a lighthouse at the tip of Tumbatu Island which we can see from our beach at Kendwa, but I don’t think the light is working – every night I’ve looked to see it shining and every night I’ve been disappointed.

The turtles are in a small lagoon completely enclosed by walls of natural coral rock. Seawater seeps in through fissures in the coral and the water level rises and falls with the tides. But at least the water is circulating and therefore keeping clean. There are lots of turtles, all but one are green turtles and the biggest are truly enormous. We feed them with seaweed. We are allowed to handle baby turtles and even some adolescents; picking up even a medium turtle you realise their weight; the biggest ones would need two or three people to lift. The turtles have no fear of humans and come willingly to be fed. They heave themselves one on top of another to get at our hands extending seaweed to them; those at the bottom of the heap get submerged but don’t seem bothered. (In any case, how would we know if a turtle was expressing emotion?)

On a more macabre note there’s an entire whale skeleton and a pile of dolphin skulls. In 2006 some 450 dolphins washed up on the beaches around here one night and were dead by morning. The stench must have been unbearable.

In yet another part there are two big pythons found in the forests of central Zanzibar. I had no idea that the island contained any snakes at all; these things are pretty big and I wouldn’t like to meet one in the wild. Fortunately these two have just had their feed (of rats) and are sleepy and docile.

We collect Épi who has decided to sit out the turtles and rest her foot under a shady tree. She’s discovered a very young kitten, and all of us are being chased (?) slowly across the sand by furry yellow and black caterpillars. They have long bristles which sting if they touch you, so we have to keep checking how far they have advanced. (Honestly, I can’t believe I’m writing about being chased by caterpillars….).

Eventually after taking pictures of the sea and the enormous collection of boats anchored in the bay at Ras Nungwi, we set off round the shore. Nungwi is famous for dhow building and I want to see how its done and get some pictures. I’m not disappointed. There must be more than a dozen boats in all stages of construction from just keel, stem and sternpost, to the finishing touches. The boats are flush built, and caulked with cotton wool from the mainland. The shipwrights are incredibly skilful – they use no plans, use no rulers, and use no power tools. I watch one of them drilling holes with a bow saw. Others are fitting a small piece of wood to close a gap between two planks; the wood has been cut by eye and fits perfectly.

We talk to one of the shipwrights. He is a fourth generation builder. He tells us it takes a team of four men about a month and a half to build one of the smaller dhows. Some boats are made to order, others are speculative ventures. Fortunately at the moment there seems no shortage of demand for the boats and there must be at least a dozen teams of builders, some working, others resting under tarpaulins on piles of wood shavings.

The hulls are made of inch thick mahogany planks. On the beach there are frames where dozens of planks are seasoning before being used. Also further round on the beach are tangled piles of curved tree limbs. There are being kept to use for the ribs of boats; each tree branch will make one particular rib and its natural curvature will give the boat enormous strength. It is reassuring to see such genuine craftsmanship in action. One of my lasting memories is seeing the keel of one boat just being started – a single thick plank, marked out with chalk, and along each side of the keel a tapered slot being cut to accept the lowest of the hull planks. The slot was being cut with an adze, and yet the line the workman was making was so sharp and fine that you couldn’t have done any better with an electric router.

Further round the beach we find fisherman mending nets, and curious little huts, about twenty feet long but only four or five feet high, where nets and floats are being stored before use. Yet other people are repairing crab baskets shaped rather like cows’ feet.

At the edge of Nungwi village is a fish market recently rebuilt by the Japanese; the smell is pungent but there are no fish being sold when we descend on it and every slab is occupied by a Zanzibari relining in the shade. In fact everywhere we go there are people recumbent under trees, sleeping out the heat of the day.

There is no order to Nungwi village, and navigating your way round the houses, even with a map, is a hit and miss affair. We eventually come out into the village centre with a supermarket and a huge open area which in England would be a village green but at Nungwi is a sunbaked sandy sprawl. It is paralysingly hot outside and we’re wilting fast. We decide it would be a good idea to see if we can get a ride home in a boat.

Finding our way to the beach is no great problem, but there isn’t any sort of water bus. We start to walk along the beach (you can easily walk from Nungwi to Kendwa at low tide), but after a while we are warned by one of the locals that the tide is already too far in at the next headland. I’m sceptical at first, but after a few more yards we can see that he’s right. And where we’re walking we’re wading through heavy seaweed and there could easily be more sea urchins mixed up with the sand and weed.

One of the locals offers to take us in his boat, and we haggle until we have a fair price. I’m expecting a little motor boat, but to my joy we find we’re being taken home in a lovely dhow. And not only that, we have the entire boat to ourselves. There’s three crew, and three of us passengers. Best of all, they don’t use the engine but put the sail up straight away. The sail is old, patched to the “n”th degree, and tattered in places, but it works. I am able to watch as the sail is hoisted; I’ve never been in a boat with a lateen sail and I’m fascinated at how flexible and complicated the system is. It makes an English dinghy seem child’s play. Finally they offer me the tiller, and I’m able to sail us all the way home. Yay folks, I’m sailing a dhow through the Indian Ocean. How cool is that! Épi and Soraya look horrified at the thought of my steering, but Soraya goes up onto the upper deck and takes lots of pictures.

What a wonderful experience. The sea is such an intense blue it doesn’t look real (check out the pictures for today); we have breeze aplenty, and for the first time at Kendwa we’re well away from the crowds. Life is good. One of the classic excursions here in the north of Zanzibar is to do a dhow cruise at sunset. Well we don’t have the sunset but we have the dhow to ourselves and I’m able to experiment and see how close to the wind I can take her…..

Tina, my love, you’d do anything for this sort of experience. Like we said in our emails, you have just GOT to get yourself out to Zanzibar as soon as you can!

The boat is surprisingly heavy to steer, but when I manage to catch the wind perfectly we simply fly along. We cruise right past the posh resorts, right past our guest house and then cut back while we drop the sail. The dhow deposits us right on the beach opposite our favourite bar; we get envious looks from beach walkers as we scramble ashore trying to keep cameras from falling into the water. From the sea you get a completely different perspective of the built up part of Kendwa. The trip feels all too short but for me it was the crowning experience of the entire holiday. The sound of the wind ruffling the edges of the sail, the noised of the water as the boat cuts through it; the occasional creaks from the hull planking, but most of all the quiet and solitude of being alone out on the water – it’s a great feeling.

Back on the beach Épi and I go for another swim, keeping well clear of any bits which don’t have pure sand on the bottom. Meanwhile Rachael has texted to say that she and Andy are on their way north and will hook up with us for the evening. They don’t seem to arrive despite our waiting for them, and by early evening we are all starving so we decide to mooch up to the Kijiji café again. As we’re strolling through the sand Rachael and Andy spot us; they’ve been looking for us but not able to find us among the jumble of beach bars and development.

We eat together, then saunter back to Les T de P and drink beers on the beach while we talk and watch the lightning flickering over the African mainland.

Andy regales us with stories of his trip to Kampala at Easter. We met him on the Ssese Islands but never got to hear the full story of his escapades. His bus journey from Kigali to Uganda we certainly eventful. The big bus, slipping on wet roads, went off the road twice and the second time was left leaning at a 45 degree angle and unable to move with assistance. The woman sitting next to him had been repeatedly travel sick, vomiting into a plastic bag which she hung up next to the seat ready for further use. Andy has us in stitches describing being bounced off the road and trying to claw his way to safety with a bag of someone else’s vomit ricocheting off his head….. (not funny, you say – well, it’s the way he tells them…). Eventually the bus company had to hire local matatas to take Andy and the other passengers on to Kampala. Then he and Dan got robbed and mugged in Kampala. Next he describes the experience we’ve all had of being in a matata in Rwanda and wanting the window open to get fresh air and reduce the smell of unwashed bodies, while someone behind you tries to slam the window through your arm to close it. Andy describes keeping his arm through the window and the silly person behind continually chopping the glass into his arm until Andy loses his cool and turns round and bellows at the person to shut up. The entire complement of passengers goes quiet in nervous giggles at the sight of a muzungu losing his temper. But it worked; he had his open window and the satisfaction of letting off steam. We can’t be culturally super sensitive all the time!

Some Germans at the table next to us take their candle and try to have a tide fight. It’s a moonless night tonight and it feels very dark. For lighting we have just one candle in a bed of sand inside a water bottle with its top cut off, and as we’re sitting in the middle of the beach there’s no other light around us at all. There’s a big power cut in progress; the upmarket resorts have generators but Les T de P has to make do with candles. The night is inky black. It only takes a power cut to push even Kendwa back to rural Africa at its most uncompromising!

Eventually we realise we’re all weary and decide to call it a day. Rachael and Andy will have to negotiate a price for a taxi back to Nungwi where they’re staying; they’ll do well to get below 20,000 as opposed to our 200 in the daladala.

Pictures for November 8th

2009-11-18T13:48:00.009+02:00

Our patch of beach at Kendwa.

Bringing home the catch. Harpoon fisherman saunters up the beach with a large octopus.

Pain.

Epi displaying the home made needles.

Ouch! My foot hurts!

Parting shot before we leave the beach.

How's that for the perfect beach?

In which one of us encounters a sea urchin and comes off worst

2009-11-18T13:45:00.000+02:00

November 8th

To eat breakfast on the beach seems normal these days; it’s as if we’ve always done it. Fruit, fresh bread, omelette and pineapple jam (the latter is an in-joke within our little travelling group. Tina, I hope you’re reading this!). After which we pack our bags and move the few hundred yards to “Les Toits de Palme”. (Apparently one of the owners was French, hence the name, but he pulled out some time ago).

We manage to negotiate a good price for a three bed room, $40 per night between the three of us. The room needs a bit of TLC; the bathroom light bulb has blown, the fan doesn’t work and they’ve forgotten to put in toilet paper, but it’s comfortable and clean. (We never do get the light bulb or fan sorted, either. Life’s too short sometimes).

We decide on another lazy day; I spend a lot of the morning lounging around in a hammock with all my laundry spread out around me, waiting for it to dry. The girls chat and look at the craft stalls. After a while we all do the line of craft stalls; everyone is selling almost identical stuff – paintings, bracelets, wood carvings, earrings, shawls.

Eventually we get bored and walk up into Kendwa village for a change of scene. There’s not a lot there – a grocery store or two, a travel and tours agency and a very good café called Kijiji which sells the same food as Les Toits de Palme but at cheaper prices. (The menus are identical and printed in exactly the same style. They must be owned by the same family). I love the chubby octopus painted on the wall and take a picture. We decide to sample the food and are very impressed (prawn masala); the only down side is that at lunchtime there are a lot of flies. (We come back the following evening and have a completely fly-free time, so we are just unlucky today).

To get to the village we have to run the gauntlet of taxi drivers and other men all trying to make us commit to their tours or use their services. Of course, they assume we’re fragile newbies to Africa and not used to squashing into daladalas. But who in their right mind would pay 10—15000 per head, even in an air conditioned luxury taxi, for a ride which you could do for 1500 in a daladala and have the advantage of all the local colour? Not us, that’s for sure!

After lunch we drift back to our hut to snooze and wait out the heat. The beach is just picture postcard perfect. There’s lots of hibiscus and bougainvillea, a lot of shade trees back from the high water mark, and some guest houses are even planting more trees which is a good sign. As at Bwejuu most of the buildings are thatched and considering their size they blend well into the background. Only in the most ostentatious resorts are the buildings too assertive – too big and out of scale, and thrust too far forwards onto the sand so they try to claim the beach for themselves. In a few places guest houses have started to close off sections of beach, and I fear that before long it will only be possible to walk along the entire beach at low tide. That will be a real shale if it happens, and further proof that tourism so often seems to destroy the very assets it seeks to exploit.

The beach is wide, and at the rear there is the same low coral cliff, about ten to fifteen feet high, that we found on Changuu island. It seems to be commonplace on Zanzibar. Perhaps the sea level has fallen recently. Our hut is situated right at the edge of this cliff so we are raised up away from line of sight of people wandering on the beach, and just high enough to catch some breeze which would be stifled if we were underneath the coconut trees on the beach itself. It’s still barely a hundred yards from our front door to the water, and all of it over sand.

The downside is that the entire beach is in the process of being “developed”; there is already no piece of “wild” beach left. And as pressure grows from the upmarket package holiday resorts at each end of Kendwa, the few remaining laid back original businesses such as Les T de P will have to close or adapt. In some ways we are already three years too late in coming here, but in three more years we would have been terribly disappointed after the quiet and emptiness of Bwejuu. Already there is practically nowhere for the locals to come to the beach to swim or to walk.

After an hour or so Épi and I want to go swimming. It is low tide; the sea looks as if all the colours have been enhanced. You can see the sandy bottom for hundreds of yards out to sea. Every now and then there is a patch of weedy growth on the bottom, but most of the patches are deep enough to swim over.

I’m well out to sea, swimming out to and round the moored boats. Épi is close inshore. Suddenly she yelps in pain and shouts for me to come and help her. Not realising she’s over some of the weed, she’s put her foot down too low and accidentally brushed over the top of a sea urchin. The urchin has shot at least nine spines into her foot. She’s in great pain and can’t walk. Poor Épi; she didn’t even tread on the urchin but just brushed it. There can’t be many urchins on this beach, even at low tide, and she’s been monumentally unlucky to have encountered one.

We get her ashore and up to the Les T de P bar. The barman calls some of his friends over and within a few minutes Épi’s being treated by four young men, including Geoff, the barman, and Simon, the boss. I see that in my travel medicine guide it recommends bathing the foot in hot water to get the spines out, but we are being given the local remedy which is more colourful.

One lad is despatched to find unripe pawpaws (papayas), someone else to get some kerosene, while a third pulls off part of a coconut palm branch. He strips the green part away and uses a penknife to whittle the tough fibrous centre stalk into a series of makeshift needles. Meanwhile Épi’s looking more and more apprehensive at the thought of the kitchen table surgery to come.

They puncture the pawpaw skins with the needles so that a white, sticky sap oozes out and they smear this all over the affected part of her foot to deaden the pain. Next they bathe her foot in kerosene which seems to draw the fragments of spine back up towards the skin surface. Eventually someone comes with a couple of small limes from the bar and these are cut in half and the juice smeared over her foot. At this point the lads start digging into her foot with the makeshift needles to get the spine fragments out (the photos for today are self explanatory). Épi’s still in real pain; we get her a gin to take her mind off things…. Some Zanzibaris are having afternoon tea at the bar; they immediately recognise what has happened and are sympathetic. It’s an occupational hazard when you live and work on these beaches and I guess it’s happened to all of them at some time or another. Even if you wear flip flips you are still vulnerable around your ankles. And I remember as a much younger man when I went on an expedition to the Caribbean and accidentally sat on a sea urchin in the water; fortunately a far smaller and less potent one that that which Épi has crossed swords with.

It takes a long time to clean out the wound, and even minus the spines in her foot Épi’s still hobbling. After this experience we rest a while, and then go for another walk along the beach at sunset. A local man is walking along the sand carrying his harpoon gun and an armful of octopus which he’ll sell to one of the guest houses – from swimming in the ocean to cooked and eaten in just a couple of hours. Les Toits de Palme is all laid back and laissez faire; at some of the other resorts there are uniformed guards to keep non-residents off the private hammocks and prevent mere plebs like us from treading their upmarket sand…. It makes us laugh. We’re getting the same sun, sea, sand and general ambiance for a fraction of the prices these other people are paying. And while they may look down on us sweating up the lanes in the heat of the day with our backpacks, at least we are meeting the locals on the road and talking to them. I bet we speak to more Zanzibaris per day than they do! (OK, get off your soapbox – Ed).

As the sun sets and darkness falls we once again eat out on the beach; this time its fish in coconut juice with cold beers all round. I think Soraya and I have decided we won’t touch anything except seafood until we’re back in Rwanda. It sure puts goat brochettes and mélange in their place at the rearguard of culinary experience….

Our hut is a funny structure; it has a low ceiling consisting of wire mesh sprayed with some sort of plaster to make it waterproof and give it rigidity. Above it there’s an enormous void, and finally a palm roof some ten to fifteen feet higher up. You could fit a second storey above our room and still have space to spare for air circulation. It’s a really unusual design, but big enough for us and surprisingly comfortable. We like it. There’s a little sitting out place in the front with table and chairs, and we can watch the world go by and speak to the three Swedish girls in the hut next door…..

At the foot of the stairs leading up the cliff to our rooms (we are in one of about six huts) the bar staff have put a hurricane lamp, and more lamps outside every hut to show where the entrance steps are. We have electric light, of course, but the oil lamps give a gentle light and we think it makes a romantic and offbeat ambiance to our lodgings.

On the beach there are casuarinas pines as well as coconuts. Their roots are extremely shallow and spread out for yards and yards in all direction, sometimes just above the sand surface. They are always threatening to trip you up, especially after dark. And the fruit of the casuarinas trees consists of tiny cones the size of hazel nuts, but covered with sharp ridges. Put your instep down on one of them and you certainly feel it!

As we’re trying to get to sleep the bar is playing lovely Congolese music, not loud enough to be intrusive but very pleasant to listen to. By just after nine we’re all in bed and trying to sleep. The girls are next to a window each, but my corner of the hut is terribly humid and I find it really hard to get to sleep. Soraya has discovered lizard poo on her bed so keeps the mosquito net draped day and night.

Gitarama feels a zillion miles away.

Pictures for November 7th

2009-11-17T08:16:00.010+02:00

Another day, another beach. This is Kendwa in the very touristy northern part of Zanzibar.

Gateway to the sea at Kendwa Rocks resort.

The attractions of Kendwa.

Shady trees line the rear of the beach at Kendwa.

Village shop at Kendwa.

Our favourite cafe at Kendwa. Cheap food, but wonderful quality.

The beach at Kendwa.

Boats and islands at sunset

In which we find acrobats, and possibly the most perfect beach ever. (Pity about all the other people)

2009-11-17T08:15:00.001+02:00

November 7th

Time to leave Bwejuu. We want to go up to the north coast of Zanzibar where the beaches are supposed to be even better. The guest house owner paid, he escorts us up to the tarmac road. We explain that we’ll wait for a daladala to stop for us. The first one that comes is going in the opposite direction, but it’s almost empty and the crew is terrified that someone else will take our fares, so they pile us in and off we go – in the wrong direction. We drive all the way back to Ka, to the lagoon – all the route we cycled yesterday. Rachael, who didn’t cycle, is suitably impressed. We learn that the correct fare to Stone Town is 1500 shillings, not the 2000 we paid on the outward run. The wind is cool in the back of the bus and we’re never as unpleasantly crowded as we were the other day. The dalaldalas’ driving technique is always the same. To go at breakneck speed wherever possible, then screech to a halt where there are police, checkpoints, speed bumps or potential passengers. My knees are jammed into an enormous basket of tomatoes, and there’s a drum of cooking oil next to it with an insecure looking stopper.

We pass the Joziani forest national park where there are red colobus monkeys. Needless to say in our formula one daladala we don’t see any wildlife unless it’s dead on the road, but the trees look cool and inviting. The convoyeur hurls himself into the passenger section at the sight of a policeman, easily identifiable in their pristine white uniforms with peaked caps. Below the knees they look more old fashioned, with baggy shorts, “sensible shoes” and knee length socks. And that’s just the women. In Rwanda such a uniform wouldn’t stay clean for more than an hour with all the dry season’s dust.

Stone Town seems hot and noisy after Bwejuu. We go back to the Flamingo hotel. Rachael is going to stay a night or two; she’s waiting to meet another one of the American teachers who has just arrived on the island. And, yes, he’s yet another volunteer who we all met in Uganda at Easter. We leave our bags in the hotel and go down town to change money, use the internet and above all write a postcard for Tina back home in England.

We decide we ought to head straight up to the north and make sure of somewhere to stay for the night. Nungwi is easily the most touristy part of the island, with huge resorts taking advantage of its beaches. We find the daladala easily but once again get ripped off paying twice the correct fare. We’re learning; we won’t ever make that mistake again. Having consulted the “Rough Guide” we decide we’ll forsake Nungwi and stay at Kendwa. It’s supposed to be less developed and is more “our sort of place”. It’s also only a couple of miles from Nungi. Walking distance if we want to go there.

On the way we pass seawater lagoons on the outskirts of Stone Town but miss one of the old palaces (it’s almost swamped by an oil storage depot). In the countryside the terribly poor housing extends for mile after mile. This is the old spice plantation part of the island, and just now and again there’s tremendous waft of nutmeg, presumably from some sort of processing plant where it is being ground prior to export. But looking at the land, the houses, and the sheer number of underemployed people lounging on the roadside with nothing to do but waste day after day, you can quite understand why everyone wants to go to Stone Town and take their chance of getting a finger in the tourist pie.

There’s the usual assortment of sacks of produce on the roof; at one point the driver’s enthusiastic method of tackling speed bumps causes a sack to come undone and we start spilling peppers all over the road. The woman owning the sack bangs frantically on the side of the bus to stop the driver. But by the time we come to a halt people have appeared from surrounding houses and are picking up the spilt peppers with absolutely no intention of returning them. There’s a lot of arguing between the lady passenger and the driver, but nothing comes of it and if anything the man drives even faster to make up for lost time.

Unfortunately our 2006 guidebook is dead accurate. It tells people to visit Kendwa before it gets overdeveloped, which will happen imminently. Now, in 2009, Kendwa has gone the same way as Nungwi. There are just a few glimpses of the former carefree environment left. We are dropped at the end of a lane and halve to walk a mile or so through the heat to the village. The guest house we really want we can’t find and we assume it no longer exists, so we plump for our second choice at “Kendwa Rocks”. Whether the title is geographical or a wish on the owners’ part isn’t clear. We book into the communal dorm; cheap and cheerful but adequate with ceiling fans and good quality mosquito nets. This is a seriously developing resort. Bwejuu was empty; Kendwa is pretty full and we’re only at the start of the winter season.

At “Kendwa Rocks” the clientele seem very young – backpackers. A lot of them are here for the scuba diving; almost every guest house advertises lessons and at night there are rows of butch looking rubber boats drawn up on the sand. The place is developing as fast as it can; it has manicured gardens and little walled sectiosn which suddenly open up via gates to give you the perfect view through palm trees to the sand and water. If we hadn’t just come from Bwejuu we’d have thought this place the bee’s knees. But after the quiet and empty open spaces on the east coast Kendwa feels a little over egged. It’s not an anticlimax – the beach and general setting is too perfect for that, but to us it feels as if there is too much building, too many people, and too much intrusion onto the natural environment.

Kendwa has to giant resort complexes at each end of its beach catering almost entirely for Italians. Even the “plastic Masai” have signs advertising their wares in Italian.

The crowning glory of Kendwa is its beach. Much more steeply shelving than at Bwejuu, you can swim at any stage of the tide (though low tide has its hazards, as we are about to discover). The downside is that the water is colder than at Bwejuu; there’s no sizzling expanse of sand and mud to heat it as the tide comes in. I swim out to a dhow moored close to the beach; its entire bow section is delicately carved and painted and the entire boat is new and well cared for. Definitely for the tourist trade! Out on the horizon is a group of islands, the biggest of which is Tumbatu. This is a strange place; the inhabitants think they are the original Zanzibaris and they keep very much to themselves. Visits from tourists are positively discouraged. There are only two main settlements on the island, barely three miles apart, and they have evolved different dialects. That’s how insular these people have become!

The sunsets aren’t very good at Kendwa during our stay; the sun is setting towards Africa, into the Zanzibar Channel, and there a lot of cloud with continuous lightning coming from the mainland. The rainy season has certainly arrived there.

We swim, we walk along the beach, and we find the gurst house we were originally looking for – “Les Toits de Palme”, half hidden at the back of the beach. To get to it you have to walk right through the “White Sands” complex; we hesitated to do this because we didn’t know it was a right of way when we first arrived. We talk to the owner at Les T de P and decide we’ll transfer there tomorrow. There’s always a security risk when you sleep with strangers in a dormitory, and, besides, we like to have our own space. Les T de P has very cheap huts right on the beach, but they are close to some of the Masai and look as if they would be child’s play to break into, se we agree that we’ll go for the next stage up – a hut at the top of the little cliff at the back of the beach. This has sea views and is much more secure.

We try the food at “Les Toits de Palme” – the waiter sets a table right out onto the beach for us; we dine by candle light. With the ocean swishing just yards away we dine on prawns in coconut sauce (you notice that almost everything here is cooked in coconut; it makes food amazingly rich and creamy). The mix of fresh seafood, coconut and spices is just unbeatable. I’m determined to try to find recipes and replicate some of these dishes when I get home!

After we’ve eaten we return to our dorm. It’s Saturday night and now thatwe’ve eaten we are just in time for the entertainment at Kendwa Rocks. We’ve met Steve, a young Oxford Law graduate who has been here a while; he takes us in tow for the evening. Épi and I are ready to dance, but nothing happens till around eleven o’clock when the floor show begins. This is the only live show in the district and people have come from all the other resorts to watch. To buy drinks you first have to buy tokens which you exchange for alcohol at the bar. That’s a measure of how much these places don’t or can’t trust their bar staff. We have a troupe of acrobats. They are extremely agile and the whole show is a hoot, especially when there’s the occasional mishap. One man hurts his face quite badly when the wooden blocks he’s balancing on to do a handstand on a table come loose.

It’s virtually midnight when the dancing starts, and by then both Épi and I are too tired to want to dance away for another couple of hours, so we retreat to bed. We all sleep well despite revellers returning at intervals all through the night.

We’re about three years too late coming here – but just perfect timing for Bwejuu!

Pictures for November 6th

2009-11-17T08:06:00.009+02:00

Another sunrise. It's such a tough life on Zanzibar!

One of Soraya's "moody" shots of sunrise.

Beach babes ready for the off. Where are our bikes>

Our perfect beach at Bwejuu at low tide.

Soraya has turned several shades darker in the sun....

We arrive at Chwaka lagoon.

Hiding our things in the mangrove trees.

Gimme some shade....

In which we try beach cycling and find the perfect lagoon

2009-11-17T08:05:00.000+02:00

November 6th

Another perfect breakfast on the beach. I’ve been in for an early morning swim, but whereas the afternoon water is almost too warm to swim in, the dawn tide is decidedly cold. Soraya and I are both up to see the sunrise but don’t get as good pictures as yesterday’s. Rachael is still very poorly from the sunburn when she went snorkelling and decides to spend a second day resting, reading and taking life easy. The other three of us have negotiated a day rate for our cycles, and we’re ready for off.

The bikes appear to have plenty of gears, but in reality the chains haven’t been oiled in years, the gears seem to be jammed with rust or sand, and they amount to single gear machines just like the heavy Chinese jobs they use in Rwanda. Soraya hasn’t ridden a bike since she was about twelve, so today promises to be an interesting experience for her.

We’ve decided to go all the way up the Michamvi peninsula to Pingwe, and then turn left for a mile or so to Kae which is the end of the road. We set off on the first leg along our beach. The beach is used as a road, and from to time we have seen mopeds, bikes – everything except cars – trundling past our hut.

Progress is slow at first. You would think that the sand down by the water’s edge is too soft to ride on, and the sand at the top of the beach is lovely and firm. In reality it’s the other way round. We have to ride almost at the water’s edge, our tyres crunching over shell fragments and with the odd bits of seaweed wrapping themselves in the chain when the wind blows them up towards us. Every few yards we set off a group of terns feeding on the mudflats (the tide was high at about five this morning and is already well on its way out), and now and then a heron flaps clumsily into the air and settles a few yards away as if flying is too much of a chore in the heat.

It is already dangerously hot; I have slathered myself in sun cream but wrap my head, neck and shoulders in a travel towel so that I look like something out of the French Foreign Legion (on a bad day). Soraya and Épiphanie are getting seriously sunburnt, too. It is glorious to cycle along the beach; the sea breeze makes you forget just how hot it is; we have blue sea to one side, green coconut plantations to the other, and the white coral sand beach in front of us. There are so few people around that we feel as if we own the entire island. (Just look at today’s photos and you’ll see what we mean).

There is a continuous line of hotels and guest houses along the beach, but they are generally well camouflaged. They are invariably set behind the line of palm trees; they are just about all thatched with palms and they blend in well. The only strident note is a big commercial holiday complex which does exactly the opposite at the far end of the beach. It is prominent, not sympathetic to local materials, and above all else there is an executive series of chalets built on stilts at the far end of a long jetty stretching out into the sea. It looks out of place and faintly ridiculous, but undoubtedly it is the shape of things to come and I’m sure that in a few years the entire beach will be spoilt in the same way.

Out to sea the waves are roaring on the reef; at low tide there is just a thin white line to mark the place. Inside the reef the mudflats glisten ivory; there is a lot of seaweed and plant debris strewn all over the mud and sand, and little tidal pools of water shimmer and shiver in the breeze all around us. The sand just above the water line is a perfect surface for cycling – flat, hard, and more or less level. It’s bliss.

Bliss, that is, until we reach the jetty and have to come inland and find the tarmac road. Then, out of the breeze, the full heat really hits us. We are pushing our bikes up what should be a cliff but which has been reduced to a steep slope, one which can be negotiated by four wheel drive vehicles. The sweat is streaming off us. Half way up the slope there is the holiday complex’s bar. We speak with the manager (actually, we’re asking permission to cross his land to get to the main road but I think he’s so surprised to see muzungus cycling in the heat that he takes pity on us). We decide we need a rest; he opens up his bar; we buy icy cold drinks and chill for a few minutes until we feel braced enough to venture out into the sun again.

I’m cursing myself because in the haste of departure (!) I left the guide book in the hut. Never mind, there’s only one road in the entire peninsula and I’ve more or less memorised what it says about each restaurant to the lagoon.

We reach the tarmac road and find it almost entirely level and an easy surface to cycle on. There’s very little traffic – we can ride three abreast up the road for most of the way. On the inland side there’s thin soil and low, scrubby bushes which look as if nobody is even trying to use the land for agriculture. On the seaward side there’s a more or less continual line of development, sometimes tucked away behind white coral-stone walls, but always discreetly hidden from view of the road. This is excellent because it means that wherever there’s a gap in the vegetation or the walls you are looking straight out to sea. It’s lovely. Here and there some soulful looking cows browse in whatever shade they can find, and on the poorest land there are goats (but nothing like the density of goats that you find in Rwanda).

The kilometres fall away quickly and we’re at the corner of the main road before we realise it. We pause to catch our breath and drink our water, then push on for the last couple of kilometres to Kae and the end of the road. There’s a slight hill up, and a relatively (for Zanzibar) steep little incline down into Kae, which you approach by meandering through a coconut grove. There are the usual speed bumps, but we let ourselves go and bounce over the bumps, entering coconut grove and village at full tilt. At roughly this point we realise that not only do our bike gears not work, the brakes are barely effective as well. By sheer good luck we don’t encounter any children, goats, lorries, daladalas or anything else until we plough into a sandy stretch of track and we coast to a more sedate speed.

It occurs to me that if here in Zanzibar they seem able to tarmac every road so that no village lacks all weather access, and if they can bring electricity to every hamlet, why on earth can’t we get the same situation done faster in Rwanda?

We pass a primary school, the pupils still at work, and a little plot of land for sale (no sea views but its right against the main road). Kae is a tiny place; there is a line of three or four hotel complexes at the water’s edge but just about nothing else save for a single shop and a dozen or so houses. It really is the end of the road in every sense.

But Kae is where we reach Chwaka Bay, the beautiful big lagoon stretching far into the heart of Zanzibar. It is now almost completely low tide. The sea is a long way away, but there are pools of water, some quite deep, everywhere. We throw ourselves into whatever shade we can find and survey the scene.

Right in front of us the water, shallow and tidal, is marked out into plots with small wooden sticks two or three feet long. These mark seaweed farms. Lengths of rope are stretched between the sticks, and as the tidal currents ebb and flow every day seaweed gets itself wrapped round the string and poles. As we watch there are several women unwrapping the weed and putting it onto baskets. They will put it out to dry in the hot sun and when it is completely dry it will be bagged up and sold in the mainland. I’m not sure what it is used for – whether food, or animal feed, or even as fertiliser, but it is a recent idea specifically to give extra employment and a source of pocket money to the women here. We wander among some of the seaweed plots; there’s not a lot of weed left (we assume this part has already been harvested). At one point a huge sea slug has wrapped itself round the rope, cucumber green and all waving tentacles at its business end.

The lagoon is massive – 4-5 miles long and at least 3-4 across. The water is blue green. Enormous white sandbanks are strewn everywhere across the middle at low tide, with crescent shaped pools of pale blue shallow water between them. Here and there we find sea urchins lurking in the sand, some of them very big. These are beautiful creatures, a deep burgundy colour which glows just like good wine in the watery light filtering through the shallow pools.

We cycle on a few yards and hide our bikes under mangrove trees. Few people are willing to penetrate a mangrove thicket and we feel confident we can leave our bikes, clothes and money here without it being stolen. (Not that there are more than a dozen people in view across the whole expanse of the lagoon. But we don’t want to have to pay compensation for missing bikes….).

We change into our bathers and walk across the sand to the nearest deep-looking pool. Some of the sand, exposed to the sun for several hours, is almost too hot to walk on. We pick up a starfish and examine it; we do biology lessons on shells. We reach deeper water and swim to our hearts’ content. There is a group of Italians from one of the expensive resorts close to us, but they have finished in the water and we are the only bathers as far as the eye can see.

The tide has started to come in, and fast. We have left our towels and sandals on a sandbank which is now only half as big as when we arrived. In fact, we have to walk a circuitous route back to the bikes because in one place where we paddled through ankle deep water, the tide has come in so far that there’s a sizeable boat moored in the middle.

Changed and covered up against the sun we try to find somewhere to get a drink. The little bar serving the Italians isn’t interested, so we go back to where the road ends and find a shady bar with a panoramic view. Two Italian couples are tucking into endless plates of seafood; spare plates piled high with spent crab carapaces and claws surround them and still the cooks are bringing out more and more seafood. We, the poor relations, just have a cold coke. The barman can’t make us out. Where are we from?, why are we here? The question he really wants to ask is “Why are you two lovely girls with this old man?” so he has to go a convoluted way to get his answer. I suppose some people think I’m a sex tourist who has picked up the two young women, or at very least a “suga daddi”. We tell him the truth and you can see that he only half believes us. You don’t get many VSO volunteers in this remote place!

Next we pedal our bikes back to our hut. We can’t return via the beach because the tide’s too far in, and in any case it’s quicker by the main road. We return tired out, very overdone with the sun, but pleased with ourselves. We’ve done about 25k which might not seem much in England but in 90 degree heat and almost total humidity is some exercise. Soraya is aching all over; it’s probably the longest distance she’s cycled ever.

Rachael is nowhere to be found until we try the bar on stilts; there she is with her fag, her novel (second one; she’s finished the first) and a glass of wine. Go Rachael, you’re a cool lady!

Our reward for all our exercise is a swim in the hot seawater – the tide’s almost fully in at our hut. The mud on the sea bed turns into a silky smooth paste when the tide comes in; it’s almost like flour paste, but not unpleasant to walk on.

We eat well again – octopus in spices and coconut sauce; rice cooked in coconut milk and loads of fresh fruit. We amble down to the bar for a quick drink and have an early night.

Unfortunately during the night it becomes clear that my bed and Rachael’s have bedbugs in them (first time in all my stay in Africa that I’ve been affected). I live with it but Rachael’s so badly bitten that in the middle of the night she gets up, wakes up the guest house manager and makes him unlock another room for her to sleep in. It’s a pity; the bugs are the only jarring note in what has come to be an absolutely idyllic spot. Soraya and Épi are sharing a double bed and have no problems at all, so it’s just two of us who are unlucky.

Pictures for November 5th

2009-11-17T07:56:00.007+02:00

Dawn colours.

Sunrise over the Indian Ocean.

Ngalawa outrigger fishing canoe on the beach at Bwejuu.

The beach and the beach bar.

Our own beach with barely another person in sight.

Bwejuu village scene.

Fresh coconuts, anyone?

Our paradise beach at high tide.

In which we have a lazy day by the beach, meet ghost crabs and plastic Masai

2009-11-17T07:55:00.001+02:00

November 5th

My phone alarm goes off at 5.30 but it takes me a good five minutes to find it, hidden under some of Rachael’s things. The reason I have set it is that I want to get some pictures of sunrise over the ocean. Nature duly obliges; the tide is fully in with the water lapping underneath the piles holding up the nearby bar. The sun rises from the ocean and I manage to frame it in one of the ngalawa outrigger fishing canoes conveniently tied up near out hut. Soraya comes out, too, and between us we collect quite an impressive collection of moody pictures. We had anticipated a cloudless sky, but instead we get some rather ragged clouds which set off the sunrise even better.

A few people are already up and about and enjoying the dawn, but the impressive thing about the beach at Bwejuu is how empty it remains. For most of the time we have the entire beach to ourselves.

A few “plastic Masai” are wandering along the sand. They look completely out of place dressed in their robes – trainers, socks half way up their calves, shorts, and a plaid shawl which always contains a lot of red. Some have shaven heads, some have pony tails. Some wear designer sunglasses which looks odd against the ethnic robes. Some of them may be proper Masai from Kenya; others are more likely to be locals trying to imitate them. They are everywhere on Zanzibar. Some of them earn their living as guards, others by having tourists pay to take their pictures; others run craft stalls up in the north of the island.

Soraya and I go back to bed and laze for a while. Today is a rest day. Breakfast is eventually served inside our thatched hut on the beach, punctuated by the occasional thud of a falling coconut. All over the hut floor there are strange marks in the sand. At first I wonder if it is lizards, or snakes, or even scorpions. But the reality is much more mundane. They’re bigger versions of the tracks made by our ghost crabs from yesterday. The solid looking sandy beach is riddled with crab burrows; they come out to feed during the hours of darkness when they’re safer from the lines of birds which wade in the surf looking for what they can scavenge. There are at least two kinds of heron and various terns which congregate in big flocks and scatter at our approach as if someone has flung a handful of stones across the waves.

We laze in the shade for most of the day. The only problem at Bwejuu is that that the tide goes a long way out, too far to walk to the sea, and at the edge of the sand is a wide area of sticky mud. I try wading into it but in seconds I’m up to mid calf and I don’t fancy getting stuck in the mud as the tide’s coming in. The sand is littered with thousands of tiny pools. In every pool there are little cowrie shells about an inch and a half long. And in virtually every cowrie there’s a hermit crab. I pick up some of the shells and put them in my pocket to bring home as souvenirs; but it’s disconcerting to feel something wriggling and struggling in your pocket a few seconds later. The crabs are trying to escape! I set up crab races across the table outside our hut, but have to abandon since I can’t train the damned things to all race in the same direction!

The sea colours are amazing. Far out the water is green; closer to shore it ranges from deep blue to milky. The continual roar of surf out on the reef becomes restful; it drowns out occasional noises like conversation and birdsong and tends to make you sleepy. Far out on the horizon there’s a long string of fluffy white clouds looking as if someone has undone a packet of cotton wool and strung it across the sky. It never gets closer, never builds up into storm clouds, but it’s always there.

Along this beach there are remarkably few papasi or anyone else trying to sell us things, and by nine o’clock even the women desperate to get us to have henna all over our skin have given up and are dozing wherever they can find shade.

Rachael is in a bad way from sunburn; her back and legs are terribly red. She hasn’t been lying out in the sun at all, it is simply the effect of sunlight through the shallow reef water yesterday. She has to take to her bed to read, rehydrate and wait for time to start healing the burns.

By mid afternoon we’re getting itchy feet and set off to explore the village of Bwejuu. There isn’t much to see. As we walk to the village we pass a big building where one of the Stone Town secondary schools seems to be having a field course. They’ve just packed up for the afternoon and Épi, Soraya and I are chatted up by some of the girls. They’re dressed impeccably, swishing through the sand in their long skirts and headscarves, but they chatter and giggle just like their English equivalents.

There’s not much to see in the village. We find a shop to buy water and some sweets including a lovely “dulce de coco” (coconut, sugar and just enough fat to bind it all together. Very addictive and definitely fattening). In the village we see several of what we think are raised rabbit hutches, but they turn out to be dovecots. The doves (pigeons) are a reserve source of food if fishing is bad. Life here is hard, but at least everywhere seems to have electricity. At one end of the village there’s a deep well, but we’ve already discovered that the tap water here is decidedly brackish.

There’s a couple in the hut next to us who have hired bikes for the day. We chat to them and decide we’ll also hire bikes tomorrow and cycle to Chwaka lagoon at the tip of the Michamvi peninsula. The couple give us an idea of what we should expect to pay for the bikes (i.e. the starting price and what is really acceptable) and we find this sort of information a Godsend.

We eat in our breakfast hut, under the stars, with fish freshly caught during the day. (Soraya goes for octopus). The rice is cooked with coconut milk, and fish is simply delicious in coconut sauce with the subtlest of spices. Not hot chilli-style, but subtle and pungent and really, really enjoyable. And to follow we’re given more fresh fruit than we can cope with.

By the time we finish eating we can’t be bothered to go to the bar for a drink. We sit and chat about all the children’s books we’ve had or used. The sea breeze is now very strong, too powerful for mosquitoes. We sleep without nets and Rachael and I are surprised to find we have been bitten quite seriously by morning.

To have a beach this extensive and perfect with so few people is just amazing. It’s like being on our own personal desert island.

Pictures for November 4th

2009-11-17T07:44:00.010+02:00

Waiting to board our boat to Changuu Island.

Heading off to the island.

Changuu Island. Not a bad spot to be marooned....

This Aldebaran tortoise definitely has a personality.

Rachael comes face to face with a stroppy teenager

No Epi; you can't take him home with you....

The sea view from Changuu Island

A daladala from the outside

Inside our daladala to Bwejuu

In which we discover the wonders of coral reefs, cuddle tortoises and try daladalas

2009-11-17T07:43:00.001+02:00

November 4th

Breakfast on the roof as usual. The sky is beginning to cloud over but even at seven in the morning you need to be wearing sunscreen. We pack up our kit, settle our hotel bill and arrange to leave our bags in a room at Flamingo. We’re getting real problems with money - all our notes are in 10,000 shilling bills whereas very few Zanzibaris seem to have enough change on them. Off we breeze through the Old Town towards the harbour. On the way we pass a secondary school; pupils are sitting chanting out loud. After my village primaries in the middle of the banana fields it feels funny to encounter a school surrounded by houses and with absolutely no playground of any sort. (We’ve met this on the two previous days – when its break time pupils slip out into the streets and sit in groups on the benches at the edges of the alleys). We notice many signs are in French – why? Zanzibar was never a French colony and isn’t French speaking in any part.

Lounging outside the Old Customs House is one of the boat touts we were pestered by yesterday, but we think his prices are likely to be more reasonable than the others and we spend ten minutes or so haggling with him. (I decide it’ll be more effective if I step back and let the girls do the negotiating). In the end we agree 10,000 shillings for a return trip to Changuu Island and hire of four sets of snorkelling gear. One of the tricks here is to assume an exchange rate of 1 dollar = 1000 shillings. That may be convenient to remember but the actual exchange rate is 1320 to the dollar, and we find we get much better deals if we pay in shillings. The Zanzibaris, on the other hand, all want us to pay in dollars. Everything takes time to negotiate; they’ll start bidding in dollars and at a ridiculously high rate. We’ve then got to make them convert into shillings and then beat them down to something we think is bearable.

None of these people seem to own the boats or the kit; they set themselves up as experts but as soon as you arrange anything with them they have to rush off and arrange to hire the boat and kit from somebody else. It’s all a bit nerve wracking until things finally start to happen.

Our boat is a long wooden hulled affair with a semicircular faded orange canvas awning to keep the sun off. There are many similar boars in the harbour at Stone Town and at any time of day you’ll see them motoring past.

We load up and set off for the island. The trip takes about twenty minutes. We can see the island from Stone Town harbour; it looks suitable tropical; with white sandy beaches, green trees in the interior and lovely blue sea all around it. We weave our way through the commercial boats anchored off the port and enjoy getting a different perspective of the built up area from out to sea. Our marker points are, as always, the towers of the House of Wonders, the catholic cathedral with its two spires and the slender minaret of the main mosque.

The water is beautifully clean and clear even close in to the harbour. We pass dozens of young crabs swimming energetically on the surface of the water. I have no idea why they are swimming when they could crawl along the sea bed, and why they should want to be on the surface where they must be vulnerable to birds. We scoop one or two out of the water to look at them. Their bodies are a couple of inches across; as soon as we put them back into the sea they flail their arms like a mechanical toy and scoot off towards Unguja Island. Who knows where they’re heading and why?

Nearer the island, as the water gets shallower, we start seeing starfish on the bottom. Beautiful olive green creatures, with orange or white lumps along the top. Again, we scoop one up as soon as we reach shallow water. I’m used to fossil starfish but this is the first time I’ve ever been able to really have a good look at a live specimen. The hundreds of tube feet along each arm are amazing machines and we watch them extend and retract. (An interest in biology is one of the professional threads all four of us have in common). As with the crabs, as soon as we release the starfish into the water it rights itself (it had landed wrong way up) and moves away from us with remarkable alacrity. I had always imagined starfish as sluggish creatures; this particular specimen is definitely a turbocharged model!

Also close in to Changuu island the sea is full of tiny fish, dull coloured but present in enormous numbers. The sandy bottom is littered with plant remains – dead leaves, bits of branches, coconut fragments. The sand itself is gorgeous; as soft as silk and the kind of white you only thought you’d see in tourist posters. As at Dar, the sand is studded with broken pieces of shells, mostly white scallops, and with small pieces of coral set loose from the surrounding reefs.

I’m expecting us to be dropped on the beach and to snorkel out towards the sea, but instead we drop anchor a hundred yards out into the water and we realise we’re going into deeper water over the side of the boat. Tugging on flippers we drop ourselves into the water and get adjusted to our equipment.

I have to come clean and say I’m a coward and a failure at snorkelling. I quickly get water into my snorkel tube and start coughing and choking, at which point I decide to dispense with the tube and mask and concentrate on swimming. The water is warm and even in this deeper section I can see the bottom. I also have to leave my glassed in the support boat, and without glasses my vision is very limited, especially under water. However, all is not lost. I’m happy swimming under water and popping up for breath whenever necessary, and I discover the extra push that my flippers gives me makes swimming ever so easy.

Even better, within a few metres the water gets dramatically shallow and I’m swimming over the most beautiful live coral reef. It really does look like a garden, as all the text books say. I swim forwards and backwards and dive down to get close looks at brain coral, fan coral and stag horn types in all colours from pink through white to emerald green, as well as every imaginable shade of beige. In places the water is so shallow that I run aground and have to carefully, carefully ease myself back out into deeper water without damaging the fragile corals.

The sea is never cold; occasionally there is a bubble of cold water which chills me but just as quickly there will be another little burst of warm sea to cheer me up. We can stay in the water for a long time without feeling cold or tired.

Some of the corals look so delicate that I wonder how they can survive in the rough and tumble of waves. Others are massive and look like ramparts of stone, a form of underwater castle. Épi yells that she’s seen an angel fish and decides to follow it as it lazily meanders around the reef looking for food. Rachael gets her head down and swims further and further away, every few feet discovering some even more beautiful section of the reef.

Sometimes the sunlight is refracted by the seawater to give thousands of rainbow hued haloes around the corals. The colours and textures are simply stunning. This is the first time I’ve ever swum next to live coral, and even with poor eyesight it’s a defining experience.

I’m not expecting the reef to be so uneven. At one point the water is so shallow there isn’t room to swim over the reef; then in a matter of inches you’re in deep water. The reef balloons outwards in places and is rarely flat or even for more than a few centimetres.

We swim, we rest in the boat, we jump back in the water and time after time we want to get back into the sea and have yet another look at the reef. Rachael is like a mermaid, somewhere far away in the distance visible only to the crewman in the boat. Soon we’re joined by other boats (we were the first of the day which is always nice), and lo and behold Jenny turns up in one of them. Out on the main reef fishermen are working their way slowly in other boats, standing up in their canoes and balancing nets in an impressive feat of co-ordination.

I lie on my back and survey the surroundings. The sky, the sea, the sand – it really could have come from one of the TV travel shows or wall posters advertising paradise. We’ve certainly come a long way from Rwanda and the grinding poverty of everyday African life. Curiously enough one thing that seems to be missing is seabirds. There are very few, especially when you consider the number of little crabs and tiny fish they could be feeding on. Presumably there are even better picking somewhere close by.

When Rachael eventually rejoins us we land on the island and immediately feel we’re walking into a furnace. In the thirty seconds it takes us to cross the beach and reach shade, I can feel my shoulders have been burnt. The sun really is that strong. We have to pay an entrance fee to land on Changuu (it’s privately owned), and are admitted to the Aldebaran tortoise sanctuary. The beasts are impressive. Second in size only to the Galapagos tortoises, these animals were hunted to the brink of extinction. Those we see here are the offspring of a pair given as presents to Zanzibar in the 1920s and added to at intervals ever since. Even on Changuu the creatures are not safe; turtle flesh is such a delicacy and there are so many hungry people around that even with the most high tech protection some of them disappear each year. But at least the numbers are stable. The tortoises have a high, domed shell with very distinctive hexagonal bosses whose edges form concentric patterns. They have sharp beaks but don’t usually attack people. They’re more interested in eating spinach and other grasses; we’re each given a handful of tortoise food and dutifully go and find a specimen who looks hungry. (How can you tell if a tortoise is hungry? They don’t exactly run up to you or sit up and beg!). There are natural lagoons of dubious looking water for the tortoises to keep themselves cool. The ground is littered with tortoise poo. Every few feet we find yet another photo opportunity and soon come to realise that even these lumbering creatures have personalities. This one looks spaced out; that one’s positively coquettish. The girls are allowed to hold a small tortoise; a mere teenager of fifteen years or so who hisses and displays all the reptilian “am I bovvered?” expression he can muster. We learn that if you stroke the backs of their necks the tortoises enjoy it and extend their heads as far as they will go.

Changuu island is flat. It is made up of pure coral but somehow there is enough soil and humus in cracks and fissures among the grey rock to support a dense cover of trees. The whole place is rarely more than about ten feet above high tide level; in stormy weather the air must be full of salt spray from the reef, so I marvel at the sheer quantity and variety of vegetation which is thriving here. There’s plenty of bird life in the trees and even some small antelope (so we’re told – we never see any of them). The island was used to site a prison but it was never used; instead it became a quarantine centre when severe yellow fever attacks devastated mainland Africa. Now the old prison building is part of a luxury hotel, with villas dotted around the coastline and blending into the woods.

We sail back to the mainland and take, predictably, several wrong turnings before finding our way back to our hotel. We end up in Creek Street, the main road running along the edge of Stone Town’s old part, and accidentally discover the place where we need to get transport out to the east of the island this afternoon.

Our “Rough Guide” says the last bus to Bwejuu leaves around two in the afternoon; by the time we read this it’s already after two. So we catapult ourselves back to the bus station and find a bus about to leave. (Our Rough Guide dates from 2006 and is wrong about the buses; they leave at regular intervals right up until dusk. But we didn’t know that at the time).

Buses on the island are called daladalas. They are Japanese built delivery vans converted so that they carry passengers. They are completely different from Rwanda’s matatas and much less comfortable. There is a “U” shaped hard wooden bench running along the sides and front of the luggage section, so that passengers face each other inwards into rows, with a few facing out towards the back of the bus (see photos). The sideways seats are the best because you catch the breeze as the bus is moving. The ceilings are usually covered with the kind of brightly covered adhesive fabric that kitchen tablecloths used to be made of, and there’s usually a grab rail. The ceilings are low, and the supporting ribs calculated to brain me every time we go over a road hump (i.e. about every mile).

The rascally conductor asks me for 5000 fare; I know this is miles too high so I laugh in his face and walk away. Within three paces the fare has come down to 2000, and we pay. (We later discover the correct fare is 1500 but the difference is less than 30p in English money; it’s the principle that matters). To the convoyeur that he successfully manages to fleece the tourists, and to us that we feel we’re beating him down to a reasonable level.

We’re armed with delicious sesame seed biscuits we’ve bought in town; while we’re eating these the daladala races back and forth through Stone Town picking up goods at various points and the odd extra passenger. Daladalas are used as delivery vehicles on Zanzibar much more so than in Rwanda and will pull into people’s front drives if it saves lugging heavy baggage a few yards. We pass the same roundabout at least three times; we know it’s the same roundabout because there’s a cow wandering around it looking out of place. This could be Bombay as much as Zanzibar. There’s no grass for it to eat on the roundabout, and traffic is surging in all directions. But nobody seems in the slightest bothered; nobody comes to claim the cow.

By the time we finally set off the roof is laden with five sacks of Vietnamese red rose rice, a massive sack of cassava flour, about six sacks of charcoal, a basket of chickens, a bicycle, several dozen planks of hardwood, many drums of cooking oil and a few hands of bananas.

We’re so tightly jammed into the passenger compartment that we cushion each other against the worst of the bumps. The convoyeur rides on the tailboard, but every time we pass a police checkpoint he has to squeeze inside and try to give the impression the bus isn’t overloaded. And we are most definitely overloaded. At one place the policeman looks dubious, whereupon one of the women passengers reaches into her bag, pulls out a couple of packets of biscuits and hands them to the policeman and his sidekick. Needless to say, we are allowed to pass without further ado. I hope the woman deducts the cost of the biscuits from the fare she pays the convoyeur.

Just about everyone on the bus is Muslim; all eye contact with us is avoided, especially by the women.

Once we leave the conservation part of Stone Town the buildings become the usual straggly mix of shops, houses, junkyards and factories all thrown among each other. It’s a relief to get properly out of the town and into the real countryside of Zanzibar. My golly, what a contrast. This is real rural poverty. The land is flat – in the 50km from Stone Town to Bwejuu we rarely rise or fall more than a couple of feet. Some difference from Rwanda – Kigali to Gitarama is also 50km but involves thousands of feet of climbing and descending before you arrive! The land is covered with low scrubby trees; they can’t be original forest but as with Changuu island the vegetation seems surprisingly luxuriant. At one point we go round the edge of one of the few pieces of natural woodland left on the island, and the variety and density of plants are amazing. There is almost no surface water; we rarely pass any stream.

The road twists and turns and we spend much time driving up little lanes to drop off people and goods before retracing out steps to the “main road” and going further. Our cargo of timber turns out to be for a building extension in a posh report. Our sacks of rice and oil and cassava are for a secondary school near the east coast.

The villages along the east coast are all built of coral stone. They are grey and dull looking; houses are thatched with coconut palm. The “soil” in these villages is almost pure sand. We can understand them as fishing places but surely they can’t be trying to grow food crops in pure sand?

We’ve decided we want to stay at “Robinson’s Place” because it has such a good write up in the “rough Guide”. We tell the convoyeur and he drops us at the end of a grey, stony lane disappearing through scrub in the general direction of the sea. We trudge wearily in the heat and dust until we come to both the sea, and a line of guest houses along the shore. We can hear the constant roar of surf on the reef far out to sea. “Robinson’s Place” is either full or doesn’t like the look of us, so we carry on and strike lucky at “Shells”, our third choice. We negotiate a room (they have only three beds in their biggest room but there’s space to fit in a fourth and that’s just what the owner does very quickly for us).

This place is special. We’re sleeping in a hut on the beach itself. The room has a fan, mosquito nets, and we have our private shower and washbasin (albeit without any kind of curtain separating them from the sleeping area. Discretion is required….). The eating place is a palm thatch hut even further out onto the beach; at high tide in the early morning the waves are lapping barely ten feet from our breakfast and barely twenty paces from our beds. And all this for 10,000 shillings a night plus breakfast (in English terms about £5 a night).

By now it’s too late to swim; we haven’t eaten properly since breakfast and we’re all starving. We eat nearby at the “Princess Diana” restaurant run by Rashid, a kindly Omani. The food costs each of us about the same as our lodgings for the night, but it’s proper food. Wonderful Omani spices. We sample Konyagi, the local gin (tastes exactly the same as Ugandan Waragi to me).

As we walk along the sand the few paces back to our hut, the full moon is rising above the Indian Ocean. Little things are scuttling along the beach; they are ghost crabs, almost transparent and they leave very characteristic markings as they scuttle sideways through the sand before disappearing into their burrows for safety.

There’s a stiff sea breeze coming from the ocean. We don’t need to use the fan because the air in the hut is fresh, and we’re not bothered by mosquitoes. Quite literally we’re lulled to sleep by the swash of waves on the beach and the distant rumble of surf on the reef. There’s no other noise at all. We really have found paradise.

Pictures for November 3rd

2009-11-16T09:46:00.024+02:00

The "House of Wonders" - the biggest and best house in Zanzibar.

The Omani fort seen from the outside.

An old palace by the waterfront. The sultans lived pretty well here with several palaces close together; in a few cases there were bridges linking them so that the palace dwellers wouldn't have to mingle with the common people in the streets.

Forodhani Gardens by daylight.

Typical street in Stone Town. You can see why scooters are the favourite form of transport!

View from the battlements of the Omani fort.

"Tingatinga" and Maasai paintings are for sale everywhere. Some of the tingatinga pictures are lovely, but we'd have difficulty getting them home undamaged with our rucksacks.

Many houses need shoring up while they wait to be restored.

Zanzibari apples on sale at a street corner. Funny taste; a bit astringent; rather cotton woolly! Cleans your mouth out, though, on a hot day!

One of the most persistent requests from female papasi was to get ourselves henna'd. Rachael had her hand done.

A very poignant place - the slave memorial in the cathedral grounds, Stone Town.

I thought this face on the slavery memorial was particularly beautiful.

Stone Town cathedral, with a minaret from one of the biggest mosques alongside.

Epi measures up a shark's jawbones and teeth for size.

We were eating ice creams at a cafe next to the sea when in the space of a few minutes a whole series of dhows came past.

The doors of Stone Town

2009-11-16T09:24:00.008+02:00

Zanzibar's Stone Town is rightly famous for its old wooden doors. They are intricately carved, and most of the decorations have some form of religious or cultural significance. We found them very beautiful and took lots of pictures. Here is a sample.

An example with Indian symbols. We never found out the significance of the leaves; can any reader help, please?

A beautiful example with Arabic script above. Can anybody email me to tell me what the script is saying, please?

The doors at the "House of Wonders" are simply enormous.

At this door (of a craft shop) the owner was just arriving as we passed. he left the door closed so we could take pictures and then invited us in to show us his Aladdin's cave of beautiful fabrics and objets.

Some old tramp spoiling the view of the door....

The spikes on some doors are of Indian origin. We are told that in ancient India elephants were used as battering rams to break down doors during seiges. The spikes, if long enough and sharp enough, prevented the elephants getting to the doors. (But there aren't any elephants on Zanzibar....)

Young girls at the door to Tippu Tip's house

In which we discover the murky past of Zanzibar

2009-11-16T09:23:00.000+02:00

November 3rd

This morning we have a lie in and while we’re lazing in bed decide that we’ll spend today exploring Stone Town. Breakfast at the Flamingo Hotel is on the roof, among the drying sheets and towels. From the roof we have a panoramic view over the corrugated iron tops of Stone Town’s houses. It reminds me a bit of Jerusalem from the roof of the Austrian hostel – the same ramshackle collection of roofs, and added-on bits to the backs of each building. The skyline is blotted by endless TV dishes, black water tanks, and dodgy looking electric wiring. Zanzibar town wasn’t designed to be seen from above, and above all else what you get is a sense of the intricate jumble of buildings, all added to in random fashion over many years.

Our hotel seemed empty when we arrived yesterday, but overnight it has filled with snoring Sri Lankans in the room next to ours (hooray for the ceiling fan which drowns out their snores), a Swiss couple, a few other Brits and sundry Americans. Ali, the owner, is wonderfully laconic. To say he’s a man of few words is like saying Mount Everest is a fairly high place. And he rarely registers any emotion, either. You get the feeling that in his time at the Flamingo he’s seen it all, and nothing remains to amuse or excite him.

We set off through the old town and take lots of pictures. Ngome Kongwe, the proper name for the old Omani fortress, is just a hollow shell with a grassy space inside, occupied in one corner by the ubiquitous craft stalls. Épi wants to go to the bank, but there’s a huge queue and we abandon for the time being. We look at Beit al-Ajaib, the “House of Wonders”, the biggest building in old Stone Town, and certainly the tallest. Built by one of the Sultans but to a design by a British marine engineer, it is like a stretched version of one of the grand ante-bellum houses of the American South. Cast iron pillars give balconies all the way round; a huge clock tower soars into the sky. The doors are simply enormous, about twenty feet high, and designed to impress and intimidate visitors. The doors of Zanzibar are famous; in the House of Wonders they are studded with dozens of pointed brass decorations. The story has it that these spikes are of Indian origin and were designed to repel attacks using elephants as battering rams. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to people that there are no elephants on Zanzibar to use as war machines, but the concept has certainly left us some beautiful and original doors.

We decline to go inside the place (it is a museum; the view from the top is supposed to be worth the entrance fee but we decide it’s more important for us to visit all the other places in the town than spend a lot of time on just one). We mooch along the shore road to the Big Tree, meanwhile being hassled by papasi who want us to book a snorkelling trip with them to Chunguu Island, a mile or so offshore. We’re not in the market for snorkelling today, but it puts an idea into our heads for tomorrow morning.

We come back through the alleys, stopping at a restored coffee house en route. Here, by chance, we meet our German friends from last night. Stone Town’s a small place when you come to explore it. I try spiced chai instead of coffee – peppery and very reddish coloured, but interesting in the heat. We take lots of pictures of the decorative doors along the streets, and there are some extraordinarily beautiful houses – five or six floors, every one with balconies and exquisite decoration. My absolute favourite is a big blue painted one right in the middle of town.

Eventually we navigate ourselves to the Anglican cathedral. The reason we’ve come here is because the cathedral stands on the site of the last slave market in Zanzibar. We have a guided tour which quickly reduces us to silence. The slave trade on Zanzibar was quite different from that in West Africa. The slavers were either Arabs or Africans. The slaves were mainly women and children. The destination of these slaves was the Arab countries along the Red Sea and Persian Gulf, and as far as India (Goa). Slaves were stored below ground in almost total darkness, shackled together in dungeons so cramped that I couldn’t stand fully upright even in the highest part. This part of Stone Town used to flood at high tide, and a noxious mixture of seawater, sewage and who knows what else would be flowing around the wretched people as they waited their fate. Only the strongest survived. In the cathedral itself the altar stands on the site of a pillar where male slaves were whipped to ascertain their hardiness. Men who bore their lashing without flinching proved their strength and commanded higher prices.

I don’t much like the cathedral; it seems ponderous and clumsy. At the entrance there is a set of marble pillars which were installed upside down, with the capitals at the bottom and the pediments above. Behind the altar are a set of brass panels depicting figures from the old testament and book of revelation. Their names are in Swahili but our guide points out a few mis-spellings. The cathedral was the work of Bishop Steere, who made his name by translating the bible into Swahili. An energetic man and undoubtedly one who was implacably opposed to the continuation of slavery by the sultan (the British prohibition mere drove the trade (literally) underground for a final twenty years or so), it is double unfortunate that even on his gravestone there is a mis-spelling…..

Just outside the cathedral, in the tiny close, is the slave memorial. This is profoundly moving. A rectangular pit has been dug in the ground to symbolise the underground slave chambers. Four figures carved from the local coral stone represent the slaves themselves; their faces beautifully expressive. Around their necks are iron shackles actually found in one of the slave chambers after emancipation. Slavery brought enormous wealth to some people on the island, but at enormous cost to those taken from the mainland. Tippu Tip, the most notorious trader of all, made expeditions as far inland as the Congo in search of human cargo. I don’t think he went into Rwanda; the mountainous terrain would be a very real deterrent. It feels ironic that, after enriching ourselves from the triangular trade with West Africa, it should be England which effectively forced the Arabs and Africans to stop trading in their own people in East Africa.

We have lunch in the cathedral restaurant; there is also a guest house (St Monika’s) at the cathedral, some of whose rooms stand vertically above the slave chambers. Who knows what ghosts roam this little plot of Zanzibar by night…. While we’re eating there’s a heavy rainstorm outside which cools the atmosphere and makes the afternoon more pleasant for exploring around the town. We go into the Shangani quarter and try to do the sights systematically. There’s “Africa House”, the former English Club, now staffed by uniformed servants as an upmarket hotel. The terrace is one of the places in Zanzibar to watch the sunset, gin in hand, but we’d have needed a fortnight in Stone Town to do all the sights the guidebook recommends. Nearby is the quaintly named “Suicide Alley”, containing some bars which are real dives, and other places lovingly restored as top class hotels. There’s also the slaver Tippu Tip’s old house, very grand but gently decaying. It is still used as a dwelling house, with a family installed on each floor. We seem to have split up as a group at this point, and I find myself alone, chatting to a beautiful Zanzibari girl on the steps of the house. Not all the locals are veiled up and shy away from strange men…..

On the edges of the alleys are raised benches, not continuous, which are used as seats in dry weather. They are usually lined with people taking shade from the sun, catching the sea breezes which waft up and down the lanes, and watching the world go by while they chat to each other. We foreigners must be an endless source of both fascination and frustration to them.

There are no gutters or drains in these alleys (they are too narrow), and rainwater collects in the centre in deep puddles. After rain the benches along the alley sides become raised pavements; you have to time your strides to be able to jump the gaps from one to the next. And if you are a Moslem women you have to do all this while raising your skirt just enough to keep it out of the wet but also preserving your modesty!

Coming together again we visit the Serena hotel, the former cable and wireless offices and terminus of one of the original undersea telephone cables across the Indian Ocean, now a top class place to stay with a terrace garden looking across the sea. We are allowed to visit, and see how the other half stays! We find a place selling Italian ice cream and succumb, sitting right on the edge of the sea. There is no wind; the sea is calm and oily and almost silver in colour. Drooping coconut branches frame our view, and from time to time a dhow sails past just begging to be photographed as it crosses the sun. Next door some local lads are kicking a ball around on a scrap of beach between houses. We look round some excellent craft and souvenir shops and decide we’ll do at least a half day’s hard shopping when we return at the end of our trip. We don’t want to be carrying heavy or bulky or fragile stuff in our backpacks all round the island.

In the evening we go back to Forodhani gardens to eat, but the papasi are so continuous and insistent that it rather spoils things for me. To escape them we head back to the bar we found yesterday, and one of them even pursues us there until we get the management of the bar to drop him a hint.

How can I sum up Stone Town? – people on scooters, not motos; women riding side-saddle in their long dresses. The endless tinkling of bicycle bells along the alleys. The infinite variety of dress among the Muslim women and the sheer number of ways in which wealth or personality can be expressed despite the apparent uniformity and featurelessness of hijab. Beautiful window displays in some shops like jewellers; joyous abandon and randomness in others. The contrast between the uncared for exteriors and spotless interiors of some dwelling houses. Posters advertising competitions for memorising the Koran. The deeply religious Islam of Zanzibari culture (we know that other religions are also here, including Zoroastrians, but they seem to keep a low profile. Even the Hindu houses and temples are restrained). .

We take the plunge and venture off the main alleyways and lose ourselves in the tiniest side streets. Here we find buildings desperately needing restoration; full of people but only held up by wooden shoring. For other buildings it’s already too late, they have collapsed into piles of rubble. It will cost billions and take decades to fully renovate Stone Town, but it must be done and when finished the town will truly one of the most fascinating urban environments in the world. Tourists rarely penetrate this far into the alleys, and we get curious looks from people sitting on the steps of their houses.

We walk Jenny home again. Out at sea there are still dhows under sail, looking ghostly in the moonlight. Cooking smells – curry, spices – waft from houses as we pass. The streets are almost empty. As you reach the “Big Tree” you start hearing the swish of waves on the beach just beyond. Then you get pungent fish smells from the landing stage, and the clangs of the commercial port as ships are unloaded all through the night.

By now we feel we have got themeasure of Stone Town. We love it here but rather than spend another full day doing the sights we decide we’ll go to Chunguu Island and try snorkelling tomorrow morning, and then head off east to the beaches of Bwejuu in the afternoon. We have no fewer than three people thinking they’re taking us to the island, but we can play the touts at their game and we’ll decide at the last moment which person we’re going to use. We’ll be able to spend more time rummaging round the alleys on our return stopover before we catch the catamaran back to Dar.

Pictures for November 2nd

2009-11-16T09:13:00.008+02:00

Typical Stone Town street as seen from our hotel room.

Our room at the hotel Flamingo.

Typical house in Stone Town.

The view from our table at "Archipelago" restaurant.

Perfect sunset.

The food stalls at Forodhani Gardens are unique. If you go to Zanzibar you absolutely MUST come here to eat.

Check out this seafood!

With Rachael and Jenny on the Portuguese cannons at Forodhani Gardens.

In which we become bewitched by Zanzibar within hours of arriving

2009-11-16T09:12:00.001+02:00

November 2nd

Despite the ceiling fan we endure a sticky night. It’s something of a relief to hear the call to prayer coming at about half past five. You hear each mosque individually, often overlapping. Some are tuneful, pleasant, intensely romantic, exotic; others are unmusical, squawky, over amplified, garbled. I’d hate to have to endure this every morning, especially from so many different mosques, but as a one-off experience it’s quite something!

As soon as the sun lifts above the horizon you can feel its heat. Here we are at sea level; we do not have the cool-ness of Rwanda’s mountains to shield us. We breakfast on fruit – pawpaw, bananas, with dubious jam and greasy margarine. There are no windows in the dining room; in fact one of the features of the Econolodge is the way it shuts itself off against direct sunlight. In our room there is a door between us and the balcony in order to shut out the heat. On the stairwells there are small round holes to let enough light in and allow air to circulate, but the place has been built as a defence against the debilitating heat of the full sun. I’ve never been in a building like this before, and I find it fascinating to see how the architecture is adjusted to make full use of the sea breezes which drift up the hot streets from the creek, and to give a sense of coolness against all the glare outside. Even the décor is predominantly white and green, restful against the heat.

We set off into town to look for a shopping mall. Where are the malls when you need them? – we can’t find one for love nor money. We decide to go into one building and ask for directions. Of all the places we could have chosen to ask our way, we find we’ve chosen the Tanzanian Ministry of Labour building……. They are as amused as we are embarrassed! We get conflicting directions from everybody we ask; eventually we agree that we’re running out of time and take a taxi. Of course, it turns out there’s a mall about two hundred yards from our hotel; it just doesn’t seem to be advertised or signposted.

I change my money and get my batteries; Épi gets her headphones; we all buy food for the boat. Back at the hotel we meet up with Rachael. She is a sailor and has spent the morning touring the yacht club to see if anyone wants to give her a free ride to Zanzibar as a crew member on their yacht. Unfortunately she has drawn a blank (the one yacht that was intending to go didn’t have its skipper at hand to ask). Also, the epidemic of piracy off Somalia has stretched far beyond the Horn of Africa and people seem nervous of sailing even as far south as Zanzibar. There are very few private yachts heading this way. So Rachael is coming with us on the catamaran. We touch base with families and friends at the internet café for a while, then head to the harbour. At the ferry office we talk to our friend Bashir again and buy return tickets (we get a small reduction if we buy them here rather than in Stone Town).

The terminal is alive with activity; a ferry has just docked and is unloading; the ticket office is besieged with people buying their fares for the outbound voyage. We get caught by a tout who “leads” us to our boat and the VIP lounge and then demands his tip. The lounge is distinctly empty and very comfortable; my only complaint is that there’s no way out onto deck from it, and the windows are too grimy to make photography very promising. Soraya and Épi aren’t confident sailors and take their seasickness tablets. There’s not much swell in this direction, and we set sail punctually, pass the harbour car ferry and the fish market, pass the beach where we first saw the open sea yesterday, and head out past the dhows and anchored cargo boats into the Ocean. Zanzibar, we’re really on our way now!

The trip takes about two and a half hours; we’re rarely out of sight of land. (Zanzibar is quite a way north of Dar so we follow the coast at a respectable distance; just at the point where we finally lose sight of the mainland coast we start to pick up the outlying reefs and islands and finally the mainland of Unguja – Zanzibar proper. We snooze.

Zanzibar consists of two main islands, Unguja and Pemba, and a mass of smaller islets and reefs. Unguja is the main island and is also called “Zanzibar”, which makes things a tad confusing at times.

There are sandbars of brilliant white coral sand, almost painful to look at in the glare of the sun. Every significant island sprouts coconut palms, and when you get close in you see that as often as not their trunks are curving in that idyllic way you see on the stereotype tourist pictures of tropical beaches. The sea colours range from deep green through every imaginable shade of blue to a milky white. Over the ocean itself the sky is cloudless, a hot blue; over the mainland there are massive banks of cloud.

As we approach Stone Town we start to recognise landmarks from pictures in our “Rough Guide” – the churches, the “house of wonders” a big hospital, the government buildings. The harbour contains boats of all sizes and descriptions from dugout canoes to container ships; there’s even a old Russian cruise ship permanently at anchor. One section of the commercial harbour appears from a distance as a solid wall of containers. All is bustle and constant movement.

Disembarkation is a scrum, and we have to fill out immigration cards and get our passports stamped as we enter Zanzibar. Zanzi is a semi-autonomous country. “Tanzania” is very much a marriage of convenience between two very disparate countries; huge Tanganyika and tiny Zanzibar. The island runs itself in almost all its affairs, although politics on the island are very fractious and become bloody at election times. (Next election is August 2010 so anyone reading this and planning to go next summer – beware!).

As we leave the port area we are pounced on by touts offering us taxis or to guide us to where we want to go, or insisting they know a nice hotel. In the local Swahili these people are known as “papasi” (“ticks”). They’re very persistent and at times can spoil our enjoyment of the island. We have a detailed map of Stone Town; we know where we‘re going, and we make it perfectly clear that we don’t need a guide. Even so, we have first two, then one man who trots along with us and won’t take no for an answer. I assume he’s waiting for us to get lost in the maze of alleyways that make up Stone Town, and then hopes we’ll fall on his services to get us to our hotel. To his dismay, and my surprise, we manage to find our hotel easily. The wretched guy goes away empty handed, but hot after he’s demanded money for doing what we specifically said we didn’t need….

On the way to our hotel we pass “Mercury’s”, a bar dedicated to Freddy Mercury; right on the water’s edge (the dining area is on stilts and at high tide the waves lap underneath you as you eat), and also the “big tree” – an enormous banyan tree on the harbour side. There are dozens of mosques, but they are unostentatious and you could easily pass many of them without realising they are places of worship. (We did this on many occasions). You can’t go into the mosques, but very often the doors are left open to let air in and we can see the carpeted interiors. In the evenings the mosques run quranic schools for children, and one of the commonest evening sights is children running to or from the mosque, or of children sitting cross legged in a circle under bright lights reciting from their Korans.

Stone Town is simply magic. Zanzibar as a whole is where Africa meets Arabia and with a dash of India and Britain (the colonial power) added like spices to a stew. But the old town feels almost entirely Arabic. Streets are so narrow you can’t get cars down most of them. That’s not to say they’re safe; you run a constant risk from bicycles and scooters. Houses are tall. Almost every building is painted off white, often grimy and needing refurbishment. Some houses are in a delicious powder blue. Most places have balconies with delicate filigree carved balustrades in wood or cement, so that womenfolk can take the air without being exposed to the gaze of passing men in the street below. The whole old part of Stone Town is a UNESCO World Heritage site, which means it can’t be disfigured with high rise buildings or ruined by McDonalds etc; and at the same time it means there is some money available for restoration. Where buildings have just been renovated they are simply magnificent: dazzling white paint, orange or teak coloured balconies. But there is way to go with the restoration, and fully renovated buildings are like islands in a sea of neglect. The overall effect reminds me of the old part of Havana. Some buildings are shored up with timber supports. Many have washing hanging on wires strung high above street level. The streets are a mass of tiny shops – jewellers, crafts, but also food. It’s not just a tourist honey pot; people actually live here and there’s a thriving local community.

One downside is that there are few signs telling you the names of streets. A few places have nicknames and are essential waymarks. “TV corner”, just up from our hotel, and “Jaws corner”, nearby, are little squares so named because in previous years people have set up big outdoor TV screens so that the locals could enjoy films. You have to have an accurate map if you need to go anywhere in a hurry, but if you’re prepared to let yourself get lost, then Stone Town becomes really enchanting. No two alleys are ever exactly the same; you discover marvellous little shops hidden away down dingy, narrow, mean looking lanes. Houses sometimes leave their doors open and you get a glimpse into an interior courtyard, sometimes with a fountain or tank of water – very Moroccan.

Everyone except the tourists is dressed Arabic style; some women wear the veil but most don’t. All women wear headscarves and ankle length dresses. Most men wear skullcap hats, often beautifully decorated with intricate lace patterns; many men wear long robes, usually ivory or cream, against the sun. People are friendly and welcoming. It’s almost unheard of to hear “muzungu” and be asked directly for money. Instead you get “jambo” (welcome), to which you reply “sijambo” (no problems). Or “mambo?” (what’s up?) to which you reply “poa”) (cool).

Our hotel, the Flamingo, finds us a four bed room. All is clean and white; we have mosquito nets and a view down along the tiny alley which gives access to the building. The windows have two layers of shutters; the sun is kept out; the air is let in; the room feels cool and welcoming. There’s a fan, and just up the hallway a clean shower and toilet. What more do we need?

The building is interesting; there’s a fountain in the middle courtyard and a central shaft open to the sky and around which the stairs and all the rooms are built. So when it rains the rain comes down the shaft and waters boxes of bedding plants at its edges.

We’re hungry (again); its mid afternoon and we haven’t eaten since breakfast except for a couple of packets of biscuits. We explore the alleys; at first we’re timid and terrified of getting hopelessly lost. (By the time we leave the island we deliberately don’t use the guidebook so that really can get lost and gradually work our way back home). We come to Forodhani Gardens and the Omani Fort – squat, heavy looking walls made of coral ragstone with Arabic-style crenellations along the walkways. The Forodhani gardens are beautiful; they’ve only just reopened after restoration. They are green, peaceful, and tasteful. My absolute favourite spot in Stone Town. They are full of flowers, trees, fountains with running water – exactly the Islamic notion of paradise. And they’re right next to the harbour wall so you get sea breezes all the time, and you sit in the gardens and watch the constant procession of boats and people. Even better, at sunset you watch the sun go down into the sea in one of the most spectacular views Africa can offer. I’m not joking, folks – things don’t get much better than this!

At one side of the gardens there’s a row of old Portuguese cannons facing out to sea; relics from the days of European rivalries which predate even the slave trade.

Just past Forodhani we discover an orphanage built, rather strangely, in the form of a bridge over one of the few roads in Stone Town which can take traffic. We discover an internet café close by and make use of it; we suspect that when we leave Stone Town we won’t be able to make contact very easily so we’re trying to let everyone know we’re here and safe before we venture on. Then we discover a restaurant called Archipelago which looks right out over the harbour. We want to eat in the gardens later on, so we just take drinks. I discover the local version of ginger beer called Stoney Tangawizi which is very gingery and certainly wakes you up after a doze in the afternoon heat! A few yards from us is the seam. Fishing boats are being moored; children are cooling off by swimming in the harbour; right next to where we’re sitting there are coconut palms, laden with fruit, their branches swaying and rustling in the breeze. What’s more difficult to describe to you are the colours – everything is so vivid. Greens of the plants, blues of the sea; bleached white sky, and all the other colours of people’s clothes, the boats, the buildings. We haven’t been in Zanzibar more than four hours and already all four of us have fallen in love with the place. That’s what it does to you.

The sun sets, and we take pictures of it sinking into the ocean. We get the shot everybody wants with the red sun sinking into the sea as a dhow, under sail, crosses the horizon; in the foreground people are playing in the waves and the surf is breaking on a coral beach. I tell myself I must remember that image in the dank, dreary drizzly dusk of Dorset in December!

As soon as it’s properly dark, the Forodhani gardens come to life. People descend on it from all directions. Tables are set up, lanterns and barbecues lit, and within half an hour you have possibly the best open air eating place in the world. Table after table is groaning under delicious collections of every kind of seafood you can imagine. Squid, calamares, octopi, lobsters, crabs, prawns, other shellfish, tuna, barracuda, shark, bluefin, marlin all cubed on kebabs. Elsewhere men are rolling lengths of sugar cane through presses to give fresh cane juice (mixed with lemon – it’s delicious). There are spicy and aromatic sauces everywhere. You can have omelettes, pizzas. If you don’t like fish there is meat and sausage, but in reality Zanzibar is a fish eater’s paradise, and all four of us are desperate to get some good fish after two years of tilapia and sambasa back in Rwanda!

We buy, we eat. Soraya overdoses on calamares; I explore some of the exotic fish kebabs. Some of us are degenerate and indulge in banana and chocolate pancakes…. We all eat more than we should and certainly allow ourselves to be charged more than we should. There’s no alcohol on sale openly, but if you ask at one of the little soft drinks sellers they can magic a bottle of beer out of nowhere for you. Not me; I’m enjoying my sugar cane cocktail.

We get absolutely pestered by papasi; part of our problem is that we are trying to keep all our options open and not commit to anything until tomorrow; to the papasi that means we’re available as customers and eventually they spoil our evening with their wheedling. Take my taxi. Come snorkelling with me. Let me show you the dolphins down in the south. I can arrange scuba diving for a good price. And always the same four words “for you – special price”, and it’s always a lie. And they’re all trying to work out my relationship with three beautiful young women…

We go over to the cannons and pose for group pictures; by now we’ve met Jenny who is another American “World Teach” volunteer from America, and whom we met at Jinja last Easter. It shows you how the volunteer community all tend to go to the same places and do the same things; the chances of us bumping into two friends from Jinja here in Stone Town must be vanishingly small, but it has just happened. At the cannons we meet an interesting German couple who have been six years going round the world in a converted Magirus lorry. They have driven across the Sahara, been right through West Africa and even managed to cross through Congo. Now they’re in Zanzibar on their way up the east coast to go through Tanzania, Kenya, and eventually Sudan and Ethiopia. He’s writing a book about his travels; to my shame I seem to have lost the piece of paper on which I wrote his name.

To get away from the papasi (who think nothing of breaking into your conversation to try to sell you shawls or trinkets; I nearly thumped one of them) the Germans take us to a pub. We wander up a dark alleyway, turn left at an unmarked corner and walk to a dead end. In front of us is a door, left ajar. Through the door we enter a wide garden with outside large screen TVs, and divided up into areas with chairs and tables for drinks. We sit under a roof whose central pole is a live palm tree trunk; all around us are coconut palms. We drink and chat. Suddenly there’s a loud thump and the waitress near us squeaks. A large coconut has just fallen from one of the trees and missed her by inches. Now that’s a hazard for bar staff you certainly don’t get in Dorset!

Eventually we decide to call it a night. We say farewell and bon voyage to our German friends, and walk through the deserted, dark alleys to take Jenny back to her hotel (she’s right across Stone Town, near the harbour). Despite dire warnings from papasi about the dangers of going into the darker alleys at night, and hence the need to do everything by taxi, we feel perfectly safe as a group; there is a badly lit and definitely less savoury section as we pass the harbour, but there are too many people around for us to feel vulnerable.

Back in our hotel room we rev up the ceiling fan to maximum speed, unfurl our mozzy nets and climb into bed.

Words can’t do justice to what a wonderful day it has been; we are all so happy to be here at last and to find that absolutely everything is living up to our expectations. After all the restrictions and dourness of Rwanda, Stone Town is simply magic.

Pictures for November 1st

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Beach babe! Soraya is the first to paddle in the Indian Ocean.

The former colonial administration building in Dar es salaam.

The German built cathedral in Dar.

The city centre of Dar es Salaam, seen from the creek.

Unloading the catch at the seaward end of the fish market, Dar. Unloaded, sold, and in some cases cooked and eaten within half and hour!

Dhow sailing off the beach we visited in Dar. (Apologies for blurry image, it was taken through the windows of the ferry).

In which we meet the Indian Ocean for the first time

2009-11-16T09:04:00.001+02:00

November 1st

Dawn breaks somewhere around Morogoro, about four hours after Dodoma and another four hours before Dar. We find ourselves in a hilly area with jagged, blocky peaks tearing holes in surrounding clouds. People we pass are wrapped in blankets against the early morning chill, and smoke from a thousand cooking fires rises from huts in every direction. We pass through an area with enormous sisal plantations stretching as far as the eye can see.

Eventually we have our final stop before Dar; we all decide we need to freshen up and within a few seconds there’s a line of people at the edge of the road cleaning their teeth and spitting into the sudden sunlight. It is already much, much hotter than Gitarama and it’s only about seven in the morning.

Traffic gradually builds up; the road becomes a dual carriageway, and we enter the outskirts of Dar. The international bus terminal at Ubungo is way out of the town centre, and is a maelstrom of people milling around, taxis aggressively trying to force past each other, and endless touts trying to persuade you to buy their produce or get into their taxi or go to a “very nice hotel” (at which the driver will get his commission). We negotiate for a taxi and all four of us are taken to a hotel which Soraya has arranged in advance. The receptionist isn’t quite sure how to allocate us to rooms; there is a room for 3 and a room for 1; she makes the obvious assumption that I’ll have the room for 1, but in reality we haven’t at this stage agreed that Rachael is coming with us so I end up with Épi and Soraya. Tanzania is a profoundly Moslem country, and I’m pleasantly surprised that nobody seems to raise eyebrows at the prospect of me sharing with the girls. It bodes well for our accommodation on Zanzibar, too.

Our beds are squeaky, but there are ceiling fans and after the heat and clamour of Ubungo bus station it is so refreshing to shower and cool down and stretch out on the beds and have a rest. It has taken us 29 hours to reach Dar on the bus from Kigali; by now it is mid day and we want to make full use of the afternoon. We decide we want to find the sea so we set out and walk into the breeze. Sure enough, a few blocks down from our hotel, we come face to face with real tropical sea – Kurasini Creek, otherwise known as Dar harbour. Even here the sea is brilliantly blue and there is a sandy beach at the water’s edge.

Tanzania was a German colony up until the first world war, just like Rwanda, and the evidence is there if you look for it. The old administration building looks Bavarian, and the cathedral shows its Lutheran, rather than catholic, architecture, all glistening white stone and a single, enormous spire piercing the blue sky and competing with the endless minarets of mosques. (Unfortunately any attempt at architectural eloquence is ruined by the proliferation of satellite dishes and the festoons of random electric cables which snake over everything like some form of malignant creepers).

A funny thing – Dar es Salaam is a very Muslim city. Mosques are everywhere, and the calls to prayer ring out every few hundred yards, never quite synchronised, but overlapping in a wave of sound that seems to come from everywhere but nowhere specific. Yet today is Sunday, and most businesses seem to be closed. Why do the Moslems shut up shop on Sunday?

Across the harbour from where we’re standing is the commercial port; big ships are unloading and up to a dozen more are waiting their turn out at sea. Safe harbours are not common in East Africa, and Dar has one of the best in the entire coastline.

Behind us are all the main Government buildings (or at least those which haven’t been transferred to Dodoma). We are at the heart of the original colonial town, and the very place where the first white people landed and settled.

Fortunately we seem to have plonked ourselves right next to the ferry terminal for Zanzibar. We decide to buy our tickets for tomorrow and avoid any last minute queues. As soon as we move we’re pounced on by touts who want to “help” us (i.e. try to negotiate on our behalf and get their commission). There are at least three ferry companies, all using catamarans to go to Stone Town. We’ve been warned off the fast ferry; word has it that it is too bumpy and sick making for comfort. We brush off the hustlers and put our names down for the ferry, saying we’ll return later in the afternoon and pay. (One of our problems is that we need to change money into Tanzanian shillings and everywhere seems to be closed).

We stroll through the full heat of afternoon along the side of the creek. People are living on the streets; the usual unfortunate tide of cripples, beggars, country women with no man and no support, elderly with no family to look after them.

We pass the car ferry that runs across the harbour; there’s a spectacular traffic jam waiting to use it; every car is frying in the heat but people seem remarkably patient. We pass the creekside bus terminal, just like Nyabugogo with matatas jostling each other to gain a few seconds or just that one extra passenger’s fare.

We pass the fish market, with moray eels, octopus and every manner of strange tropical fish laid out to buy. Fish are being landed all the time, and where a new consignment has just come in, people push and jostle each other. The market is new (Japanese sponsored); everything is wet with being hosed down and the whole place reeks of fish. Outside the market are stalls selling freshly fried octopus in a violent red sauce; we decline and decide we’ll wait until we reach Zanzibar before we eat food from street stalls. However, fresh coconuts are a different matter altogether and we drink coconut milk in the shade while we watch fish being fried and other fish being smoked in a far corner of the market.

And every time we move more than two paces someone comes up to us to try to sell us a taxi ride.

We pass the swimming pool, very much a British institution from the 1940s and 1950s; what we’re really looking for is somewhere to eat (we haven’t eaten since our midnight stop at Dodoma and by now it’s past 3 in the afternoon); what we find instead is one of the public beaches. It’s a jaw-dropping moment.

There in front of us is the Indian Ocean. The blue is so vivid it’s difficult to describe and do it justice. The sand is fine, white, and relatively clean. There’s a line of litter at the high tide mark (Dar needs to organise a “beach clean”), and lots of remains of seaweed, pine needles, coconut husks and beautiful conch and cowrie shells. Unfortunately there are bits of coral, too, which means that offshore the reefs are being pulverised by fishing nets or similar. And just occasionally there’s a piece of natural sponge, – something I’ve never seen before but which I know from fossils. Soraya wins the prize for our first paddle in the ocean. Around us children are swimming and playing in the water; families are strolling past to enjoy the sea breeze, or picnicking in shade under casuarinas trees. Out to sea there are big boats waiting to enter harbour, but also I have my first sight of dhows and their lateen sails. Dhows, to me, sum up the exotic-ness of Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar like nothing else can. And here are a dozen or more, some close in and bringing their fish to the market; others far out at sea. The distant dhows have their hulls below the horizon but their sails gleam like jewels in the sun. Their masts slope forwards; their sails can be adjusted in an infinite number of ways to make best use of the wind. They are efficient and beautiful boats. Most of the fishing boats are trimarans, with an extremely narrow hull stabilised by outriggers which themselves are nothing more than vertical planks of wood strapped to the main hull and about six to eight feet away from it. (See pictures in later postings).

It’s too hot to stay long, and we’re hungry, tired and jaded from the long journey, so we don’t linger on the beach. We’re excited because what we’ve just seen exceeds all our expectations of the ocean and its beaches, and we know that Zanzibar will be even better. We take a matata back to the creek side, pay for our tickets for the ferry from a charming man called Bashir who runs the “Flying Horse” ferry terminal (you’ll hear more about him on the return trip), and eventually find a café which is open. With eating sorted, our priorities become changing money, buying replacement batteries for my camera and earphones for Épi’s iPod, and getting food for the ferry journey to Stone Town tomorrow. Unfortunately so many shops are shut that we don’t make headway on any of these things. Not to worry; our ferry doesn’t leave until mid day tomorrow so we have all morning to shop.

So back to our hotel (the “Econolodge”, which sounds dire but turns out to be clean, efficient, and one which I’d certainly recommend to other travellers). We’re on the fourth floor, at the back, with a view of water tanks, satellite dishes, the car park, and high bare walls streaked with mould. And to think of the ocean views we’ve just enjoyed!

As it gets dark Rachael joins us and we go out to find somewhere to eat. Épi’s beyond eating and has crashed out on her bed. We return to the creek side, but decide to walk in the other direction. Surely there must be a nice bar on the water’s edge where we can get a drink? Well, actually, no – there isn’t. We pass the railway station, busiest in Tanzania and a hive of inactivity (I think there are about three or four passenger trains per week). We walk for miles until we find the “Port View Café”. It sounds promising; there is live music coming from inside. We discover the “Port View” is a panorama of oil storage tanks and railway sidings; the harbour itself is in the far distance and you can barely see the sea at all. The music is too loud; the food is pricey and we are being hassled so much to buy their chicken and rice special that we get fed up with the staff. We stay long enough to sample the local beers (i.m.h.o. “Safari” is like Primus; “Kilimajaro” is weaker but still acceptable; “Castle” is more like a stout than a lager), and return to our hotel. We do eventually order food but because we don’t want the full meal they decide not to serve us (but they also don’t bother to tell us that), and there’s a big arguments over change. We encounter for the first time the Tanzanian custom of trying to short change customers by either not giving any change, or not giving enough change, and then playing games by denying it was this particular waitress who served us. It means that very often a pleasant meal out ends in a confrontation over the bill. It’s also not helped by being given 10,000 shilling notes whenever we change money, with local people rarely having enough change. I know we’re rich tourists to them, but it’s squalid and I don’t think the Tanzanians have got any idea just how irritating we find it and how much it puts people off returning to the country. As we’re leaving “Port View”, taxi touts try to frighten us by saying the area is unsafe at night and we need their services, but we reason that people won’t attack three of us together.

Just before our hotel we discover a really lovely restaurant. It’s being patronised by the locals. Food is good (but not particularly cheap), and we decide to eat there. The place is strictly Moslem; there’s no alcohol at all. I have my first encounter with Tanzanian spices and I’m immediately hooked on the local food.

Back in our hotel room we’re still sticky from the heat and humidity. The fan in our room is going flat out; it has a slightly wobbly orbit so every few seconds you get a positive gale washing over you, followed by nothing at all for a minute or so. For some reason the hotel hasn’t given me a top sheet, so I wrap myself in the bottom sheet like a shroud. There’s no mosquito net, either, but there are few insects in the night and those that do try to attack us find it difficult to compete with the ceiling fan.

Despite our squeaky beds we sleep soundly.

Best things about today – I like Dar – its Moslem-ness; its beach. It’s not as ordered or cowed as Kigali but not as strident as Kampala, either. But I already know I’m going to have to adjust to the heat and sticky humidity. If it’s bad in Dar it’ll be even worse on a small island!

Pictures for October 31st

2009-11-16T09:00:00.003+02:00

This inselberg seems to be giving two fingers to passers by!

Huts by the roadside in central Tanzania.

Baobab trees, and parched fields desperate for rain.

In which we escape to Tanzania and start our holiday!

2009-11-16T08:53:00.006+02:00

October 31st

In which we escape to Tanzania and start our holiday!

Today sees me waking up at half past four, sharing a room at the St Paul centre in Kigali with Jason. Yesterday has been a big VSO education meeting with just about everybody who works in schools there, and the new September arrivals are staying on in Kigali for the second part of their in-country training which starts on Monday. So I’m trying, unsuccessfully, to creep around without waking Jason, which is difficult because the way the room is laid out I can’t wash or switch the light on without disturbing him.

I know that I’m going to be spending all day today sitting on a bus, so I decide to walk down to the Nyabugogo depot to get some exercise and stretch my legs. As I walk down the hill dawn is breaking, a grey and wet dawn. It is cold, drizzly – a very English dawn and absolutely not what you’d expect on the equator. Let’s hope Zanzibar is going to offer us something different!

As I descend the hill Épi and Soraya pass me on motos. Half way down the hill there’s been an accident; motos are coming up the hill two abreast in a steady stream, ready to begin business in the city centre. Somehow two have managed to collide; there’s a bike on its side, police taking evidence and a young man sitting in the central reservation clutching his head and no doubt wondering how his day could have started so badly.

We claim our seats on the bus; prime seats right at the front with loads of leg room for me and the best view in the coach out of the front window. There’s even room to stow our rucksacks beside us without cramping our knees. In fact, the bus is nowhere near full which is a real surprise – on the Kampala run every single seat was taken a long time before departure. It turns out that the Dar es Salaam route is more a case of picking up and dropping en route than a true express service from one point to another. We pull out of the bus station, and wait, and wait, and wait, for a late arriving passenger. The late arrival turns out to be a muzungu, and none other than Rachael. Rachael is an American girl (from Montgomery in the Deep South) who is doing a year with “World Teach” in a school in the northern province. We met last year at Jinja in Uganda when we were all doing white water rafting at the same time. She’s more than happy to hang around with us; she has no definite plans for what she’s going to do in Zanzibar, and thus we suddenly become a group of four people which is lovely.

The drive to the Tanzanian border at Rusumo has its moments; today is umuganda and the police aren’t happy with people travelling instead of doing community service. Officialdom has decreed that people who seem to be trying to evade umuganda must be inconvenienced to make the point. Despite our bus having Tanzanian plates and a big sign on the front which advertises it as an international coach service, we are stopped twice and help back just to drive the message home. It’s infuriating but there’s nothing we can do about it. At Rwamagana we’re held for a good fifteen minutes. Our Muslim driver is very patient, and there seem to be at least three other crew members all of whom either try to cajole the police or just stand around and wait until they relent and wave us on. To be fair, they’re also stopping all other vehicles; it’s not just us. We pass Tina’s house at Kibungo and wish she were here with us to enjoy the holiday. We’re all loaded up with biscuits, big bottles of water, and I’ve bought a packet of what are jokingly termed “crunchies” which turn out to be jaw-breakingly hard lumps of fried bread dough. You have to swish them around in your mouth until they soften enough to chew. But at least it’s something to occupy the time and keep hunger at bay – we have no idea how often we’re going to stop for meals en route, and we know we’re on the bus for at least 28 hours!
At Rusumo we walk over the waterfall – very impressive now that the Akagera river is swollen with rains – and march up the hill into Tanzania to get our passports stamped.

Compared with Rwanda, Tanzania is huge, and empty. The first twenty or so miles are through hilly country, green with tree savannah. Here and there you see flocks of goats or groups of ankole cattle half hidden below the canopy of thorny bushes. Occasionally you see people tending animals or tilling the ground. But for the most part the countryside is empty. The contrast with overcrowded Rwanda is dramatic and begins the moment you leave the frontier post.

Eventually the hills peter out and Tanzania becomes flat. Whereas in Rwanda people tend to live out in the countryside, among their fields, here people tend to live huddled in villages. These were created in the late 60s and 70s in Julius Nyerere’s policy of “ujamaa” (brotherhood) as an attempt to increase the rate of modernisation of the country. At least one big, unplanned, straggly village near the border seems to be a refugee encampment. Houses are desperately poor and most have the tell-tale white nylon canvas roofs made from UNHCR-issue tarpaulins.

Another difference – whereas in Rwanda people are severely discouraged from putting thatched roofs on their houses, here in Tanzania thatch is the norm. Most huts are rectangular, made from a skeleton of thin, woven wooden laths and plastered with mud. Some are round. None have chimneys. Few have the outhouse toilets which characterise Rwandan compounds. In general people here appear to be poorer than in Rwanda.

A third difference – Tanzania has donkeys and bullocks pulling carts. After Rwanda, where the are no beasts of burden and everything is carried by people, it feels so strange to see donkeys grazing by the roadside, pulling carts or (very occasionally) being loaded up with sacks of produce.

After around four hours we stop at a noisy, busy market town called Nyakanazi for lunch. It is also a toilet stop, but the girls report that the toilets are just a small room with a sand floor. There’s no pit to use, and you simply do your business on the floor. Needless to say there’s no water or paper. We have no idea how the toilets are cleaned. I decline to use them, cross my legs, and hope for better things later in the day….

One nice thing about Tanzania is that, as in Uganda, you can eat on the street and people cook on the street. We rapidly discover the Tanzanian staple of rolex with chips (omelette with chips, freshly cooked in front of you and laden with ketchup and fierce chilli sauce). It’s hot, fresh, and very welcome.

Leaving Nyakanazi we penetrate further and further into Tanzania. Despite the lack of people and general emptiness there is no wildlife to be seen, which is a pity. But after another four hours or so the land gets noticeably drier. Tree savannah changes into grassy savannah; trees become intermittent and stunted. The exception is the baobab trees. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen these in the wild, and they live up to every bit of the descriptions of weird shapes I’ve read. Enormous, impossibly thick trunks, from the top of which a knotted tangle of skinny branches weaves and pushes its way into sunlight. At the top is a thatch of leaves, but the area of leaves looks too tiny to sustain such a mass of trunks and branches. Many of the trees are either dead or dormant; they have lost their leaves.

Somewhere along the road, probably at Singida, we lose the only other muzungu on the coach. She is a Swedish girl; I never find out what she’s doing in Tanzania but she’s meeting friends at Singida and disappears through the mass of small shops and businesses and into the dust and clamour of a late afternoon market day. The towns are very noisy and chaotic. There’s tailoring here, with men and women using treadle sewing machines on the porches of their houses, or sitting right at the front of their little shops so as to be able to chat to passersby and greet potential customers. Further on there’s carpentry with rows of bed frames, chairs, cupboards and other furniture awaiting buyers. (Meanwhile it’s getting plastered in dust from passing traffic). Yet further along there’s the metalworking area with flashes from welding kit and a cacophony of hammers bashing metal; into shape which you can hear even above the bus’s engine and the sound system inside. And everywhere there are mounds of fruit and used clothes from Western charity organisations, and bales of brilliantly coloured African cloth all awaiting buyers. It’s loud, colourful, disorganised, and it’s precisely one of the things I’ve come to love about East Africa. Everywhere there are lorries hooting and lurching over the uneven, rutted roads; big busses play suicidal overtaking games in the hope of finding the next passenger flagging them down at the roadside. Cyclists take their chances and weave drunkenly everywhere, trying to find the smoothest surface. (Just as in Rwanda, few of the bikes have gears).

Tanzania drives on the left. You need to be aware of Tanzania’s vehicular pecking order, which determines who can run who off the road: at the bottom are chickens, who scatter at the approach of people. Then come pedestrians, then bicycles, followed by motos, cars, and smaller taxi buses. The big international buses like ours can sweep all these out of our path, but kings of the road are the articulated lorries and everything – everything – has to give way to them or face the consequences. (I wonder what happens when a lorry meets a train on one of the ungated level crossings?) (This para is adapted from the “Rough Guide to Zanzibar” description of traffic on the island, but it holds just as good for the mainland).

Further and further we go into the depths of Tanzania. Now the land changes again. We start to pass inselbergs. (This is Brucey the geologist speaking. If rocks bore you, go to the next paragraph). Inselberg is a German term meaning “island rock” and until this afternoon I’ve never appreciated just how apt the description is. Great mounds of granite rock rise out of the flatness of the plains and form low mountains or isolated hills. They are fractured into blocks, some standing together, others of which have fallen away to form a ring of massive boulders surrounding the hill in its loneliness. In one case there’s a spectacular split block which points vertically into the afternoon sun like a two fingered salute! (See photo). The rocks are always rounded; this is where exfoliation (weathering caused by endless heating by sunshine during the day, and cooling at night) has cause the surface millimetres of rock to disintegrate and crumble away. After a few thousand years the rocks become smooth and rounded, almost as if someone had polished them. There are dozens of these inselbergs, ranging from low jumbles of boulders where a hill has been completely worn away, to real mountains which would need half a day to climb. They dot the plains and the white afternoon heat like sentinels; around them are the crazed baobabs and the wretched huts of local people. (Sometimes the huts seem to be actually built into the fallen boulders). Here it is too dry for bananas; it feels funny to be in the depths of the African countryside without endless fields of plantains rustling in the afternoon breeze. All along the roadside you can see where fields have been created. In most cases they’re freshly dug, weed free, but nothing is growing in them. I assume either that the seeds have been planted and people are waiting for the rains to arrive to start things growing, or that nothing can happen until it rains. As you may know, we have a very severe drought in the northern part of East Africa. Kenya is particularly badly hit with cattle dying in their thousands and people being displaced southwards in search of food and water. Because Rwanda is further west, higher, and has more rivers it has largely escaped the drought, but it looks as if here, along the road to Dar es Salaam, we’re starting to meet the drought for the first time.

Meanwhile we’re being entertained by Nigerian telly soaps and Congolese music played at deafening volume on the coach’s sound system. The soap operas are every bit as hammy as those we saw on our way to Kampala, but are so amateurish that there’s a sort of compelling horrified fascination in watching them.

Tanzanian time is an hour ahead of Rwandan (and three hours ahead of GMT), so we adjust our “watches”. Of the three of us nobody has brought a watch, and only I have brought a mobile phone, so keeping accurate time isn’t going to be our strong point over the next fortnight. It’s a good job that there’ll only be a couple of occasions when we have absolute time deadlines to meet!

During the day we drive through a heavy thunderstorm. Because the land is so flat we can see for miles and any storm is visible ages before it reaches us. Sunset over the plains seems to take forever – in Rwanda the sun is always setting behind hills or mountains and the whole process seems to be over in five minutes. Here the sun slowly sinks and the baobabs throw their twisted shadows across the land like a drawing from one of your nightmares. In the final murky twilight the baobabs are sinister beyond belief. Just let your imagination dredge up all those images of twisted trees with murderous intent……… well, readers, the Tanzanian plains is where they seem to go when they’re not haunting you!

I have to praise the road system in Tanzania. In all the drive from Rusumo to Dar there’s just one, admittedly extensive, section without tarmac. The roads are straight, and the tarmac is in good condition. This means we drive FAST. Every so often there are speed bumps; some of these are simply rumble strips which can be ignored but make a brain shaking noise as you pass them; others are potential vehicle wreckers. The driver knows his road well, and progress consists of mad dashes at around 70mph, followed by sudden deceleration for the next sleeping policeman. At this point we lurch forwards; it isn’t enjoyable if you’re trying to drink from a big water bottle at the time! There are few private cars on the roads; most traffic consists of articulated lorries. Also at intervals, and particularly for the first hundred miles or so from the Rwandan border, there are police check points.

Another peculiar feature of Tanzanian roads is an obsession with weighbridges. Quite rightly, they want to prevent their roads being damaged by overladen lorries (Rwanda, please take note). Every hundred miles or so there are compulsory stops where every wheel of every passing vehicle is weighed. I can’t see the logic of having to do this for private cars, small vans or even big buses like ours – surely it’s only commercial goods vehicles which can be overloaded to the point of causing real damage to the road network? But you can see these weighing stations from afar because of the long queues of lorries waiting to pass through. Our coach driver doesn’t want to wait in inline; we know we’re not going to have a problem with weight. Every time we are stopped at these checkpoints we have to negotiate or barge our way to the head of the queue among a lot of hooting and arguing.

Between Singida and Dodoma there’s a long section of road which has yet to be properly built and tarmacked. They’re in the process of doing this, but in the meantime we have to slow right down and weave and bump our way along the ruts. I can’t imagine how awful the journey from Kigali to Dar would be if all the roads were like this, and I salute the sheer strength and endurance of people who undoubtedly had to make the journey many years ago. The dust is tremendous. We’re told to OPEN the bus windows to keep the dust out. This seems counter-intuitive, but we do as we’re told and against all the odds we don’t end up coated in topsoil. There are some interesting moments, however – all vehicles try to follow the line of smoothest earth, and at many points, in the darkness, we seem to be heading straight towards an oncoming lorry, only to lurch to our side of the road at the last minute.

Night falls over the bush; the moon rises (a full moon) and the effect is magical. By now we’ve been on the bus about eighteen hours, but we’re still glued to the windows, looking out at the empty blackness of the Tanzanian night. We cross railway lines which look abandoned. By midnight we’re at Dodoma, the capital of the country. Dodoma is a new creation, intended to open up the interior of Tanzania and move the focus of activity away from the coast at Dar. By night it’s a funny place; it appears suddenly and doesn’t seem to have any real centre or focus. The bus station at night would certainly not be its selling point, either. It is sleazy, dirty and smelly. “Guards” are lolling in front of the businesses they’re supposed to be safeguarding; in some cases they opt for the Rwandan approach of going to sleep at the door of the businesses and hoping that any burglar will trip over them and wake them up. We are all hungry; there’s nothing that looks safe enough to eat except for another rolex and chips. Then we have to pay to use an unpleasant toilet, and get back in the bus.

What nobody’s told us is that the bus is stopping here for two hours. Those in the know have disembarked and found seats or spread blankets on the floor around the kiosks that litter the bus station, and are trying to stretch themselves out and snatch a couple of hours of proper sleep before we continue. We’re back in our seats, trying to make ourselves comfortable.

Best thing about today – I love the feeling of adventure. We’re in a different country; everything around us is strange and interesting. We are comfortable as it’s possible to be on a long coach journey. This is the start of our holiday – bring it on!

Some appetisers for the Zanzibar postings!

2009-11-16T08:44:00.008+02:00

A beach, a dhow, people swimming, and sunset over Africa. This is Zanzibari magic....

A feast of seafood

Sharing banana and chocolate pancakes

The view from our table....

Anyone fancy cuddling an endangered tortoise?

The sun rises over the reef. Next stop East is India - this is the Indian Ocean

Beautiful travelling companions

Perfect beaches

Waiting for the plumber

2009-11-16T08:42:00.003+02:00

October 29th

Very little to report today. I spend the entire day at the flat. In the morning I am waiting for Théoneste, the plumber, to arrive. He’s supposed to be here at nine; he rolls up at ten thirty. But Tom’s already briefed him on our water problem and he comes with a replacement mixer tap for the bath and shower. He seems very competent and within an hour he’s done the job and the shower seems to be working fine. Certainly the water leak is cured. We have to pay him, but we’ll deduct the money from the next rent payment so eventually the cost will be borne by SORAS, who own the flat. What’s very unusual about Théoneste is that he gives a six month guarantee on his work. That’s why he’s the plumber that FHI always use, even though h is more expensive than the locals. The locals are all very well, but you tend to get the impression that they don’t really know what they’re doing. Théoneste tells us that the previous plumber we had last year did a bodge job so that there was a lot of grit and muck in the pipes (this has eventually corroded and destroyed the seating for the tap), and that the connection was so badly done that water has been leaking into the wall cavity for a year, hence the wet patch on our outside wall. The wet patch should gradually dry out now that the source of leaking water has been stopped.

In the afternoon I have another look at the English test data. It throws up some interesting incidental figures. In Muhanga District we have at least two teachers who are only 19 years old; these are not temporary appointments or students; they are permanent full time teachers in two of our primary schools. At the other end of the scale there are only about four teachers in the entire District who are older than me…… We have one specialist teacher of Arabic language (in the Islamic secondary school, of course). Out of nearly 1700 teachers there are 315 who have the word “imana” as the final three syllables of their surnames: nearly 1 in 5. “Imana” is Kinyarwanda for “God”, and the surname is very common in forms which mean “gift of God”; “dedicated to God” etc. In fact “Uwimana” (from God) seems to be the commonest surname of all; the Rwandan version of “Smith” or “Duval” or “Patel”.

One or two interesting snippets from the “New Times” newspaper. The powers that be have officially declared that “serious malnutrition no longer exists in Rwanda”. Around 45% of children are stunted, and that damage can never be reversed. But any children identified as severely malnourished have been admitted to hospitals, put on a crash diet and have recovered sufficiently to be discharged. Meanwhile, “local leaders” are being made responsible for tracking children’s health with powers to intervene if they think parents are not feeding their offspring sufficiently. It’s certainly true that on my travels in the countryside I haven’t seen any cases of Kwashiorkor for a while. On that level I think the government has done a great job, particularly in view of the sheer numbers of children in the country. Malnutrition is a major causing factor in child mortality, especially when combined with other factors such as gastro enteritis or respiratory infections. But low level malnutrition is, I think, still widespread.

On a lighter note, in Gisagara district around 10% of people are still living in grass-thatched huts. The official policy is that all habitations are to be roofed in metal or in clay tiles. Grass thatch is seen as being inadequate and backward. The people concerned in Gisagara say they can’t afford tiles because they are too poor; however, the official in charge of infrastructure says that many of them could afford tiles and it’s a question of people’s mindset. Traditionally they have always lived in thatched huts and out in the countryside it is so, so difficult to break the grip of tradition.

In the evening we have Helen and April over for a meal, and we’ve spent most of the previous evening and this afternoon cooking and preparing. Just as the girls are due the power goes off and the power cut lasts most of the evening. So it’s a candle lit dinner for four. We’ve decided to do a Mexican night with guacamole and pan crisps, and a massive mix of salsa, refried beans, savoury rice and mince. We pile our plates “engineer style”. The girls have brought a bottle of wine which disappears quickly. We end up so overfull and groaning after the main course that we can barely touch the fruit salad we’ve got ready – that can wait another day. At the very end of the evening the water goes off but the power comes back on. So that’s a good excuse to go to bed and leave the washing up till tomorrow.

After we’ve eaten there’s a massive swapping of music and videos; I’m ready to pass on virtually all of my videos because I won’t be taking them home with me.

A good day, if a trifle odd.

Cold Tuesday

2009-11-16T08:40:00.000+02:00

October 28th

Today the weather is really cold. There’s a strong wind blowing; the sky is overcast and it looks as if it will rain this morning. Just what I don’t need today. I’m at the office well before seven; the internet modem has been locked in my office overnight, and I’m able to post a blog, check emails and update my virus checker before most of the other staff arrive.

I’ve organised Joseph to be here by seven o’clock, and by ten past we’ve negotiated a fare and we’re on our way. I’m going to enjoy this morning – it may be the last time I’m able to dash around this beautiful countryside by moto and visit schools.

The aim of the exercise is to go to four schools and get their details for placing teacher training students in the spring term. I have a letter from the mayor, so they can’t refuse me, and what we’re really doing is negotiating the number of students they can take and reassuring the schools that the college will look after matters of discipline and assessment of the trainees.

First we’re off to Gikomero in the Nyarusange hills. It’s a long time since I’ve been down the lane to Gikomero and things have changed. There’s a new mobile phone mast where previously you only saw fields of bananas, and at the school they are building no fewer than four new classrooms for January’s tronc commun entry. I’m really pleased with the quality of construction; all the new rooms are of fired brick and the standard will be much higher than in any of Gikomero’s existing rooms.

I begin to discover that instead of having the same number of tronc commun students as started last year, there’s going to be a massive expansion in numbers in 2010. People seem to have caught on to the fact that secondary education is now free and theoretically available for all, and they’re keen to take up their places. In the seven schools that I visit yesterday and today the numbers of pupils will rise from about 750 in 2009 to 1250 in 2010, and there’s every prospect that 2011 will see around 2000 starting. So there will need to be an even bigger building programme next year, because not a single school in the District has enough spare rooms to accommodate the likely 2011 entry.

I don’t stay long at Gikomero; getting the information I need only takes 5 minutes and the rest of the time is explaining to the head teachers how the system will work and answering their questions.

As we return along the lane to the main road there is a constant procession of pupils in uniform walking away from the school. These are the year six contingents from both Gikomero Catholic and Protestant schools on their way to Nyarusange to start their concours exams. Not every school is used as an exam centre (unlike in England), and pupils often have to walk long distances in all weathers for the privilege of sitting their exams, three days in a row.

We chug back down the side of Mount Mushubati towards Gitarama, and pass Muhazi school. Muhazi has a posh new signboard outside it with a slogan reading “Education, Science, Progress” or something similar. All the school now have these signs; I can’t tell you how much easier it has made things since this time last year (when finding a school was a matter of hit and miss). All the signs have similar three-word slogans on them, and invariably they are in English.

At Mushubati we turn left towards Ngororero and stop at Mata school. Here I have to wait for a while, surrounded by hordes of curious year six pupils. Mata is one of the exam centres, and I have arrived at about half past eight, just as they are trying to get the maths exam under way. It’s really one of the worst days I could possibly have chosen to visit schools, but the College deadline means I have no alternative. Mugabo, the head, is away (I think he might be in the Congo), so I have to wait for Claudine , the “adoint” to arrive. Meanwhile there are teachers from Mata and other schools curious to know why I’ve come today of all days, and pupils not just from Mata but from Kivomo, Muhazi, Murama, Rutaka and other schools. All the younger pupils in years 1-5 have the day off in order not to disturb the year six in their exam.

The exams are organised like a military operation and the security is amazing. There are (armed) police, (armed) local guards and later in the morning at Nyabisindu even armed soldiers to ensure the exam isn’t disrupted. The exam papers arrive in sealed packs just like in England, and there are elaborate systems for checking the packs are resealed and not tampered with after the exam is finished.

Eventually I’m able to grab Claudine for five minutes and hastily run through my teacher placement stuff, and then there’s mutual relief as the muzungu leaves and they can get on with their exam.

Back on the moto to Gitarama and out towards Kigali, now. The weather still isn’t any warmer, but the cloud is breaking up and it’s clear that we won’t have rain for a while. Joseph takes a wrong turning on the way to Kivumu school and I have to correct him. The lane to Kivumu has changed since February; a big area has been levelled prior to building and ther bulldozer is still chewing up the fragile soil as we pass. I’ve got no idea what they’re going to build, but the levelled area is almost the size of a football pitch so it can’t be for dwelling houses. To clear such a big area in such a hilly country means an awful lot of earth moving, and increases the risk of soil erosion all around the edges of the cleared plot. At Kivumu the exam is in full swing, with security guards and police patrolling the grounds. They are highly suspicious of my arrival but are hesitant to challenge a muzungu outright. But I feel awkward and I wish it could have been any day but today to visit the school. Fortunately I’ve arranged with Jacqueline in advance that I will be arriving, and she comes out to meet me and tells the guards who and what I am.

In the staffroom there’s Imelda from Gatenzi school; there are literally several hundred children all in the middle of the maths paper and using most of the classrooms in Kivumu. Doing my business with Jacqueline only takes ten minutes or so, but in the process I have a look at the maths exam paper. Section “A” is reasonable, and the average English year 6 pupil could do most of it. But I think section “B” is ridiculously difficult. Pupils have to answer five out of about eight questions. Some involve algebra, some involve trigonometry. One involves constructing a pie chart from given data; another involves constructing, accurately, a geometric shape from givens. One is a logic type question like you find in puzzle books.

What I find interesting is that from my English background the pie chart, the trig and the logic questions are the ones I would go for. The Rwandan teachers say that for them, the pie chart and logic are the hardest and they would go for the algebra every time. It highlights the differences in how we teach in our two countries – for resource-strapped Rwanda the intellectual abstractions of algebra are easier to teach and more familiar than doing things like pie charts which require pupils to have instruments like compasses and protractors. (And the state doesn’t supply instruments; that’s up to the individual pupils. So if you come from the poorest families you have to rely on your algebra rather than your geometry)!

Finally we go back to Gitarama and I chill with Soraya in the office for an hour until the maths exam ends at twelve. I have one final school to do, Nyabisindu, which is walking distance from the office. I breeze down there to see Jeanne just as the pupils are leaving and the teachers are packing up the papers to send off. (They go to the District Office first until all the exams are finished, then they are taken to Kabgayi where there will be a special marking centre set up next week for all our District papers). You can barely move in Jeanne’s office for security men (three) and exam papers, and I make a dramatic entry by almost tripping over somebody’s automatic rifle…..

Jeanne is in chatty mood and together with the secteur secretary we chew the fat for a while as well as getting my information together.

Now, finally, I have all the data that the College of Education needs. I grab a moto to the town centre and meet up with Soraya for lunch. Another lovely mélange from “Tranquillité”, but pity about the gristly meat… I ring Moira and arrange for her to come round straight away to the flat and pick up the papers; the college has to get this information onto their computers and sorted out by the end of this afternoon. Now that’s what I call a down to the wire deadline!

When Moira comes round we talk about some of the problems we’re going to face in these placements. Only two existing teachers out of around twenty who are teaching in the tronc commun sections have more than one year’s experience as a teacher. Only two of them have qualifications at A1 or A0 level (i.e. have qualifications beyond ending secondary school). Some of them, as I know from my observations, have major challenges in teaching pupils themselves, let alone being confident enough and competent enough to supervise trainees. While the College thinks it can place lots of trainees with the schools because there will be the new intake of pupils in January, we realise that none of the teachers for these new classes have yet been appointed, that almost all of them will have no qualification beyond A2, and that absolutely none of them will have any teaching experience. How can we possibly put students in with them? – it would be the blind leading the blind. In fact, it could be even worse, because some of Moira’s trainees are primary school teachers with a few years experience who are doing the formal teacher training course to upgrade their skill levels and salaries by moving up from primary to secondary level. They will know far more about how to teach than the people we’re asking to mentor them….

The bottom line is that things are going to be extremely hand-to-mouth for the college, the schools and the students for the next few years until the system settles down. It’s a good feeling to know that you’re absolutely in the vanguard of setting up a system which will run for the foreseeable future. You don’t often get this sort of opportunity in England!

Soon after Moira leaves, Tom comes in early, and he’s no sooner in the door when Delphine comes round. She’s beginning to get to grips with Excel but she needs a lot more practise in analysing spreadsheets and making presentations from them. There’s a job she has in mind to apply for which will need these skills, so I’m doing her a favour by giving her the chance to improve her skills because my laptop is the only computer she has access to. She desperately needs to be faster on a keyboard, but I can’t criticise her too much because my laptop has an English keyboard whereas most machines in Rwanda have French keyboards, and others have Arabic or even Spanish boards. (If you thought that every computer in the world used the qwerty keyboard then you’re in for a big surprise if you come here….). After an hour or so, though, she’s able to do sum, average, sorting, applying some sophisticated filters and presenting a variety of graphs and charts including putting them into power point. She learns quickly but forgets between sessions unless she can have lots of practise.

At the end of the afternoon I walk her as far as the big stadium and meet April. April the Australian Audiologist is working much of her time at La Misericorde, which is Muhanga’s one and only special school. To my intense shame it is one of the schools I haven’t managed to visit, though I have had it earmarked for ages in case other visits fell through. The physical facilities are grim. The school operates in the basement of the stadium itself, so the ceiling slopes where the tiers of seats rise above it. If there is a match or other sporting event during the school day, the school has to shut because of the noise. The windows are slatted and birds are able to fly in and out so the walls, floor, desks, posters and eventually the teachers and pupils are all coated with droppings. (The walls look as if they have been spray painted in that mottled effect which was popular in the 1970s in public buildings, but in reality it is plain bricks plastered with bird poo). The teaching space is open plan; there are no facilities at all beyond blackboards and desks. (But at least all the pupils have proper desks which is more than I can say for all the mainstream schools).

This part of the school is for the hearing impaired pupils. A few metres away is the section for mentally handicapped pupils. The classrooms are little more than wood and corrugated iron sheds, and there are two rondavels of the kind usually found in bars. In rainy weather pupils have to huddle wherever they can, out of the rain, and wait until the storm passes before they can continue learning. In yet another area are the dormitories for pupils, very basic affairs. The facilities and equipment levels for these pupils are heartbreaking, and yet I know that some very good work is being done with them. Rinske has been doing some training with the teachers, and the place is unbelievably lucky to have April with her advanced skills to help them organise themselves. I feel so guilty that I haven’t been here before and put pressure on Claude and the District to upgrade the facilities at La Misericorde. The whole place runs on an absolute shoestring, and whereas in England it is acknowledged that special education needs higher levels of equipment and funding than mainstream, I get the feeling that here in Rwanda the special schools get even less. Part of the problem is that there isn’t really a nationwide system of special schools, so the ones that do exist have no voice and are marginalised. They don’t tend to produce exam results, so they don’t count in the statistics.

Back at the flat Tom and I cook up a really wonderful curry. I’m using one of my vegetable soups as a base, and we add pineapple, raisins, bananas and chorizo sausage. We’re eating well at the moment, but at the same time it seems as if one of another of us volunteers in Gitarama is always down with a tummy bug of one sort or another.

Christi is on the mend, thank goodness, and will be back at work very soon.

After tea I watch yet another video – this time it’s called “Evan Almighty” and is a re-take on the Noah’s flood story. Not the best film I’ve ever watched, but it passes the evening away.

Best things about today – just about everything. It’s been a good, successful, busy day.

Pay rises for head teachers

2009-11-13T11:47:00.002+02:00

This is an extract from the "New Times" at the end of October. These pay rises are overdue and might help motivate and retain more head teachers in their posts. Now what we want next is a general pay rise for all teachers, and incentive pay to reward outstanding performance....

Government has increased the salaries of primary and secondary head teachers in a move that is likely to motivate school heads to strive for quality within the education sector.

The move to increase the salaries was confirmed by a Cabinet meeting that sat on Wednesday.
“Head teachers with A2 level (secondary certificate) have been getting a net salary of Rwf 29, 000 and an allowance of Rwf 12,500 making it Rwf 41, 500 altogether, but now their salary has been increased to Rwf 60, 000,” Dr. Mathias Harebamungu, State Minister for Primary and Secondary education said.

“Those with A0 level (bachelor’s degree) were getting a basic salary of Rwf 113,000 which has been increased to Rwf 180, 000.” (Per month).

It comes at a time when many teachers in different parts of the country still complain of delays in receiving their salaries.

The education ministry attributed the delays in salary payments to the district authorities.

To put this money in context, £1 is about 1000 francs. My VSO allowance is RwF170,000 per month.

Students stranded after exams

2009-11-13T11:43:00.001+02:00

Here's yet another little snippet from today's "New Times" which shows you some of the difficulties schoolchildren face here in Rwanda. In England you expect to sit your big exams in your own school. Here in Rwanda you have to travel to neighbouring schools which are set up as exam centres. But while the supervision of the exams is done with military precision and with armed police and soldiers present, in at least one part of the country nobody thought about how their students might get home after the exam.....

NGOMA – After completing national exams on Tuesday, scores of rural students failed to return to their homes due to a lack of transport.

There were no buses or taxis to take the students home, leaving most of them to loiter in Ngoma town till late in the evening.

Those who talked to The New Times in Kibungo town, Ngoma district, said they were not sure where they would spend the night if they failed to get transport.
“It is approaching 5 pm and yet we can’t find any bus. We are bound to sleep on the streets,” Claudine Kanakuze, one of the students said.

Drivers of ONATRACOM bus services said they were overwhelmed by the number of travellers and they did not have enough buses to transport all of them in time.
“They have to hang around and wait for some of the buses to make return routes,” a driver only identified as Abdul said.

Mad Monday

2009-10-27T07:01:00.000+02:00

October 26th

In to work this morning not quite knowing what to expect. On the way to work I stop off at Ahazaza school; Raina had been left out of Friday’s District meeting (yet again), and she wants to see her school’s test results. So I’ve arranged to be at the school before seven. Unfortunately Raina’s not there; I expect she’s been called away by some other emergency. Her deputy is in the building (the one I helped appoint), so I talk to him and put the results onto her computer before moving on to the office.

Claude’s there in the District Office, so I’m able to spend the first hour finalising the English test summaries and give him the final power point. Unfortunately we seem to have lost the marked papers for one entire school. I know I’ve marked them; they’re lost somewhere between the various people who have been tabulating the results. I go right through every single one of the remaining papers, but the missing school’s aren’t present. Oh well, let’s wait and see what happens. They’ll be somewhere in the building, either in someone’s briefcase or more likely buried under other papers.

I spend another half hour on the internet, but the power keeps cutting off, and the internet connection is very slow. Somebody in the building must be downloading music or videos. In fact, the internet only becomes fast enough to be useful when the power goes off and it’s just my laptop on its battery power using the web, so I assume that whoever else is on line must be using one of the big desktop machines. Ha!; there are advantages to using a laptop!

Meanwhile both the Dean of the College of Education at Kavumu, and also Moira, have called to ask me whether I can get going on finding placements for their students. The answer is yes, because at long last the mayor has signed the authorisation papers. So I moto over to the College just as it comes on a long and heavy thunderstorm. The Dean has done most of the schools already, and there are only seven left for me. Unfortunately we’re stranded in the college for an hour while we wait for the rain to ease off. Even by mid-day it’s still raining, as opposed to pouring, and there’s no way I can sally out into the mountains. So I have an early lunch at “Tranquillité”, and get the best mélange I’ve ever had there. Beautiful fresh salads and half an avocado. They must be missing me….

Next I have to return to the flat and get some money for motos to visit these schools. Suddenly its panic stations because the College wants to have all the places confirmed by Wednesday. That means they need my information by Tuesday mid-day. It’s a tall order.

I go across town to Nyabisindu school, and immediately run out of luck. Neither Jeanne, the head, nor Florent, the adjoint, are in the building. It’s the day before the big concours exams and all headteachers are running round like headless chickens making final arrangements. Jeanne is supposed to be in a meeting at my office, so I rush back only to find the meeting has finished a few minutes ago and everyone has dispersed.

Now I try ringing everyone. Prudence from Nyarusange is the only one still in town; he comes to the office and we sort out his school. At the same time he gives me his estimates for Nyarusange’s water cistern. I tell him he’ll have to hold on for the money until I get back from Zanzibar.

Three of the schools put me off until tomorrow; they don’t really want to see me tomorrow either because of the exams, but two of them I can do early in the morning before the tests get started. Two schools have their phones switched off and I simply can’t raise them at all.

I spend some time writing some thoughts for Claude on the matter of job descriptions for heads and deputy heads arising from the problems aired at Friday’s big meeting; Claude has long since gone to meetings elsewhere. Also, I print out my year’s report for Claude and leave it on his desk. It’s not perfect but it’ll do.

Back to trying to contact schools again. Alphonse at Mushishiro answers; he’s in a meeting at Nsanga but the meeting is just finishing so we agree to meet at Mushishiro. I go back into town, get a moto, and after a false start to a garage without petrol we eventually get cracking into the mountains. There’s still some drizzle falling, and grey clouds all around, and I hope I’m not going to get soaked. As we turn off into Mushishiro market, with dozens of people gawping at me, we’re stopped by Alphonse himself who is on his way back to his school. With him is Edouard, the head at Kirwa. Within seconds we’re surrounded by children and some adults; squashing in so close to see what we’re doing and to look at what’s on my sheets of paper that at one point I actually get jostled and the two head teachers have to shout at people to give us some room. There’s nothing I need from Alphonse that I can’t ask him out on the street, and because the entire conversation is in English there’s little problem about our onlookers being able to understand anything we say.

Even better, Alphone takes a sheet to give to Étienne at Cyicaro; if I can get through to him on the phone this evening or tomorrow it’s save me a second long ride out to the mountains to his school.

I’ve feeling very much more “lifted” when we drive home. The sun has come out, and I really enjoy an unexpected final fling through the mountain passes and down to Mata and the outskirts of Gitarama.

Back at the flat all is busy; I’m booking Joseph to drive me around tomorrow, and try once more to contact Jeanne at Nyabisindu. I wish these people wouldn’t switch their phones off when it’s me who’s trying to contact them. Eventually I get through to Étiernne at Cyicaro and we do all his business over the phone. Hooray; that’s three schools down, three for tomorrow and just Jeanne who won’t answer her phone.

At the flat I discover we have a problem. There’s a wet patch on the outside wall where water is coming through the brickwork, and the bath tap won’t turn off. We can reduce it to a fraction of its full flow, but at one point it threatens to run faster than the bath outlet will let the water escape. And, when Tom arrives, we discover we don’t know where the main water stop cock is if we need to shut off the water completely. Tom knows the plumber they use at FHI so we ring him. He can come on Wednesday, so I think I’ll have to work at home on Wednesday to make sure someone’s in when the tradesman arrives.

I watch “Casino Royale” with Daniel Craig starring as Bond; some African sequences at the start including one scene supposed to be in Mbale, Uganda. Well, I’ve been to Mbale and the place in the film looked more like West Africa – Sierra Leone or Ghana!

A cool evening; fleece weather even indoors.

Best thing about today – getting started on the Teacher placement visits. Finishing my annual report for Claude.

Urukundo discovers Diwali

2009-10-26T09:33:00.002+02:00

October 25th

Off to Momma’s for what’s almost certainly my last time. Louise is doing the talk this morning and has decided to talk to the children about Diwali. This turns out to be fascinating. The children know their Bibles better than most English adults, but it soon becomes clear that they have been taught Christianity to the exclusion of any other religion. They have absolutely no concept of Hinduism at all; they have barely the faintest idea where India is, even what continent it’s in. She has brought lots of little lamps which she lights and places round the room; to the orphans this is what happens during a power cut, and nothing at all to do with the spiritual aspects of light. The pictures of Lakshmi and Ganesh and Rama and Sita that Louise shows them are just fantasy illustrations such as you might find in a science fiction comic. I find it somewhat worrying that the children – the children of toimorrow – are being brought up in such a claustrophobic monotheistic way. It doesn’t bode well for a world where everyone will have to live in harmony with each other. No matter; three cheers to Louise for trying and daring to be different. Her parents are over visiting her and it’s nice to welcome them to Momma’s

I get asked to say something and they all formally say farewell to me. It’s the first of what will probably be many farewells over the coming month, and it’s a strange feeling.

For the rest of the day I write up my blog, watch a video (“No country for old men” – the Cohen brothers at their gory best), and read Milan Kundera. There’s thunder all around us during the afternoon but somehow we escape any deluge.

Tom’s stomach is rebelling, so he doesn’t come to Momma’s and lies low right up until the evening meal. At the evening meal we have more than a dozen people. Kerry, Moira and Charlotte have been to Bujumbura for the weekend and enjoyed life in a luxury hotel (drinks by the swimming pool – a far cry from Gitarama!). The setting of Bujumbura is wonderful; Lake Tanganyika is enormous, many times bigger than Kivu, and surrounded by mountains. Unfortunately the water is full of bilharzias snails, and there are crocodiles which come up onto the beaches at night. So it’s not exactly the best place to go for a midnight dip.

Becky and Karen are just back from Akagera having seen mating giraffes and come almost within touching distance of the hippos in Lake Ihema. They also stumbled on a group of tiny crocodiles, but didn’t linger for fear that mummy croc was lurking somewhere just round the corner…..

I take my travelli8ng dominoes and we manage a short game before there are too many people at the meal to be able to concentrate!

Tom’s done a big cook-up with some beef mince he bought yesterday in Kigali, and I have at least three lunches’ worth of soup in the freezer, so we’re well sorted for next week.
And that’s it. The very young students on an FHI placement leave for Kampala on Tuesday, so it’s their last Sunday with us. People are planning where they’re going to be for Christmas (Gisenyi?, Jinja?, Bujumbura?). The restaurant manages to omit at least three items from their bill, but we realise and put the money in anyway. This is one establishment we value in town and we don’t want them to lose faith in us.

It’s been another quiet weekend, but after Friday’s hectic schedule I need time to relax.

A week in the doldrums

2009-10-26T09:33:00.001+02:00

October 17th – 24th

A quiet week and not enough to justify writing a blog each day. Besides, there’s relatively little to describe that I haven’t already said. So just one long entry to cover the whole week!

In some ways it has been a frustrating week. My intention was to go out to schools and arrange the placements for the teacher training college, so that by now (Sunday 25th) I’d have everything done. But, as usual, things don’t work out as I plan them.

On Sunday night one of our Vice Mayors, the more experienced one and the one who is the absolute lynch pin of the whole District administration, was killed in a car crash. The accident was right on the outskirts of Gitarama, at Munyinya, and when I went to Kigali on Monday morning the wrecked car was still lying at the roadside where it had come to rest. The car had been struck by a lorry with such force that one entire side of the car had been ripped away. I think the lorry must have been trying to overtake something and just not been able to see the Vice Mayor’s car coming; either that or the driver was asleep at the wheel, or perhaps fiddling with his mobile phone.

Also along the roadside on the way to Kigali are a burnt out lorry, and yet another car collision near Rugabagoba. The road is so twisty, and so hilly, and the lorries are so overloaded that it becomes a death trap. The wonder is that there aren’t many more fatal accidents.

The result of the Vice Mayor’s death at the Office on Monday morning was one of complete shock. Meetings were cancelled, and almost all business stopped. Crucially for me, the mayor had not signed the letter requesting schools to co-operate with me in arranging teacher placements ,and without the letter I didn’t want to risk going out to schools and being refused by them – that would mean that if the schools were forced to take students at a later date they would feel they had lost face, and Rwanda doesn’t work in that way. There’ll be a few more days left, so I’m going to have to play a waiting game.

So I’m faced on Monday morning with nothing to do. Well, as VSOs we’re nothing if not flexible, so I put plan “B” into operation. So I’m into Kigali on the bus with my Tanzanian visa application in my hand. Once at the Embassy I discover that you can’t pay for the visa with Rwandan francs, not even at the Kigali embassy. So it’s another trip to a forex to change francs into dollars, and finally the embassy accepts my application and tells me to come back tomorrow afternoon to collect the document. By now the guards at the embassy gate all recognise me; I don’t have to sign in and they just give me a badge and send me through. While Soraya and I are both at the VSO office in Kigali, who should breeze in but Épi, so we’re able to touch base with each other.

Épi tells me that Jeannot is coming up trumps with finding me a huge amount of Congolese music I asked him to dig out from various sources. Some of it is very rare and copies are like gold dust. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to getting a flash with all this music on; it’ll be a fabulous advance Christmas present when it materialises!

Two more jobs get done today; one is to write my termly summary report for VSO on what I’ve done since I returned from England in August. The reporting period is officially to the end of October, but there’s no chance of any more school visits so I might as well get it done sooner rather than later. By the same token I also manage to complete my termly summary of visits for Claude.

Also this week I manage to write my VSO personal reference. This is a curious document; it’s a reference which we can use when applying for jobs back in the UK or wherever we come from. VSO ask us to write the reference ourselves, to a prescribed formula. Then we have to get our local managers (Claude) to read it and approve it. Next we take it to our programme manager (Charlotte) for her to approve and countersign, and finally we have our reference. By the end of Tuesday I have my reference written and printed off and its waiting for Claude to read.

Claude is hard to find this week; it’s the JERS (Joint Education Review and Strategy) meeting in Kigali, and all the district directors are there. It is the crucial planning meeting for the whole country in which any changes to the education service for the coming year hammered out. As I write (Sunday) I have managed to get some of the documents from Claude and I’m poring over them to see if there are any more major surprises coming to us next year. Hopefully there will be a couple of years of consolidation.

One thing Claude does ask me to do is an annual report for the District on all my visits. The format he wants is going to make it so long that I don’t think anyone will bother to read it. So as of Sunday I have done the boring lists that he’s asked for, and when I finish this blog entry I will make my usual summary of “things that we’re doing well”; “things that are causing problems”, and my generalised comments on the quality of teaching. I think it’s so important to stress the positives and all the progress that is being made here; it would be all too easy to write a report which was simply a long litany of failures, an even longer list of resources the schools are lacking, and conclusion implying that without astronomical levels of investment nothing would change. That wouldn’t help anybody. The report takes me, on and off, the whole of the rest of the week. But not because I’m working on it all the time; there’s something about the report which bores me and I can’t get any enthusiasm to work on it. I find I’m constantly distracted by whatever else is around me.

By the end of Tuesday I have my Tanzanian visa and I’m all on course to go to Dar next weekend. I can’t wait! I’m rapidly getting caught up on all the end-of-placement reports I have to write; the only one missing is the VSO final placement report. I think there’s a template we have to use for that; but when I try to find out at the programme office neither Charlotte nor Ruth are there, so I come away empty handed. What I’m doing this week, in effect, is switching the things I had planned to do on the first week after returning from Zanzibar with the things I had originally planned to do for this week. There are some things like getting police clearance (The Rwandan form of our English CRB document), and getting my Rwandan working visa terminated on the day after I leave the country, I which I can’t do until after I return from Tanzania because they might involved having to hand in my passport.

There is one amusing interlude in the VSO office. Jean-Claude is planning leaders for sessions for the second round of in-country training for Septembers’ new arrival volunteers. Last year I did it with Steve. Jean-Claude is rather taken aback when I explain that Steve has finished his service and gone, and that three of the most experienced volunteers of all – me, Épi and Soraya – are not available because we’ll be in Zanzibar. We spend a few minutes thinking of who else could do the job (but who haven’t already been commandeered to do other sessions).

We’ve also had a request from VSO to offer to help with the big Rwandan teacher training programme in English in December. The powers that be have decided that December will be a training month. It means that none of the teachers will have much of a holiday this year (unless at the last minute they delay the start of next year’s spring term). I assume that if we take part as VSOs we’ll get paid for our input, too. But it’s a very bad time to be asking volunteers to give up four or five weeks to work on Mineduc-led projects. There is a big group of volunteers, myself included, who will be ending our service and returning home. Then there’s another big group who have already booked flights home for Christmas, or booked holidays in neighbouring countries. There will probably be very few volunteers left in the country for the whole of December who could take part. It’s the curse of Rwandan last-minute planning once again. If they had given us a heads-up on this, say, in September, then many of us could have changed our plans to accommodate the system.

During this week the ongoing saga of trying to get the District to pay my rent to Tom comes to a head. For months (literally) we’re been pushed from person to person with every excuse imaginable for not getting paid. This person needs to sign the document but he’s not here. He’s on holiday; she’s away at a conference etc. Or this person can’t sign until it has been cleared by somebody else. Then they want a copy of my contract attached to the invoice, to prove that I really do exist. (They’ve already got at least two copies of my contract somewhere in the files). Then the copy of the contract needs countersigning, and stamping, by all and sundry. Soraya is having the same problem in getting her rent paid (the district has to pay YWCA because her house is owned by YWCA), and her rent hasn’t been paid for the whole year. It’s a crazy system. The death of the vice mayor brings everything to a halt once again. In fact on Tuesday the entire District Office is closed so that everyone can go to the funeral. As I go into Kigali on the bus, we get caught up in an enormous slow column of cars on the edge of Gitarama; it is dozens and dozens of vehicles taking half the town to the funeral service at St André’s church.
So from Monday to Thursday I’m either in Kigali or finding things to do to keep me occupied. But on Friday everything changes. Claude has returned from JERS and is in the office. He gives me some of the JERS briefing documents. I give him my VSO reference to read through. We establish that my rent cheque is ready and signed, but that Tom has to collect it in person. Tom is away down in Butare for two days with Janine on FHI business, so he’ll have to wait until Monday. Soraya’s cheque is also being written. Things are looking up.

From Claude I manage to get the complete “saisie” of the English tests all teachers did last month. The he drops a real bombshell – there’s a big meeting of every head teacher in the District in three hours’ time, and he wants me to do a presentation on what the tests show! Talk about panic stations. I set to and in three hours have done about half the full analysis, but I can talk about results by gender, age, qualification and type of school. It’s the most extreme time pressure I’ve ever had since starting to work in Rwanda.

I already know enough about the system to realise that a ten o’clock meeting means a ten-thirty start, so I drift down to the meeting at about twenty-five past. The meeting has already started – for once things are punctual here. Head teachers are drifting in and out all the time, so my late arrival doesn’t ruffle any feathers. We’re being courted by Fina Bank, one of the five or so new banks which have opened offices in Gitarama. They are talking about either free banking or certainly reduced rate bank charges for schools and NGOs, and even mention the possibility of subsidised computers to schools. It’s a pretty good spiel and everyone’s listening carefully.

At the end of the meeting another bank, KCB, comes in to make a similar bid for our business. But I don’t think they have thought things through; they tend to be the bank which loans big sums to businesses. They talk about loans of up to 2 billion francs; for some of my schools that’s as much money as they’ll see in a decade or more, and it leaves them cold.

The issue with banking is that most schools bank with “Banque Populaire” because it’s the only bank which has branches out in the villages. If you’re stuck up in Rongi or Kiyumba it doesn’t matter how much enticement Finabank or KCB offer; if you can’t get access to the bank easily you can’t use it. So almost all the rural schools are stuck with “Banque Populaire”, notorious for long queues and for levying charges on every form of transaction.

The meeting runs on and on until nearly four in the afternoon, by which time we’ve all gone past hunger and our backsides are almost welded to the uncomfortable wooden benches. I have Gervais from Kirwa translating for me; Charles from Nsanga is translating for Soraya. (Gervais and I can chat in French faster than the other two’s English if I want to follow up on some of the points being discussed).

We have a long session about ructions between the new Groupe Scolaire heads and their “adjoints”. This has been a crisis in waiting ever since last January. The Groupes Scolaires are the primary schools – some thirty in all – which have been allowed to open secondary sections to give “nine years’ basic education”. In every case a young, English speaking graduate has been installed, often with no previous teaching or managerial experience whatsoever, over very experienced primary headteachers. The former primary heads have been relegated to deputy heads, but were never given any specific job description. It’s a classic recipe for insecurity and conflict. The hew heads are insecure because they don’t know the area and don’t know enough about how the system works. The old heads suddenly feel discarded and without any role. The new heads try to take on all the administration and this leaves the old heads even more marginalised. Apparently things have come to a head in several schools, one of which is my friend J’s school at N.

We have a long discussion about the role of the “adjoint”; as Claude sees things there are three possibilities. One is to relegate the adjoints to ordinary classroom teachers. Just imagine it – you’ve run a school for ten or fifteen years, in some cases taking it to within the top ten performing schools in the district, and then suddenly you’re dismissed and relegated to ordinary teacher. A second possibility is to transfer these teachers to be heads of other primary schools to fill vacancies as people retire. We already know that there are some six or seven headteachers leaving at the end of the year, whether for retirement, promotion or dismissal for poor results. Claude’s third alternative is to create a more clearly defined role within the schools for the adjoints. That, to me, is the obvious solution. If I can find the energy I’ll write him some ideas comparing how our English system of heads and deputies works. But here the system is further complicated because all schools have a “responsable” who is an ordinary class teacher, usually with some seniority, who is the delegated person to deal with problems whenever the head is not around. Part of the whole problem at the moment is about the sharing of responsibilities between the “adjoint” and the “responsable”.

It shows how far I’ve come in two years in Rwanda that I’m able to follow all the issues that are being raised in the meeting, and I’ve got enough background knowledge of the schools this term to be able to envisage the actual characters that are causing friction with each other!

Another big issue at the meeting is over “placements”. This is the allocation of teachers to schools, and is renegotiated every year in September/October. Some teachers want to move to another school closer to their home. Many teachers want to get out of the profession and move on to something better paid. There’s always a steady trickle of teachers being arrested for various offences, or who die in office. (Death here of people in their thirties and forties is not unusual, and it is an accepted hazard of daily life). In addition there are satellite schools which are growing an extra class every year and who need teachers to cover these new classes. I find I’m ahead of the game on the new classes – Gervais gapes at me as I list all the schools in this situation before the rest of the heads can put their bids to Claude. Nyanza will start a year 4. Jandari “B” will start a second year. Mpinga will reach year 5. (Interestingly, there are fewer satellite schools this year than in any of the previous two years. Perhaps the rate of population growth really is beginning to slow down).

So there’s twenty minutes of bartering (with about 150 people in the room) while schools jockey and vie with each other to say how stressed their staff is and why they should be given an extra teacher. I’m really impressed with Claude; he seems to know everybody’s name and always either refers to them by name or by their school. And his chairmanship skills are extremely good. It’s a real treat just to sit back and watch him in action.

This year the government has decreed that no teacher will work more than 30 hours’ contact time (leaving 10 hours for preparation, marking and admin). The 30 – 10 split has always been the case officially, but when we had all the ructions at the start of the year with schools adjusting to new systems, some teachers found themselves on 34, 36 or even in a few cases 38 hours of contact a week. That’s ridiculously excessive (“pénible” is the French word that describes it beautifully). For those readers who are not teachers, an English school will normally expect around 25 hours contact time a week as maximum. Rwandan teachers are genuinely overworked and underpaid.

We then have to use a formula which is the number of classes x40/30 to work out how many teachers each school needs. There’s no concept of part time teaching here, especially in the primary schools, and it’s almost unheard of for a teacher to spend part of the week in one school and the rest of the week in another. So when everyone has done their calculation it has to be rounded up to the next whole number. A lot of schools discover that they are entitled to extra teachers, and Claude and Valérian have a shaky moment when they realise there’s going to be a big impact on the budget. There’s a lot of very rapid talk in Kinyarwanda which neither Gervais nor Charles translate for us because they’re so preoccupied in listening and assessing the implications for their schools.

Finally I get my slot, as thunder rumbles all around us and the power could go off at any second. I’ve done a quick powerpoint and take them through it. The men have scored much higher than the women in the English test. The very young and very old (55+) teachers have scored higher marks than the others. Teachers with degrees have done a lot better than those who have only finished secondary school. Those who are actually teaching English have done much better than those who aren’t (though in the lower primary sections there are many teachers with appallingly low scores). Two teachers manage to score 0/40 and it must take a particular brand of cussedness to score nothing on forty multiple choice questions – you have a 1 in 4 chance of being right every time!

At the end of the meeting we adjourn back to the office. Alphonse from Mushishiro needs me to write a reference in support of his attempts to join the “world gateway” school networking site. That done there’s just time for a quick check of email and then home. I’m being lazy this week and taking a moto home. At RwF200 (24p) I’ve decided that I can afford it and my old bones justify it…..

Tom comes back from Butare with a French stick and we decide to make sausage and cheese pizzas. That done, it’s Friday night and we’re both jaded and tired from work. We’ve both had enormously long days today. Tom in particular is wrung out – Christi’s ill with malaria and possibly typhoid at the same time, and has been in a local clinic on a drip to keep her fluid levels up. So Tom has been chasing around like a mad thing trying to do his work and hers. Fortunately he has Janine who is so competent now that she’s becoming indispensible to the FHI effort. Anyway, back to Friday evening. We decide to go out for a drink at “Orion”; eventually April and Helen come to join us and we chat till late.

Every night this week I’ve been catching up on videos from Piet’s external hard drive. A varied menu, from Dr Strangelove in black and white, to “V for vendetta” partly in English and partly in German, to “Die Falscher” entirely in German and “Flandres” entirely in French, and finally “Enigma” in good old English. After I’ve seen each film I’m erasing it to make space for more music or photos before I come home.

So, as you can see, not an idle week, but certainly not the week I had envisaged last Sunday! Never mind; in seven days’ time I shall be in Dar es Salaam and on my way to Zanzibar. Oh yes……… !

Sociable Saturday; Zanzibar’s suddenly a lot closer!

2009-10-26T09:31:00.000+02:00

October 16th

Into Kigali early; me on the 7.00 bus, Michael on the 7.30 and Soraya on the 8.00. I get some money changed (best exchange rate I can get today is 890 to the pound; what’s happening to our currency again?). I do a bit of shopping and we all meet up at Simba for a coffee and hot croissant.

Then Michael and I go up to the Programme Office; we both have things to sort out there. I think I have managed to get my flights home finalised (the information I received would have left me stranded in Brussels). Judging by the exchanges with the travel agency I think they had simply forgotten to type the extra line of print that gave me my flight details for the Brussels to London leg, but I still won’t rest until I’ve got something in print with all the info I need, and that might take a day or two to arrive because it’s the weekend. Anyway, it looks as if I’m going home on Brussels Air, and to Gatwick, which is exactly what I wanted, arriving home at 0700 on December 4th.

Next there’s a lot of sorting out to do with travel expenses. All my dashing up country in the last month has given me a massive bill to reclaim, but eventually after a few false starts we get it all organised. One of the P.O. staff even knows the village of Kanyanza where I stayed with the priests, so it feels nice to realise that even when I’m up-country there’s somebody at the office who can visualise where I’m working.

Having sorted out travel and finance, I need to start the visa process for Tanzania and Zanzibar. The Tanz. Embassy is within walking distance of the VSO office, at Nyarutarama, but there’s a storm coming in and thunder rumbling all around. I wonder if I’ve made a sensible decision to walk it… I manage to get to the right place in the dry, but discover that I need two passport photos for my visa, not just one, and while I can collect all the forms and get them filled in at home, I can’t get the visa application lodged today. So it’s back to the VSO office in the teeth of the storm and rummage through my personal file to find a couple of photos.

By now the storm has arrived and it’s clear we’re going to have a real downpour. I’m very lucky and just manage to get onto a matata down to Nyabugogo as the heavens open, and because it’s a stopping bus by the time I reach Nyabugogo the first lot of rain has been and gone and there’s sufficient lull to let me get out of the bus and to dash across the ruts and puddles to the long distance coach booking office.

Here my luck holds and I’m able to book three seats in the prime position at the front of the bus for Dar es Salaam. Fortunately I have enough money on me to pay for them, so within ten minutes I have the tickets booked, written out, paid for, and in my hand. And our names – me, Soraya and Épi –are duly written onto the seating plan for the bus. Twenty eight hours from Kigali to Dar is a major undertaking and I wouldn’t be happy unless I had seats with extra leg room. Fortunately the booking clerk, who must be almost as tall as I am, takes one look at me, laughs, and immediately tells me to sit in seat A which has the most space of all.

By now I’ve done all the business I can in Kigali and I’m anxious to get home. I’ve looked for porridge oats (unsuccessfully at a reasonable price) and lentils (no trouble at all), and dealt with a few emails.

Right now I’m dodging quite heavy rain at Nyabugogo and looking for a slow matata to take me home. I’ve got Delphine coming round for an English lesson around about two o’clock and on a slow bus I’ll be cutting things fine. To say nothing of the fact that I haven’t eaten and my stomach’s growling. So there’s a lot more leaping around puddles, dodging minibuses which are so steamed up that the driver seems to be navigating by sixth sense, and avoiding the touts who are desperate to sell up and get out of the rain. We find a bus which is going to Gitarama and I pile into the dry. To my huge surprise it sets off with only about six passengers inside. This is most unusual – normally the driver won’t think of leaving until the bus if packed full. But the rain has driven everybody under cover, and he judges that the only thing to do is to make it clear that he’s moving off and see who emerges out from under the eaves of surrounding buildings.

It means our progress is very slow, but by the time we’ve reached the edge of Kigali we’re nearly two thirds full. It continues to be a slow run; we stop every 500 metres or so, but at least the driver doesn’t hang around at the stops waiting for passengers. We just stop long enough to let people on or off. But long before we get into the middle of Gitarama Del’s ringing to see where I am and whether I’ve forgotten her. The rain seems to be following us as we drive; there’s a dry patch near Rugobagoba, but Gitarama is wet and I’m glad of my heavy cagoule on the walk from the town centre to home. Unfortunately some of the papers in my rucksack have got wet, but the essential things like photos and visa application form are untouched.

I let Del in and we make some soup quickly to fill us up and warm us, and then we do some English. Del’s very happy – a couple of months ago I lent her some money and she bought a big job-lot of beans. She’s been storing these until prices rose. Now she’s clinched a deal to sell them to a boarding school in Ruhango at a price which will enable her to repay me the loan and give her a clear profit of around 30,000 francs. That’s three months’ wages as domestique to Moira and Kerry and a very good rate of return. I just want to feel my money back in my hand (and her profit in hers) before I relax, though. But I like the idea of having been able to give someone with a bit of initiative and enterprise the wherewithal to better themselves.

Del goes and Tom comes in; meanwhile April has rung to ask us what we’re doing about eating tonight. We look at each other and shrug and say “well, why not eat out?”. So we all three go to the same restaurant as last Sunday. Becky comes along too, and we find the food is just as good again (though my goat stew, kunundera, is a bit over the top peppery tonight. I’ve almost got tears in my eyes after a few mouthfuls! The only problem with this restaurant is that it won’t allow alcohol in the place. I notice that, for this reason, it’s a favourite place for girl students from the university to come and drink and socialise. Thé africain is the drink of choice; I have some and it’s lovely. The girl students are mightily attractive, too….. Down, boy!

By the time we’ve eaten it’s too early to go home to bed, so we drift down to “Orion” for a drink. There’s football on the big screen telly (Ghana versus Brasil; 0-0 draw), and a single guitarist playing right next to us. The amplification is bearable and his style and repertoire are agreeable, too. Eventually we start back home. April has to work tomorrow near Kibuye and needs a (relatively) early night. Just outside our flat we meet Helen, who has been eating with Léonie; the girls come in and we spend a while chatting and eating Haribo jelly sweets. I’ve recently finished the first of the four “Twilight” books which are all the rage with the women volunteers at the moment. Profound literature it isn’t, but they’re quick reads and at the moment unless you can talk knowledgeably about Edward the vampire here, you’re just not into the conversation circuit at all….. Soraya texts me to say that this morning, at the VSO office, she virtually read the entirety of volume four on line. That’s how addicted everyone seems to be (not to mention sad…) Finally we call it a day and it’s off to bed and read something different.

Best thing about today – lots: sorting out money at VSO, and flights too; getting tickets booked to Dar.

Worst thing: - I’ll have to go back to Kigali on both Monday and Tuesday next week; on Monday to hand in my visa application and on Tuesday to collect it. Never mind; at least it’s only a hour or so on the bus!

Frustrating Friday

2009-10-26T09:30:00.000+02:00

October 14th

Frustrating day today.

Into the office early to try to nobble Claude about a whole series of things, but he isn’t there. I do manage to get the modem and spend an hour catching up on the world. I also manage to finally put into the post a CD of data for Ken, my successor. (So, Ken, if you’re reading this, it should be with you by mid November at the latest). There are a couple of interesting news stories to put on the blog, including the hot topic of the moment here in Gitarama, our local council’s campaign against urban bananas. The gossip is all about one old man who tied himself to his banana tree and told the council workmen that they would have kill him if they wanted to cut down the tree. It’s changing the way I look at bananas!

Today all the secondary heads, from both established and new tronc commun schools, are converging on the office, and there will be one of the late starting and long-running meetings in the “Centre Culturel”. I think I’m due to present my upper secondary census statistics, and also we need to grab all these heads to talk about teacher training placements.

While they’re waiting for the meeting to start the heads all come to me to ask for their English test results. I only have the results on my computer for three secteurs. Béatrice and Claudine between them are doing the official transcribing, and they don’t want to get involved with giving individual results until they’ve finished the “saisie” for the entire District. Cue a lot of frustrated heads from nine of the twelve secteurs!

Jeanne from Gitongati comes to ask me if I have found money to finish her admin block (no). Mugabo from Mata comes to say his new toilets are up to eaves level and he needs RwF 60,000 to finish them, and can I help him (possibly). Odette from Butare comes to ask me if I have found anyone with five million francs to get water into her new secondary section (no). Would that I were Bill Gates…..

On the bright side, I have managed to get Michael and Kersti in touch with each other because K has some contacts coming out to Rwanda next week and they want to bring scientific equipment for Shyogwe school. (They had a link with Shyogwe a long time ago). As a result of all this to-ing and fro-ing on the telephone Shyogwe is definitely going to get a decent supply of scientific equipment. You win some as well as losing some….

Well, the meeting occurs but Claude isn’t there, and neither the census nor the teacher training placements get a mention. Now that Claude is in his new role as director of everything he’s much less in the office, and when he’s there he seems very distracted. Personally, I think the job spec is far too wide and I worry for his own health in trying to cover everything.

Étienne comes in from Cyicaro so I can get from him the details of his school bank account to pass on to Moira, and the money for his water cistern repair project (RwF504,000) can be sorted out. Prudence is also in from Nyarusange and his face lights up like a beacon when I tell him that Beaminster St Mary’s has money for a water tank for him. I try to impress on him the necessity of moving fast on this one; I only have six weeks left in the country and for two of those I’ll be in Zanzibar (I hope).

Soraya’s gone to Kigali today; with any luck she’ll have been able to book us places on the bus. (You book in advance but pay 24 hours ahead of actually travelling).

The head teachers’ meeting is tedious and I needn’t be there. V. is very thorough but he doesn’t have (yet) the same flair for public speaking as Claude. He’s the ideal “back room” man and I’m beginning to see how Claude and he together, if they were both to stay within the education system, would be such an efficient combination. C., the chief executive, is there for part of the meeting. He always looks so smooth and immaculate; I try to envisage him having to leave his office and defuse confrontations over banana trees……

We have people from UNESCO talking to us about money coupons so that people can buy books or ICT equipment or pay for training courses in any country in the world. It’s all very well, but what these schools need is cash to spend here, not fancy systems to enable them to spend money they don’t have. They’re very polite but I can catch the undercurrents now, and I’m sure they feel their poverty is just being rubbed in their faces by this kind of scheme, however well intentioned. (Sorry, UNICEF, if you’re reading this, but if you’d been able to accompany your presentation with, say, enough cash to enable each school to buy a solar panel, you’d have had the entire contingent worshipping you for the next year)!

Next we have a long talk about exam centres and numbers; it’s very confusing this year because for the primary concours exams schools have been able to opt to do them either in French or in English, so there’s twice the usual amount of administration to sort out. Pupils have to travel to neighbouring schools which become exam centres; in Gitarama town me might have groups of children passing each other on the way to each other’s schools depending on which language they’ve chosen. (This is the last year when they’ll have a choice of taking exams in French; at the moment it’s also the last year of the P6 “concours” unless the government announces a last minute prolongation for 2010).

We have a head teacher from Ruhango come to talk to us about forming a national association for secondary headteachers. This seems a great idea; one of the problems at the moment is that individual heads are powerless to influence national policy. A powerful professional association, speaking as one voice, would be a potent antidote against the sort of last minute, poorly thought through curriculum change which was imposed on schools last Christmas. Such an association shouldn’t be seen as a threat to the political authority of Rwanda’s rulers; if we value education in this country then we need to be able to listen to those whom we charge with its delivery. You can’t create a world class education system if you only allow top-down, autocratic decision making.

Jeanne is at the meeting; it’s the first time I’ve seen her since her wedding. No longer in a power suit, she’s wearing married women’s robes. Anyway, we chat and I tease her as usual; it’s nice to see that married life seems to be suiting her!

At the end of the meeting we have a mélange lunch provided for us, and a good one, too. I’ve been sitting next to Emmanuel, the head of Ndago school, because he’s such a good translator for me. He looks at what I think is my full plate and laughs at me. His plate, and those of many of the other men, is cantilevered and pyramided to the max with food. He must easily have half as much again as me to get through. He explains that In Rwanda people who try to fit the maximum on their plate are called “engineers”, and it has become something of an art form. I explain that when I was a student there were pizza bars in England where you could the same thing with salads, and it was a favourite way of filling up cheaply at weekends.

In the afternoon I go back to the flat. I feel deflated – There’s very little proper work I can be going on with, at least not before I’ve cleared some protocol issues with Claude. Tom still hasn’t got his rent cheque through the Kafka-esque bureaucracy of the District Office. I can’t go out on a final day’s worth of visits to schools tomorrow because both Buramba and Kibyimba are doing revision rather than teaching. So I relax and read.

My stomach’s still not 100%; I start looking through my travellers’ health guidebook and that’s a big mistake. I manage to convince myself that I could have bilharzia, malaria, typhoid or all three judging by how I’ve been feeling these last few days. On the other hand it could just be a dodgy tummy cause by drinking too much beer and some undercooked sausages in Kigali on Saturday…. Not to worry; wait and see.

Best thing about today – getting the CD of information off to Ken

Worst thing – having all the secondary heads in one room but not being able to get them to fill in the information about teacher trainee placements.

Trouble among the bananas

2009-10-14T08:32:00.002+02:00

From today's "New Times" newspaper. There are many small patches of banana trees within the built up area of Gitarama and other settlements locally. These are popular with their owners, many of whom have moved into the town from the countryside and for whom the presence of banana trees is an emotional link with their roots. But the District wants to increase the amount of food produced from these urban parcels of land and argues that other crops are more productive than bananas. The result has been a stand off in Gitarama; everyone has been talking about it over the past few days. Here's how the news reports it:

Various residents in Muhanga District have complained about the district’s decision to cut down all banana plantations which are deemed unproductive.

The residents in Muhanga sector particularly accused Mark Munyemana, the sector agronomist, of enforcing the decision selectively.

“We support the land consolidation programme, however the agronomists have indiscriminately destroyed the plantations without prior consultations,” said Ceasaria Mukangoga, 65-year old genocide survivor and widow.

Following the complaints, district officials visited the site on October 13, and ordered the local leaders and residents who destroyed Mukangoga’s plantation to compensate her immediately.

However, Munyemana, denied ever enforcing the directive selectively, arguing that the banana plantations were cut down after informing residents, and only the unproductive plants were destroyed.

It however, took the intervention of Celse Gasana, the sector executive secretary to calm down angry residents.

Calling on residents to start cutting down their own plantations, Gasana noted that it was evident that the process had been poorly implemented.

Similar complaints have been raised in Shogwe, Cyeza, and Nyamabuye sectors.

The district started enforcing the cutting down of banana plantations at the beginning of the month, to pave way for implementation of the land consolidation programme.

The cleared areas are supposed to be used for planting what was deemed as more productive crops chosen by the community.

The governor Fidele Ndayisaba, has previously blamed local leaders for not clearly sensitising residents about the new land consolidation programme, which has caused a major misunderstanding between local leaders and citizens.

Ill again

2009-10-14T08:26:00.001+02:00

October 12th

A lousy night – I have full blown Giardia again and it makes sleeping very difficult. Not to worry; I have a day’s worth of medication and it’s easy to pick up more in the town. But I decide I won’t go into work, at least for the morning, until my stomach has settled down a bit.

So seven o’clock in the morning finds me watching videos on my computer and generally feeling sorry for myself. Tom reminds me that we could have anybody coming to do the cleaning this morning – Janine can’t because she’s working full time for FHI and Louise won’t start till next week, so I take the hint and get showered and dressed pronto!

By mid morning I’m feeling a lot better. The good thing about Tinidazole is that it kicks in straight away, and while the course of tablets takes three days you are generally feeling better after just a couple of hours.

So I go into town to the RAMA pharmacy and get my tablets. Proprietary Tinidazole costs about RwF6000 for a course of treatment; the generic version made in Nairobi costs about 250 francs. I can’t believe how inflated the proprietary drugs prices have become.

Up to the Office to drop off some papers, but Claude isn’t there and I can’t print off my inspection reports, so there’s no point in hanging around. They’ve asked Béatrice to do the transcriptions of the English tests for Mineduc, so at least the work is under way. I decide to do a quick analysis of the schools in Kiyumba; people have asked me to send them their results. I’ve barely finished when Marthe rings from Kanyanza “B” and asks for hers; fortunately I’m able to dictate them down the phone to her. We have fun deciphering my versions of some of her staff’s surnames, but that is the whole problem with me trying to transcribe long and unfamiliar people’s names all done in curly script!

I call in at the internet café and manage to get a few emails sent, then it’s back to the flat and cook up rice for lunch. Plain boiled rice with a liberal dash of soya sauce is filling, quite surprisingly tasty, and just the thing to bung you up if you’ve got a dodgy tummy.

In the afternoon I manage to get some stuff prepared for my meeting at the College of Education, which I’ve postponed till three, and set off to see Moira and the vice principal. The latter wants to see me on my own, and I wonder if I’ve done something to offend. Quite the reverse, the man wants to chat about the English secondary and university system. He’s aware that the Rwandan system is still very formal and out of step with the rest of East Africa. My problem is that the English system has become so complicated, with “on the job” teacher training and modular degree courses as well as the “AS” and A2” exams, that it’s very difficult to describe succinctly.

Then I spend an hour or so with Moira fine tuning the “responsibilities” sheet for the placements, and the data capture sheet. That’s at least two of my four jobs for the college done. There will be a day’s training for the mentors, but we can leave this until after I come back from Zanzibar. We go to the registrar to get him to agree a date, but he says he needs to consult his calendar first. So we give him my “window” of available days and wait for him to come back to us.

We think there might be one of the big set-piece meetings of headteachers from right across the District on Wednesday; if that is the case, and provided I can nobble Claude in advance, we can do all the consultations with schools on the same day. That will save an enormous amount of travelling round from school to school and be a cheap way of getting things done. So we make sure we have all the data capture sheets printed and ready and in my sweaty hand before I leave!

By now it’s getting past five o’clock in the afternoon. Soraya has rung and wants to come round to the flat, but I put her off because it’ll take me a while to get back home from Kavumu. When I get home Tom is back already and cooking for the guard. We’re off to Becky’s for a pizza night (its Christi’s actual birthday today and there’s a small group going to celebrate it with her).

I call in at Soraya’s on the way, thinking that there’s some problem she needs to run through with me, but all it turns out to be is that she was going to collect three eggs of hers I’ve left in our fridge! Charlotte’s deep into her French coaching on the sofa; Léonie’s out of sight or not home yet.

The pizzafest at Becky’s is wonderful – different pizzas, salads – thank goodness my insides are recovering enough to be able to do them justice! We play party games again – “Taboo” and others, and it’s a generally very pleasant evening. All during the late afternoon the sky has been looking more and more threatening, but somehow the storms all pass us by and when we walk Christi home and then mooch back to the flat at Gahogo the air is sultry and sticky.

Teresa rings me as we’re walking down through Ruvumeru and we talk later. Ruvumeru is surprisingly busy at nine o’clock at night; every little bar and shop is still open, there are throngs of people hanging around and loads of others walking up and down. It’s not the most secure part of town, however, and there are no lights except for dim bulbs in shops, so I never feel completely easy there.

Considering how bad I felt last night it’s been a good and productive day, with all sorts of little jobs I’ve managed to get finished. I’m more or less resigned to my school visits being a thing of the past now, unless I can have one final day out on Thursday, but I’ve met myself imposed target for visits so I’m not that bothered. And I have all this wok to get done for the College now.

Beer Fest, and Jonah in Lake Kivu

2009-10-14T08:19:00.002+02:00

October 10th – 11th

A lazy morning getting my stuff sorted out, then into Kigali at lunchtime. There’s some shopping to do first, and then a session on the internet to catch up on emails I’ve missed while I’ve been up country. Once again, the “news” as reported in the English media seems increasingly distant and irrelevant when compared to the day to day realities of living in this developing country. The squabbles between Britain’s political parties seem so petty, and most of the rest of the news is unremitting gloom with earthquakes, floods and tidal waves thrashing around the Pacific. And I discover that Obama’s been given the Nobel Prize before he’s even really got anything done. In my cynical mind I wonder if that’s a reflection of the scarcity of peace in the world at the moment, or a reflection of the world’s relief at the change of government in Washington!

In Kigali I meet up with April, Léonie and Helen and we go to the VSO office. They’ve finally finished converting a couple of rooms into a dormitory, and the girls are among the first volunteers to try it out. The room is divided off for privacy with curtains; it looks for all the world like a hospital ward. But there are clean toilets and the rooms have been redecorated, and while the key arrangements could potentially be a hassle for people travelling in from up-country, it’s lovely to have somewhere like this we can book and use for free!

During the afternoon there’s a ladies’ football match between a group of volunteers from various NGOs, and a Rwandan team which includes Jeanette Kagame, the President’s wife. Becky has volunteered to play in this, and the match is a great success. Becky manages to score a goal, and has an opportunity to chat to Mrs K after the game. Not only that, but the match is being covered by Rwandan television and when the footage is shown on Sunday, Becky’s goal scoring is there for all the world to see. It’s not every volunteer who has her goal shown on national TV, and certainly not when she’s playing against the First lady!

The beer festival is way out of town on top of a hill at a country club. There’s a spectacular view of the night lights of Kigali spread around us. There’s the usual traffic chaos to get there, but once inside there really is unlimited free beer and some very decent food to eat as well. The music is OK; there’s salsa to get us started, then a live band. The band is a muzungu affair; I’m told they all play poker together and decided to make a band about a fortnight ago….. The lead singer is (I think) the programme manager of the Rwandan Red Cross, and the lead guitarist is our friend “Mr D”, Kersti’s boss and the headteacher of the new International School in Kigali. Truly a man of many parts….

We eat, we drink (a lot) and we dance. Absolutely everybody from the muzungu community is there. Leah and her friends from Red Cross. Jacob and other teachers from the International School. And, of course, we’re knee deep in VSOs current and past, including many of the staff from the office. It’s a great evening.

Just before it finished Kersti and Nick sweep me up (I’ve vanished into the throng socialising and generally indulging myself) and we head back home before the drunken chaos of the traffic trying to leave the "do" gets under way. Considering there is free beer, you simply wouldn’t believe the number of people who have driven themselves here and will be driving back drunk through unlit earth roads jammed with other cars all trying to out manoeuvre each other. It’s a recipe for disaster.

Sure enough, as you leave the festival there’s a long hill down to the tarmac road (the Nyamata main road), but a sharp dog leg right at the junction. And here’s a saloon car which has totally failed to make the dog leg and is now almost vertical with its bonnet stuck into a deep storm water ditch. Fortunately it looks as if the body of the car isn’t affected and provided they were wearing their belts the occupants should be OK.

There are various after-the-festival parties and there are always the night clubs, but my stomach has been grumbling during the afternoon, and in any case I’m supposed to be preaching a sermon tomorrow morning. Two in the morning is quite late enough to crash onto a comfortable mattress chez Kersti and sleep like a log until daylight!

On Sunday I’m up early, and considering how much I had to drink last night (like everyone else I was determined to get my RwF5000 worth of beer…) I don’t feel too bad. A quick wash in cold water is a good tonic as well.

By nine o’clock I’m back home in Gitarama and getting my props for the sermon, and I’m the first of the muzungus to arrive at Momma’s. The sermon goes down well – Jonah is an easy story to dramatise, and the children always react well to anything participative. We slap our legs for the rain, stamp our feet for thunder, and the rocking of the boat in a storm is done with great gusto. (Though it would be more realistic if everyone were to rock in the same direction at the same time!). The children roar with laughter when Jonah gets swallowed into my sheet sleeping bag, and the little girls playing the part of the fish get the rhythm right straight away. When you read the book of Jonah in the Bible, you find there’s a final chapter about trees and worms which is both hard to understand and certainly too difficult to try to incorporate into the drama I’m doing, but the general message is clear and applicable to them. At least I feel that my final chance to work with these children has gone down well and if nothing else, they’ll remember me for this story!

In the afternoon I catch up on some sleep, then it’s off for the muzungu meal. Tonight, at Christi’s request, we’re in a different restaurant. This one is right under the main white building in the town centre. The cooking is really excellent – western style, with rich sauces and an attempt at western standards of presentation. It’s just that with a big crown of a dozen or so, the service is so slow. We’re waiting about two hours before the final dishes arrive. Fortunately we’ve anticipated all this and come prepared with card games and such like, so we entertain ourselves and the rest of the restaurant while we’re there.

On television there’s the final of the East African talent show (a sort of “Fame Academy” for the Swahili world), and lo and behold while we’re in the restaurant the Rwandan entrant wins. Cheers erupt all round the place. Well, it’s better than the football – Rwanda gets beaten and is out of the world cup qualifiers.

By the time Tom and I get home we’re both absolutely tired out, and my stomach is grumbling with a vengeance so that I’m sure I’m about to go down with something nasty….