ETHIOPIA – THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY

Normally my narratives are written in at least rough chronological order.  What has changed this approach for Ethiopia was an emotional apogee reached on my second day in the country, far up in the north country in Gondar after a relatively brief detour flight (to avoid bad Kenyan roads and armed Somali intruders) from Nairobi to the capitol city of Addis Ababa.

I was and remain greatly disgusted.  And disdainful.  And feeling revulsion in the extremis.  Three months ago, before leaving for Africa, I bought some clothes and food for a blind girl named Debre’ and her three children living in a smoky and fly-infested hovel in a garbage dump adjacent to the central market in Gondar.

Her roof was a tattered and leaky plastic tarp.  A door was non-existent.  The floor was sloping dirt.  Smoke filled the interior from a constant stick fire.  Flies rampaged around old pieces of decayed food.  A chute delivered wastewater residue streams through the middle of the hut during rainstorms.  The place had no security. Everything had to be within easy reach of the single spot Debre’ occupied near the door and next to the fire.

Debre’ had no shoes.  She had one set of clothes.  Her children were similarly clad.  She had nothing to deal with extremes of heat or cold.  And up until that time, she had slept on a crude straw-covered chaise lounge.  To get to this … uh … home … she had to sightlessly negotiate rocky ground worse than the Khumbu Icefall on Mt. Everest … barefooted.

When I arrived in Gondar finally to meet her in person, I found out ALL her new items had been stolen by fellow slum dwellers.  They took advantage of her blindness and picked her hovel clean.  The balance of my first day in Gondar was therefore spent buying her new things, and seeking a way to move her out of that hellhole and into a one- room place near the university with running water, a shower, a lockable door, no flies, no smoke, and an actual electric light.

This process took the better part of two days.  I was primarily moved by knowing that anything done for this 23 year-old (blind since age three) would go to waste without a severe change in circumstances.  This was primarily related to security.  And there was none in the garbage dump.  It is a free for all.

As a blind person, she was helpless to control who went where and whether or not she would be taken advantage of.  This had already happened with the birth of her three sons.  Debre’ knew nothing of intercourse or intimacy.  She had simply been sexually used on multiple occasions.  There was nobody standing by to help her or protect her.  The government did not show up to help in any manner at any time.

I was initially catalyzed through a visit three years ago to the Garbage Dump by Linda Wolf, a very talented photographer from Bainbridge Island, Washington State.  Linda was on a photo shoot in Gondar.  At the time, she met a selfless young man named John Yohannis, just beginning his engineering studies at Gondar University.  John makes it his work to give himself away, and has helped Debre’ and many others despite his own tender years and lack of resources.

The two kept in contact, and eventually Linda – the guiding light in this whole development -- led me to John.  The two of us met (of sorts) on Facebook a year ago.  When he learned of my around the world sojourn, he invited me to visit in Ethiopia.  I knew of Debre’ at the start of this journey.  My initial plan was I’d stop by and pay a courtesy visit and see how my modest contributions from earlier were panning out.  I hardly suspected she would become a major part of the trip.

John and I spent the better part of two days, searching for an affordable rental room (to be paid initially at least by me).  Then we sought out a new mattress, new blankets, and new sheets.  Clothes for Debre’ and her sons (plus shoes for all of them) followed.  We found allies to move her things.  Then a mini-van to transport new acquisitions and what little remained in the hovel over to a new place.

Lights, water, electricity, security, no smoke, no flies, new bedding, a compound to share chores with others who would not steal from her, plus a shower and toilet outside … what a change from just a few hours previous!

She seemed stunned at first at the new surroundings.  John was happy as a primary caretaker, to have her nearer his room at the university.  We were all happy to have her out of the elements, and in a secure compound with people who would assist her and not steal from her.  We can not see the “light in her eyes.”  But I was astonished to see the reaction on Debre’s face when she first ran her hands over the water faucet in her new place.  That made all the scouting and expenditures of the two previous days worthwhile.

 

The night ended by learning that this girl’s mother and one of her sons were being held hostage back at the garbage dump cave/hovel by police and would not be released until a fine was paid for security services allegedly provided to her!  I was shocked to learn of the actual conditions under which Debre’ lived, but the real anger emanated from the police demanding money for so-called protection before her mother and son could be released.  Where was this protection when it was so desperately needed?

Sadly, I was on a flight out of town toward Lalibela before the reunion of all four who would occupy the room could take place.  Debre’s sons had never owned shoes before, just as an example, so it was a complete thrill for me to be involved in this transition begun by John Yohannis – this selfless young man with an absolute heart of gold and a shining example to us all.

[ Note: there has been a long delay in posting this narrative.  The reason is that I did not hear from John Yohannis for ten+ days after moving Debre and buying bedding, shoes and clothes for her, her sons, and John.  I was fearful the police had interfered with his ability to bring Debre, her mother and two surviving sons together finally in a safe place after demanding a fee for “protection” while she was in the garbage dump ].

I learned finally that John had been studying for his finals at the end of his junior year in Engineering at Gondar University, and was studiously avoiding the police.  Like myself, for a time he had been unable to access the internet.  Yet, in Shakespearian terms: “All’s Well That Ends Well.”  For now at least.

Which brings us to the other, most famous part of Gondar.  Castles.  Norman style, far removed from northern Europe, built 400 years after the zenith of fortress construction had already waned there, and yet just as impressive as some of the finest strongholds and manor houses found in the upper latitudes.

As Islam spread and the Ethiopian Empire (which once spread as far east as Arabia and as far north as Egypt) constricted, new capitols were established out of necessity.  King Fasildes 1^st established this third center of power at Gondar in 1632 largely because it was astride existing trade routes and at 2300 meters in altitude was well above the mosquito and malaria zone (The first two capitols were far to the north, at Aksum, and well to the east, at Lalibela).

In time, the complex started by Fasildes saw five more castles added by his ancestors, such that the site became known as the “African Camelot.   This included “St. John’s Place” built by Fasildes’ son  in 1667, the “Grandson Palace” or Adam Seghediyasu Castle (the last powerful Gondar King, having dominion over the entire Horn of Africa) in 1682, the “King David Castle” of 7^th King Seghid Dawli in 1716, the Messih-Seghid Bedafa Palace of 1721, and the Queen’s Palace of Anditegie Mintiwab’i from 1730.

The seven hectare construct encompassing all six castles and assorted outbuildings, temples and dining halls was selected in 1979 by Unesco as a World Heritage Site.

All royalty participating in this construction chain claimed to be descended from King Soloman of Israel.  This Royal Line began with the purported liaison of Soloman and the Ethiopian Queen of Sheba, resulting in an Ethiopian born son, Menelek 1^st.  According to legend, he traveled to his Father’s homeland at the age of 25, and brought back with him upon his return to Ethiopia the fabled Old Testament Arc of The Covenant – the Holy Vessel in which were stored the 10 Commandments as delivered to Moses by God on Mt. Sinai.

All six of the castles were built of limestone.  Eggs and wheat were said to be added to the mortar, to make is stronger and weather resistant.  Much of the interior architectural influence derived from India.  Most were three plus sized stories or more, and had subterranean chambers as well.  On three occasions one or all of the castles were at least partially destroyed and had to be rebuilt.

The first resulted from an earthquake in 1764.  The second was part of an Islamic wave and Sudanese Dervish attack in the 1880s.  The third was in 1941, when the British Air Force successfully attempted to oust their Italian Axis enemies from Ethiopia by bombing the castles into capitulation.

The Italians had come to Ethiopia in 1896, hoping to add to the parade of colonial occupiers carving up Africa.  They were repulsed by Menelek II at the famous Battle of Adwa (“The Spears vs. Guns Victory”), which brought great shame to the Italians.  They returned in 1937, that time using tear gas, mustard gas, and aerial bombing.  Still, they could not occupy the whole country until ousted by the British four years later.  The Ethiopians thus take great pride in claiming they are the only African nation to never be colonized.

Some notable features of the Gondar castle complex (though not necessarily common to all six monuments) included those definitely not found in their European predecessors.  These included libraries, a sauna, lion cages, and stucco exterior coatings added to the King John Palace by the Italians in 1978.  Other highlights included gold and ivory barrel ceilings, an art gallery, fish farm, rainwater cistern, winery, dance hall, theatre, cold showers, and primitive Jacuzzi.

King Fasildes also constructed an Olympic Plus sized pool and public bath about two kilometers from the hilltop castle complex in the 1630s.  A yearly celebration called “Timket” (meaning epiphany) is held there by devotees of this heavily Christian nation in January.  This occasion commemorates Jesus of Nazareth’s baptism and attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors annually to Gondar.  A replica of the Arc of The Covenant (the Ethiopians claim the original is kept under tight security at St. Mary of Zion Church in Aksum) always precedes the public parade, and mass bathing/baptism spectacle which is the focal point of the event.

Timket culminates at the nearby Selasie Church of Debribbrhan, shaped in the form of Noah’s Ark.  It is a walled complex built in 1674 by Fasildes’ grandson Adam Seghediyasu , and the only Christian church among 44 in Gondar to survive Muslim  Mujahadeen and Sufi attacks in the 1880s.  Most impressive beyond that fact are the  fresco wall paintings which remain intact 340 years later, some appearing as if they were freshly layered just yesterday.

NAIROBI AND … THE ROAD IS NOT ALL FUN AND GAMES

I would not willingly have chosen Nairobi for a two day stopover.  But time had been allotted for Uganda which wasn’t used, scouting reports indicating the roads north of Kampala being slow and in terrible condition.  So, I arrived in Mara Masai earlier than expected, and had time left over at the end before flying out of Kenya for Addis Ababa in Ethiopia.  This bonus time is generally hard to come by.

The traveling life is not all fun and games.  Extended journeys require a lot of miscellaneous effort and prep time.  For example:  There is clothes washing and drying to do.  Future reservations (bus or air) to arrange.  Camera pix to transfer to the computer, and then label.  Hotel arrangements to research and then finalize (sometimes very late at night).  Meals to fit in.  E-mail to check, and correspondence to maintain.  There is constant note taking.  The occasional Facebook post to fit in.

Scouting queries to make of others.  Bank accounts to rectify.  Bill payments to be made online.  Day to day accounting of trip expenses.  Cash machine or ATM withdrawals to make.  Packing, and unpacking.  Travel to undertake (during which it is very difficult to write).  Waiting … frequent waiting. Hygiene to attend to (not always easy on the road).  Visits to the bar, to get your next best road tip.  There is also constant inventory control.

Is anything missing at the hotel or airport or bus depot especially, when it seems as if thousands of handlers are reaching for your bag?  Everybody it seems wants a piece of you, and not always on the basis of fair play.

And then writing.  Yes, being a writer would be so easy and so much fun if only those magical words that pop into your head that uniquely and cleverly portray each travel moment with perfect clarity and the desired pop, actually made their way automatically to the page.  Alas, they don’t.  A lot of mental gear grinding is involved, and then of course … there is all that writing!  This frequently leads to many bedtimes circa 2 to 3 AM.

  So, back to Nairobi.  A gritty town.  Too much trash.  Too much pollution.  No main arterial roads leading into the city, so that every road of decent size becomes a traffic nightmare.  But not as bad as I’d been led to believe.  The touts here are said to be among the worst in the world.  And yet this was not my experience.  I found the Nairobi people to be very friendly, very helpful, and lacking the manipulative intent so often found on the road.

Lodging was found at the Kahama Hotel, highly recommended for its “economy with style.”  General Manager Tom Nyamongo took very good care of me for the duration.  His front desk people were quite lacking in helpfulness at times.  We discussed this at length.  But his restaurant staff was among the best I’ve ever seen, anticipating every need and making constant inquiries about desired needs without being obsequious or needling.  Low season pricing added to my enjoyment of the place (always ask).

Layover times like these are perfect for writing, if you are not exhausted from the road efforts and staying up on the latest roadside attractions.  I am always grateful to the Travel Gods and Creator of The Universe when a cool lounge with ice and a full bar, soccer on the tube, a working electrical outlet, and fast wi-fi is available.

Terrorism from Islamic extremists was an issue during my stay.  Kenya has been keeping troops in Somalia to assist an international effort to limit kidnap raids and piracy originating from that haven for extortionists majeur.  Islamic sympathizers in turn have taken to random shootings and explosions to convey their distaste with this reaction (just prior to my arrival, a bus explosion killed three people in Mombasa).  I was grateful to the hotel staff therefore for ultra-tight security, and a comfortable retreat to attend to my business safely.

Another thing I was grateful for in this city was the lack of begging.  You run the risk of being considered jaded and callous, when this is not your intent or what is in your heart.  But when the hand jabs for money and the pleading and weepy eye gambit and wailing and constant attempts to sell you something – anything !!! -- sometimes seems as if it will reach no end.  At that point you just want out.  You want to retreat to your sanctuary.  You desire an arms length visit, at least temporarily.  Kenya does not allow begging.  This is a most welcome change.

There is a wonderful streetside market just outside the Kahama Hotel and center of town in Nairobi.  Missing is the putrid smell found in most open markets, especially those involving fish or meat not kept under wraps.  The vendors are just as likely to want to chat as they are to sell you something.  The variety of perishables is amazing (including mint for caipirhinas and limes for gin and tonics).   The hawkers are very conversant in English, and quite willing to bargain.

But the best part of Nairobi is its National Museum.  Unlike most of eastern and southern Africa museums, this one has a modern structure (completed in 2008), knowledgeable staff, full descriptions of exhibits in multiple languages, and a design flow that lends to the visitor’s ultimate understanding of Kenyan history, culture, nature and art.

Of the 19 galleries located on site, five particularly stood out.  They were: The Hall of Mammals, which traced the development of warm blooded and hairy creatures over time with a focus on their adaptation to movement, feeding, and protection.  The exhibition directs the curious to points of both divergence and congruence in the evolution of the mammal world.

The gallery of highlights in Kenya’s history devotes itself to three phases: pre-colonial Kenya, the period of colonial rule (primarily under the British) and then independent Kenya starting in the 1960s.  Particular focus is given to the building of the Kenya Uganda Railway, colonial land grabs favoring white immigrants over natives, and how two world wars shaped the lives of Kenya citizens and prepared them for independence.

The very spacious Birds of East Africa” exhibit features over 1300 anatomically correct displays of birds from throughout Kenya and her immediate neighbors.  Almost all of the specimens have been prepared by a taxidermist and appear as if ready to take flight.  I particularly enjoyed the amazing displays of eagles, owls, and horn billed birds.

Cycles of Life – that is the theme for an entire upstairs wing devoted to how Kenyan communities transit from one stage of life to another: from birth to youth to adulthood to old age, death and transitioning into ancestry … something not thought about much in the western hemisphere.  These stages are filtered through and put into the context of Kenya’s rich culture.

Probably nothing epitomizes Kenya’s heritage more than the “Cradle of Humankind” gallery.  Here one gets the chance to view an absolutely unique display of evolution from apes to hominids to pre-humans through to the emergence of man anywhere from 200,000 to 60,000 years ago.   Such famous fossils as the “Lucy” skull (australopithicus africanus, about 2.5 million years old) are on display here.

Abundant credit is given in this spectacular gallery of primarily skulls to Richard Leakey and his wife and children, a famous family of paleontologists who have been credited with most of the major discoveries of the chain of fossils in the human evolutionary track.  Among these finds, the majority have been found in Kenya in the famous Rift Valleys, Olduvai Gorge and Lake Tahana areas.

THREE DAYS IN A MUD HUT WITH THE MASAI TRIBE (MARA MASAI)

Writing this post, in retrospect, is one of the most fun entries so far in 60 days in Africa.  The personable Masai Tribe, famous for its antiquated yet colorful costumes and adherence to a cattle based culture, has so much going on day-to-day in terms of provoking your senses that for a writer, it is hard to know where to begin.

So my beginning is at dusk, after an all-night nine hour ride from Kampala to Kisamu, a five hour continuation ride to Narok from Kisamu, and a final three hour leg to the edge of the Masai Mara National Park.

Oddly, I am not far from where I left a little over a week ago when departing Arusha for Mwanza at the southern shore of Lake Victoria.  Now the encirclement is nearly complete.  Arusha is southeast of me now, Lake Victoria having been circumnavigated, with only the Masai Mara National Park and The Serengeti Plain laying between stops.

Upon arrival at Ewangan Masai Cultural Village – merely two kilometers outside the Sekenani Gate of the Masai Mara National Park – I am introduced to James Ole Lesaloi.  James and I had communicated by e-mail previously, and he had responded to my inquiry about experiencing a genuine Masai living experience.  I had been warned many times about being treated to a Masai Hollywood song and dance show, as loosely experienced in Swaziland nearly six weeks previously.  It feels as if we have known each other at length already, and our intro is redundant.

James wastes little time with words.  His modus operandi is to immerse me within village life immediately.  This begins with a welcome of African tea, essentially a homegrown brew of locally sourced herbs and Kenyan tea leaves that tastes very much like chai tea.

I am quickly adorned with the traditional Shuka, the orange or red shoulder robe the Masai are famous for, and hustled off to the kraal (almost like corral).  Each village – and there are many within easy walking distance, holding from 4 to 100 families – has this at its center.  It is meant to protect sheep, goats, and cattle at night while the Masai sleep.

They are made of sturdy wooden branches, sometimes bound with wire, interwoven to form an impenetrable barrier even to lions..  At times the kraal will be ringed with acacia thorn cuttings up to four feet thick and six feet high, to keep lions from leaping over for a quick and easy meal.

There are four families in Ewangan village totaling 32 people.  James is the elder here, though not a chief.  He is one of the more accomplished Masai men locally, being responsible for the construction of an area well in 1999 (prompted by the outbreak of typhoid fever), the local health clinic, and the internet/learning center as part of an NGO enterprise known as Semadep (SEkenani MAsai DEvelopment Project).  Among the partners in this entity are the global computer giant, Cisco.

It is the job of the women to carry water from the well to the individual family huts.  To do the cooking.  Collect the firewood.  And build the huts.  The huts are made from vertical poles driven stoutly into the ground, interwoven with horizontal saplings, with a sturdy pole or small timber roof.  This frame is covered with a “sticky mud” combination of dirt, water, cow dung, and ash to promote water repellency.

Interestingly, women build the huts.  It is thought by the Masai that a man would go insane building such a hut or attempting to climb on or repair the roof.  I had to work very hard not to snicker at this revelation.  It seemed very convenient, for starters.

The men, in turn, herd the cattle and sheep and goats.  They protect the animals. They build and repair fences.  They build the fires.  And they provide the leadership (chief, blacksmith, and medicine man).  Only the midwife is in a position of female based authority amongst the Masai.

Cattle are everything to these vibrant folk.  A wife costs 10 cattle.  A good female cow that can provide both milk and continuous offspring will bring $500 from cattle traders in Nairobi.  A large steer may bring $500 also.  The average cow is likely to bring in $250 to $300 on the average.  The grazing land (entirely owned by the Masai, who covertly use the National Park lands also, but only from dusk to dawn) is entirely free.

The cattle provide meat, milk, hides, blood for food supplements, and eventually cash to the Masai.

The men and women dress quite a bit the same.  Men wear a Shuka or outer robe, around both the waist (over underwear or swimsuit type jams) and the shoulder.  They also wear mostly car-tire sandals (James, being the innovator that he is, wears desert type chukka boots instead).  Their kit is completed with a knife, a walking stick, a Rungu or “knocking stick,” bows and arrow when on walkabout or herding, spears, and beaded jewelry with tiny metal plates that makes a very pleasant chime when in motion.

Women differ with the addition of a marrida or skirt.  In addition, defying the agelessness of the Masai uniform, these days a cell phone is part of any kit carried or worn by a Masai -- no matter what their gender.  This serves two purposes.  To act as a walkie talkie when communication in the presence of wild animals is necessary, and to serve as a money system with electronic transfer of funds through a digital system known as M Pesa.  Thus cash is often not necessary in Masai circles.

It takes awhile to see the pattern.  But the vast majority of Masai are missing two of their front teeth, either top or bottom.  This began 200 years ago with the outbreak of disease.  The teeth were removed so afflicted Masai could take medicine without having to open their mouths.  It has since become a custom.  The practice also helps to identify Masai from 42 other tribes that take up residency in Kenya.

During the first night – though I am quite unaware of it – we experience a number of visitors.  Zebras this time.  They generally will come in or near the villages, knowing it is safe territory – an area the lions and other predators are reluctant to enter.  The first warning comes from Masai dogs.  They make one type of growl with harmless animals such as Zebras.  Quite another (angry with high pitched urgency) when lions are present.  In that case, each able bodied male quickly makes his way out of his family hut, fully armed and prepared to drive the intruders off with deadly force.

“Family” is a rather loose concept with the Masai.  It is not always nuclear family based.  Many times, a close relative will reside within a family hut, even though their own parents or siblings may not be all that far away.  Many young men are sponsored by families not of their own blood.  Marriages are either arranged, or worked out naturally amongst couples themselves, but always from a different tribe.  Intermarriage between members of the same tribe (and especially if you have the same surname) is strictly forbidden).

My Swahilo style meal the first evening consists of thick maize dough ugali (like a very solid mashed potato mixture), endless chai African tea, spaghetti type noodles with an overlay of thin-sliced carrots, cabbage, green peppers and tomatoes, and a mash of lemon soaked kale that tasted in the end very much like spinach.

I pass on any goat/sheep/steer meat as protein content, being disposed toward a very strong seafood preference.  My second dinner was fried potatoes and pop (a doughy mashed potato mixture made from maize flour) and a stew combining onions and tomatoes and small portions of goat meat.

Breakfast is composed of thin pancake chapatis with a distinct garlic flavor, more chai tea, coffee, bananas, bread and butter, sausages, and fried eggs.  The luncheon meals consisted of noodles , chai tea of course, and either tomato and onion sauce, or the previously described mix of carrots, cabbage, tomatoes, and green peppers.   In all cases, the food is substantial and very tasty, without being filling.  It was prepared by Angela, the village pre-school teacher.

My second day with the Masai begins with a visit to the local pre-school.  The 3 and one-half to 12 year-olds, divided into three ranks, start at approximately 9 AM and continue until early afternoon.  Theirs is a combined single classroom, and very spartan.

Sixteen desks seating two students each (three in a pinch) serve as focusing platforms when the children are not in motion.  Which they frequently are.  I did not see a blackboard.  Nor much evidence of writing materials, or pencils.  Angela (the cook) is a very enthusiastic teacher.  The youngsters are only too happy to get a break from their regular learning, to entertain the Mzungu with singing, poems, recitations, the Kenya National Anthem, and an amusing question and answer period.

A walkabout is the next order of business on my partially arranged agenda.  We tour the vast areas outside the village where cattle are herded and watered.  Most of the grassland at this time of year is dry and brown.  What water remains for the cattle is a slow, brownish trickle.  They drink enthusiastically from this meager resource anyway.

I am introduced to the “Sausage Tree.”  It has pod-shaped fruit, which, when mixed with honey and water and sugar and left to ferment for five to seven days, results in Masai beer.  Quickly followed by the “African Green Heart Tree” – for cleaning the teeth, and providing antiseptic relief to minor cuts and burns.  The “Sandpaper Coder” Tree follows.  Its rough leaves are used for cleaning stained fingernails, smoothing walking sticks as a sort of sandpaper, and acting as a friction agent in the start of fires from scratch.

Of much greater interest, is having a huge ball of fresh elephant dung pointed out.  Then being told it is often boiled, and the residue liquid utilized to soothe the bellies of babies with upset stomachs.  I find myself thinking: Who was the genius who first figured this solution out as a remedy for indigestion?

Lessons with a Masai bow and arrow soon follow.  The bow doesn’t seem powerful enough to have much draw to it.  And the practice arrows seem to float and fall back too much into the wind, like a plane in the process of stalling.  But when armed with iron tips, they become lethal weapons.  I fired one about eighty yards as if targeting a lion that never went more than four feet off the ground, steady as she goes all the way.  I came away with renewed admiration for primitive technology.

There is hardly any rest time back at the village before James has a venture in to “town” organized.  This consists of a short walk, first to what is termed the small shopping area where basic meal necessities are available, followed by a ten-minute walk to the large(r) shopping area.  Here one finds more substantial foodstuffs, cold liquids (including beer, mercifully), auto parts, small engine repair facilities, and the departure point for most public transport back to Narok, Kisamu, and Nairobi.

100 yards beyond is the Sekenani Gate to Masai Mara National Park.  This is Kenya’s most famous animal reserve.  I am lucky to be here in the quieter and reduced-cost low season.  The high season, from roughly June to October, is already sold out.  All lodge space is gone for this upcoming tourist rush until almost Christmas.  It is one of Kenya’s cash cows, in the same way that The Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater is to Tanzania.  Park entry fees cost $80 per person per day.

The Mara Masai has the Big Five in abundance – lions, leopards, water buffalo, elephants, and rhinos – but it is “The Migration” which draws visitors here as opposed to other nearby parks.  Each year, starting in April, 1.3 million wildebeest follow the green grass sprung loose by seasonal rains northward from their December to April base in the southern Serengeti to the Mara Masai.  Then return come November in a 2000 kilometer round trip.

 

There are legendary pictures (both still and moving) of these herds being so massed together at the Grumeti and Mara Rivers, that they trample each other attempting to cross.  In some years, twenty to thirty thousand of them will drown in rain swollen waters or be eaten by waiting crocodiles.  Yet the Circle of Life continues.

The crossing takes place regardless year after year, both coming and going according to the season.  It is the greatest mammal migration on the planet (though the 10-million strong fruitbat migration is numerically superior).  I am saddened that it will not be within my window of opportunity to see this grand spectacle.

On the way back to the village, James rather modestly points out three samples of his leadership initiatives from the last decade – the multi-village well, the internet/learning center, and the health center.  Along the way, I witness a rare planting of olive trees, their carefully organized and irrigated rows well-protected from four-legged poachers by a strong wire fence with stout wooden anchors every eight feet or so.

Most fruits and vegetables at the villages have to be imported.  The soil nearby is fertile enough, and water is in sufficient quantity for at least semi-regular irrigation.  The problem is free-range animals.  Zebras, goats, sheep, rabbits, the occasional wildebeest, giraffes, and especially elephants will strip a garden bare before it gets two inches off the ground.  There is not enough fencing to go around (or sufficiently strong enough) to protect against such intruders.

Before another of Angela’s pleasing dinners, I get a chance to watch the local children play soccer.  They do not have an inflatable leather ball.  Which is probably fortuitous, considering the profligacy of thorny acacia bushes and trees nearby.  Instead the children fashion what is called a Juala Ball – ingeniously prepared from rolled up plastic bag wrappers, covered with elastic socks for the bounce and shape factor, and bound evenly with nylon string to keep the whole package together.  It is surprisingly reactive and live as a sporting utensil.

The evening concludes with more chai African tea, and a Masai Holy Fire – fire begun with a Sandpaper Coder Tree twig, spun back and forth into a red cedar plank base, until the resulting friction gives off a spark or two.  This is carefully screened from wind, cultivated with breath, and fueled with a bird’s nest, dried grass or clump of dried-out elephant scat.  The ceremony is saved for special occasions, and to keep Masai youth in contact with traditional means of survival.  For the bulk of occasions, matches are used to create fire.

Around the campfire, I learn of a major issue amongst the Masai people from James’ nephew, Kermut.  He is one of those well-traveled and multi-lingual Masai, who went to school for two years in Utah, completed his Bachelor’s Degree at the University of Oregon in Eugene, and is now working at his Master’s Degree in Conflict Resolution at the U of O as well.  He hopes to work for the United Nations or The Gates Foundation in Seattle eventually.

That issue as explained to me was that, even though the Masai are the most visible of the Kenya population groups (and the most heavily promoted), as a collective they do not benefit economically from the hordes of tourists that come to Kenya and her national parks – ironically in large part to see the Masai.

This is because the Masai are relatively poor, they are said to generally lack the education and skills needed by lodges and other provisioners of the tourist trade, and many of the jobs are filled by decision makers who are decidedly not Masai.  These bureaucrats and managers from Kisamu, Narok, Nairobi and elsewhere generally operate on the nepotism system.

They perform favors for friends and relatives and engage in the “I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine” framework for handing out jobs.  The Masai end up on the losing end, even though they are the locals living closest to park lodges and have the greatest knowledge of the local landscape.

The only jobs that engage Masai in numbers representative of their portion of the population within the Mara Masai are park rangers and safari drivers.  The park ranger job is difficult (let alone dangerous, since it involves battling armed poachers) and requires special knowledge of park lands in detail.  The driving jobs are seasonal.  This is one reason James is working on improving educational initiatives for Masai on the village level, so that tribesmen will qualify for more employment opportunities.

On my final day in the village prior to an afternoon departure for Nairobi, I get a chance to see seven Masai warriors perform traditional dances for my exclusive benefit.  Included in this performance is the high jumping “Lion Dance.”  Watching the vertical leap of these colorful and bejeweled youth, I could not help but think: Where are the NBA scouts hiding? The show was quite athletic, if not artistic.

The young men are all graduates of the circumcision rites of passage, which each Masai male must undergo around the age of 15 or 16 (instead of one week of age as in the United States).  There is quite a ceremony surrounding this transition to manhood. He is prepped in advance, washed, and given special clothing.  When facing the knife itself, the youth must not cry out or flinch his muscles.  To do so humiliates himself and his family, and ostracizes him from society up until the age of 30 or so.

The operation takes approximately 30 seconds.  The young men tell me they hope the knife has been sharpened and the procedure is over quickly.  Afterward, they are honored at a great feast, and given gifts of cattle and sheep.  They are not allowed to do difficult work, but instead are given about 21 days to heal, and then isolated for the most part for up to 3 months.  Upon return from this less-than-complete isolation, they are ready to take on the full complement of adult responsibilities.

Upon parting, I am made sport of a final time by these engaging, hard working, humorous, personable, and highly affectionate people.  They call me a “Olkirokoi.”  That means one who is a traveler, who doesn’t stay home, doesn’t have cows or sheep or goats, and does not worry about their family (or preparing for the future).  It is a tag I take with much light heartedness.  If only they knew how strongly I am considering having this tattooed on my forehead!

RWANDA – FINDING MY MOMENT OF MAGIC

There was only one real objective for me to come to the tiny East African country of Rwanda.  To visit its Genocide Memorial in the capitol city of Kagili, commemorating the needless deaths of more than one million Rwandans in April of 1994.  Out of a population of approximately 7 million, fully one third of the population was displaced, and one-sixth of the population was murdered.  Two-thirds of Rwandans became refugees in some ways during the terror.

Imagine the outrage, had these proportions been manifested in the United States, Europe, India, China, Brazil, Russia, or any so-called “civilized” country.

I wanted to know what steps could possibly lead to such an outrage against humanity, why nothing was done to prevent it by the International Community, and what is being done to prevent such occurrences taking place in the future anywhere on our planet?

This is what I learned.

Rwanda is made up of three primary tribes: The majority Hutu, the minority Tutsi, and a largely invisible super-minority consisting largely of pygmy gene stock called Twa.  In 1994 the Hutu make up about 84% of the population, the Tutsi nearly 15%, and the Twa about 1%.

The killing started on a minor scale yet with some regularity in 1959 at the time of independence from Belgium, with Hutu systematically eliminating Tutsi.  Additional pogroms were enacted in 1963 and 1973.  And then all hell broke loose in 1994.

The reason why is hard to decipher exactly.  But several major factors contributed.  Two tribes that had the same language, the same customs, the same culture, and had intermarried frequently were set at odds against each other by the occuping colonial power, Belgium.  The politics of divisiveness was deliberately promoted in order to maintain the need for continued Flemish rule by playing the two primary tribes in Rwanda off against each other.

Starting in 1932, identity cards were required.  The previously indistinguishable countrymen were now recognized through completely artificial groupings: if you owned more than ten cattle, were tall and thin you were labeled a Tutsi.  If you were shorter, stouter and appeared poor, you were labeled a Hutu.

This played off an earlier obsession by first the Germans and then the Belgians to notice and accentuate anthropological differences between the three tribes in ways that had never been noticed or catalogued previously.   The three groups did little to reject this classification.

The Belgians then told the majority Hutu: “The Tutsi think you are stupid.  You are being taken advantage of by them.  They will rule over you.”  The Catholic Church exacerbated the growing problem by segregating the two largest groups educationally.  The politics of envy and separation were thus promoted at every level.

Eventually, as killing of Tutsis accelerated, a large portion of them escaped as refugees to Uganda, Tanzania, Kenya and The Congo (formerly Zaire).  From 1959 to 1973, over 700,000 Tutsis emigrated from Rwanda.  From 1990 on, the Tutsi tried to organize a negotiated return to Rwanda.  They tried at first to deal peaceably with the existing Hutu power structure, and Hutu entrenchment.  They were told: “The glass is already full.  There is room for no more water.”

The Tutsi then became militant, seeking alternative means to redress their flight and systematic persecution.  They were led by Paul Kagame (currently The President of Rwanda) and his Rwanda Patriotic Front (or RPF), a general in the Uganda Army who was a refugee himself.  The Hutu in turn decided if the Tutsi were going to return by force, they would kill their still remaining rivals in Rwanda.

The stage was set for a massive elimination of Tutsi from the face of Rwanda.  The army was cleansed of Tutsi. The Kangura, a hate-inciting propaganda platform financed by Hutu, began daily lambasting the Tutsi. An accompanying radio station, KTLM, added its voice to the vitriol.  Tutsi were soon ordered to register with Hutu authorities.

A “Hitler Youth” type of Hutu paramilitary squads called The Interahamwe were organized into a militia, and fueled by the extremist media attacks. I still remember a prominent Hutu leader (probably militia founder Major General Habyaramana Juvinal) holding press conferences proclaiming: “We will find these cockroaches and smash them all.” 

 “Final Solution” planning was being prepared at all levels.  Hutu media reports indicated they were about to be attacked by the Tutsi, and “They would leave no survivors.”  All that was necessary was a spark to ignite the deliberately positioned powder keg.  When a plane carrying the Presidents of both Rwanda and Burundi crashed mysteriously in early April of 1994, the final explosion occurred.

House to house searches for Tutsi notables began from pre-existing lists.  Roadblocks were set up at each intersection.  Escape became virtually impossible.  The killing was systematic and dehumanizing.  Rarely was it done quickly.  Most was preceded by humiliation, the deliberate infliction of pain (tendons cut so the victims could not escape, allowing slow torture over time), rape, and then death.  Dispatch by machete was the Hutu coup de grace weapon of choice.  Many times, Tutsi were forced to kill their own family members, before being snuffed out themselves.

The world at first refused to believe such atrocities were taking place, and then on the scale that they were.  The United Nations military commander on the scene begged for more troops and the authority to use them.  He was denied.  He later said that, given 5000 troops, he could have ended the genocide within days.  Instead his mission was reduced, and the UN retreated.   Eleven Un peacekeepers were butchered by Hutu militia.  Still the United Nations did nothing.

Even worse, the French – who somehow felt simpatico with the Hutu – told a group of Tutsi Bisesero tribesman who had retreated to the hills that the killing was over, it was now safe to return to their towns and villages.  When they did so, 98% (49 of 50,000) were butchered by the Hutu.  Later, the French provided a safe retreat corridor for the Hutu militia on their way out of the country (to the Congo) just ahead of the victorious RPF advance of July, 1994.  Guerilla problems continue there to this day.

Overall more than 1 million Tutsi and moderate Hutus were killed by the Hutu within 100 days.  Among them were Hutu Prime Minister Agatha Uwirinsivimana, who had preached peace and a cessation of the hate war being preached over the radio and television.  She was murdered on the first day of the genocide, April 6^th.

The miracle that has emerged in the 20 years since is that a genuine peace and reconciliation has taken place within Rwanda.  This is primarily due to Paul Kigame.  The commanding general of the RPF was appointed to office in 2000 after six years of neutral interim government supervised by the United Nations.  He served three years in this capacity, and has since been elected twice as President to successive seven-year terms.  His lat term runs out in 2017.

Taking his cue from Nelson Mandela 2500 miles away in South Africa, Kigame invited the Hutus back from The Congo, Tanzania, Burundi and Kenya and insisted his fellow Tutsi not take steps toward avenging the slaughter they had just experienced.

In an Abraham Lincoln like gesture he insisted that the government take the lead in not just preaching but also demonstrating unity and reconciliation.  He insisted on fair treatment for all.  Kigame announced that tribal affiliations were to be de-emphasized and would no longer be allowed in public discourse.  “There is no more Hutu.  No more Tutsi.  We are all Rwandans,” he repeated over and over.

In the meantime, justice was served on two different levels.  The first was the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda.  This was to mete out penalties to high level perpetrators of the carnage, such as Johani Kambanda and Theoneste Bagasora, Chief of Cabinet of the Ministry of Defense/coordinator of the Interahamwe death squads and mastermind of the genocide.

On the personal level, Rwanda fell back on their traditional tribal or Gacaca justice system to remember if not revenge individual acts of murder and cruelty.  Hearings have been held, and in some cases sentences imposed.  Over 100,000 persons have stood trial for their war activities under the Gacaca system.

One lingering effect of the hate campaign levied by the Hutu against Tutsi was the deliberate fomentation of a rape campaign by men known to be infected with the HIV virus.  As a result, many children now in their late teens and early twenties were born with AIDS.  This presents special problems in itself.  Their mothers, in the meantime, continue to experience and probably will for life medical problems and severe post traumatic stress disorder on a systemic scale.

In the Genocide Memorial, I also learned about other genocides throughout history.  Those included Armenia, Namibia, Poland, Germany, Cambodia, and The Balkans (formerly Yugoslavia).  The intent of any effort is to humiliate, dehumanize, promote mass suffering and deprivation, promote mass rape and murder, cause the victims to lose their culture and identity, and ultimately, to lose their place in history.

The solution is awareness … awareness of the causes, the effects (and how these traumas  affect all of us on a global scale, not just the direct victims), the teaching of unity and reconciliation (both before and after carnage takes place), and rapid international intervention.  Had the United Nations intervened earlier on even a small scale like the United States and European Community did during the Balkan crisis, the tragedy in Rwanda never would have taken place.

While on the bus to the capitol of Kagili in Rwanda, I was introduced to a young man named Eric Mugdbnake.  Pastor Eric.  A 30 year-old Rwandan who had been born in Uganda at a refugee camp of Tutsi parents.  Both passed away in the camp, and Eric was brought by his aunt to Rwanda immediately following the genocide as a ten year-old.  Accompanying him was his nine year-old cousin, Blaise Nkurikiyineza and an assortment of other relatives.  Blaise also lost his parents in the camps.

Eric invited me to stay with he and his extended family, such as it was, in his home on the outskirts of Kigali.  I gladly accepted.  Not for the money savings (which was nice, but illusory).  For the experience.  The opportunity to press the flesh with real people, living real lives, experiencing real problems, and creating new opportunities for themselves daily.

These two orphans are now in the process of raising orphans themselves.  The residue of mothers who have died of AIDS, mothers who have abandoned children due to the crushing emotional stain of conception through rape, and families who simply are too poor and can not afford a child (or another child).  Eric is Pastor of Kigali Maranatha Pentecostal Church.  Both are founders of The Strong Roots Foundation.

The Foundation takes primary care of 12 young orphans (3 to 12 year of age) full-time.  They are housed in the church, which is rented for a pittance from a caring and generous landlord. The church is made of adobe brick walls, has thin pole roof joists overlayed with sheet metal, large wire-mesh windows, and a dirt floor.  Pews line half the floor space.  Several sleeping mats for the children takes up one end of the church.  There are no lights.  A pit toilet is out back in a separate outhouse.

A single speaker’s dais is placed up front.  And not much else.  No furniture.  No Bibles.  There are no lights.  No chalkboard.  No games or toys or separate sets of clothes or shoes for the children.  In addition, perhaps a dozen more children of similar age reside with sponsor families, who at least house and attempt to feed them.  Another dozen from 12 to 17 seem to largely take care of themselves, though they count on the orphanage and foundation for resources.  They often help with the younger kids.

I knew in advance by prior arrangement that I would be visiting with these orphans.  The option was given me to visit them in a house, or at the church.  The latter was selected simply because it was their living environment and they would likely be most at home there.  I had no idea how much these innocents would steal my heart.

They have nothing.  Except for Eric and Blaise and each other and a few older orphan role models who help take care of them.  They are so shy.  So dependent.  They know nothing of the outside world.  They don’t know how much they don’t know.  And they are not aware, of how much they are missing out on.  They don’t know where their next meal is coming from.  They are living life at its simplest level.

During my afternoon wander in Kigali after visiting the Genocide Memorial, I came across a soccer ball.  Complete with pump and inflation needle.  As a soccer goalie, I knew this would be something I’d purchase far in advance.  I just didn’t know for who.  Now I knew.  The ball was given to the kids just short of dusk. It is their very first toy or piece of sporting equipment.  I have never seen such instant delight in my entire life.

 

The children played a combination of rugby, American football, keepaway, and soccer with it.  Not three seconds after handing the ball over, I almost had to Red Card one ten year-old girl for a “High Kick.”  The boy I initially handed the ball to held it at head level.  This did not stop the girl from trying to kick it out of his hands in a modified bicycle kick, despite the fact the ball was over her head.  Where did they get these moves?

The visit with the children is all too brief.  They can not take too much stimulation all at once.  But I know instantly the visit with them is a high point of the trip, and because of them Rwanda is my favorite destination of this epic journey.  My plans will be modified in the future, in order to leave more gifts and support money for them.

Upon leaving for the bus station for the Uganda border, I leave Eric and Blaise with a surprise $500 donation.  And promise more, especially if I can get friends and fellow supporters to also pitch in to this terrific need.  It is my desire they have mattresses to sleep on, a change of clothes and shoes, more toys, flashlights, pencils and paper and reading materials, lighting for their church and sleeping quarters, and most of all, predictable meals.

I gradually come to understand upon leaving that it is the children who are MY gift.  And I am inspired to write:

We are merely vessels

Not donors from an ivory tower.

The works that are sent through us,

Were deigned by a higher power.

We come not hoping to leave our mark

Nor seek out personal favor.

In the final tally of our gifts,

We learn we are nobody’s savior.

Our role is not to benefit

Nor to reap what others sow.

Our task is not to seek out credit,

But to contribute to The Flow.

For we are not the givers

But recipients with opened eyes.

The gifts that are shared between us,

Are what bond our mutual ties.