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Cotonou turnup and curious observations in Benin

March 26, 2019
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We left Ouidah by night to head to Cotonou to turn up. One of the strangest things I noticed during our Benin trip was how we gassed up the car. Most times we would pull over to the roadside to a shack sometimes manned by kids with tens of 5 liter bottles and lots of refilled alcohol 1 or 1.5 liter bottles, negotiate for petrol and the fuel would be funneled into the car. . After checking into our Airbnb, we went to a cute little place to eat and watch a Congolese live band. Next stop....the dunda. I had carried full dunda regalia...a cute little blue dress and heels....The little blue dress was one of the victims of the Ghana/African black soap disaster in my suitcase... How did I not start lathering in the club when African black soap met sweat? Let's just say I was not winning at life that night..but I was so fresh and so clean:-)

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Anyway, when we got to the club, there were very many people outside....and many of them looked like they were born in the late 90s or early 2000s. Most of the girls were wearing sneakers....Aich...I turned to Cediced Soundiata Keita and asked, "Please don't tell me we're coming to the beach and you let me wear heels and a soapy freakum dress..."But I serve a living God. It was actually a club club...the only little hiccup was that they were throwing a huge Halloween party... Hence all the youth around. Feeling a bit silly having come to a Halloween party as ourselves, while most people were walking around looking like Satan's disciples, we went straight to the bar for drinks. Moving past the dangling skeletons, the snakes made of fabric, the infant corpses that decorated the roof, we finally got to the bar. After a drink, I realized that while this might not have been the party I expected, it was the one I was meant to be at. The music was really really really good! Everyone was happy. Danceoffs were happening at every corner of the place. It turned out to actually be a very very very fun night of dancing and drinking till 4am. As I stood there lathering in my sweat soaked, African black soap infused dress, smiling at the foam snakes as I recalled the lovely afternoon with the pythons of Ouidah, moving past dangling skeletons and spider webs, passing youth with grim reaper costumes as I shook my nyash to Davido beats, I thought to myself....""Cotonou turn up has really not disappointed even if it has taken a different form from what I envisioned."

In Benin Tags travel blogger, travelling, traveling, trip, travel, travelblogger, Cotonou, Benin
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Arrival in Benin - Grand Popo, Snake Temple in Ouidah etc.

March 12, 2019
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I was elated to get to my 50th country..my 18th African country - Benin. Better yet, we just walked into Benin from the Togolese-Beninois border. Benin does not need visas for Africans. Amazing, isn’t it? Check out more Africa visa latest updates here.

I experienced so many new and magical things during my Togo-Benin-Ghana trip. A few highlights...Got to Grand Popo, a resort town 20 minutes from the Togo-Benin border on Friday afternoon...Trip was quick, visa process was easy....no visas needed for most Africans coming to Benin. Only hiccup was that my African/Ghana black soap shower gel poured on most of the clothes I came with.... You will soon see why this is important. Spent a lot of beach time in Grand Popo... Lovely lovely views...I might not encourage anyone to dive in wholeheartedly into the ocean though...it has those life threatening waves and currents that I have come to respect and fear from the Atlantic as an Indian ocean typa girl...

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Saturday we left for Ouidah - the home of Vodou religion..Forget what Hollywood told you about the religion (poking holes in dolls, hexes etc..) Vodou is a religion primarily practiced by the Fon people of Benin, Nigeria, Ghana and Togo and by people of similar descent in the Americas and Caribbean countries. In Vodou, all creation (plants, animals, objects) are divine and therefore contains the power of the divine. In Ouidah, the pythons of the snake temple are revered and worshipped. I'm not their spokesperson, but they might be the happiest snakes worldwide.. during the day, they roam the city, visit people's houses and are treated with courtesy. At night, they return to the snake temple.

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I should add though that I have never been scared of snakes in my life. In fact as a child, I wished to have a pet snake - in addition to the many animals we already had at home. My dad, who also loved all animals... (Mum loves animals, but is terrified of snakes), used to sometimes take me and Wakonyo Kimeria to snake park. He would play with the big snakes and we would get to play with the small ones...So as much as I will go running for the hills if I see a cockroach, grasshopper or cricket....I don't get the same response for snakes. I think they are wonderful. Snake temple was nice. I got to cuddle some pythons, then we went into their main rooms....I loved that our guide knocked before we got in....I think snakes also like a heads up and we took off our shoes as we got into the main snake room housing 50 pythons. Quite curiously, the snake temple is located directly opposite the Ouidah cathedral.

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In Benin Tags travel blogger, traveling, trip, Holiday, vacation
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First days in Lome!

February 26, 2019
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First days in Lome! It was a great Dakar-Abidjan-Lome flight where I bumped into my amazing Ghanaian writer friend Ayesha Harruna Attah who lives in Popenguine....Please please get your copy of The Hundred Wells of Salaga. We got to sit together all the way to Abidjan, laugh, tell stories, video call her cute little baby and eat lots of chocolate at the Abidjan airport.She was on her way back home to Accra then to Lagos for Ake book festival.

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I got into Lome at 9:30pm on Thursday night. Was a relatively quick process of getting my 7 day visa on arrival ($35) with option of extending for free if I go to immigration office..an option I pursued given I was crossing road borders into Ghana, Benin and back to Lome. For the millionth time in my travels, I had forgotten my yellow fever card. I had to pay for that. Immigration folks were so friendly..The guy who was writing my new yellow fever card for me asked me if anyone was meeting me at the airport and gave me his phone to call him....The guy who was helping me with the trolley also joyfully offered me his phone to call my friend. I let him know that I had already contacted him. Meeting my friend was great! We're actually quite close now though we've never met in person. We met on Instagram in mid 2017 and have been talking since. Our plans to link up before in ATL or NY (where he lives) never materialized, but we've constantly been in touch. He's Togolese-Congolese and left his banking job in NY to start up Wezon (a travel company looking to serve the African market by providing home rentals, car rentals, guides, tour packages etc.) We greeted each other like old friends. In short, talking to strangers sometimes, might just be the right thing to do....We met up with his amazing girlfriend, swung by his place to say hi to his dad and then me him, and his friend went out for a drink. In the morning we swung by a market Le Marche de Cacaveli to check out the shop of a friend of his (Adjoasika Na Mawu) who used to be a lawyer and left her job to focus on Made in Togo textiles plus some processed foods. Her stuff was lovely (of course i really really really needed another skirt:-)...plus I got to also try out artisanal Togolese chocolate - Chocotogo.. It was quite delicious.... On a side note, at the Abidjan airport, I had also tried out some artisanal Ivorian chocolate ..Mon Choco. I'm loving all these locally produced West African chocolate is also part of a collective of Togolese businesswomen focusing on locally made/sourced textiles, cosmetics and processed foods. They are part of the people whose stuff we will get to sample in Kpalime.

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We then left the market to swing by the home in Lome where his dad grew up. Just before getting into the house, we were called across the street by a lady who runs a small food place..it was her daughter's birthday.... maybe 15th or so judging from her appearance and they were on day one of three of street partying. The family had made sandwiches and bought drinks (beers, sodas etc.) which they were inviting anyone passing by the area to partake. That's how we ended up in this street party....yep... such generosity I'm experiencing in Togo! There was a mini-twerk contest at the street party. Lots of great jams were playing including Togo's very own Toofan.

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After that we checked out the home my friend's dad grew up in, swung by the beach for a drink and to watch the sunset. At 6pm, it was pitch dark. Can you believe the sun goes down that early in Lome. We went to a restaurant, picked up some food to go, went back to my friend's dad's place (where we were staying.) More food came into the mix. My friend set up a Togolese meal fit for a queen. I ate and ate and ate till I couldn't stand up. As I was passing out on the chair, he was explaining to me what everything was....White sweet ugali (ablo), plantains (amadam), yellow spicy ugali (djenkoume), full grllled tilapia in onions and tomatoes, yovo gboma (egusi), adokoin (fried oysters in a deep fried tomato sauce.. We were to go out partying after that...some place near the beach. Everyone decided to take a one hour nap, from which we woke up the next morning...Next stop…Off to Kpanime.... waterfalls and cooking fest.

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In Togo Tags travelling, travel, travelblogger, Africa, lome, traveling, trip
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The story of portraiture and photography in Saint-Louis, Senegal

February 6, 2018

There has been increasing interest to unearth and understand Africa’s photographic history in recent years. Whether this is driven by the growing treasure trove of black and white images from the continent resurfacing; a need to dispel myths about what Africa is and is not; or a growing interest in photography for storytelling purposes in the Instagram-obsessed age, this journey promises to be an interesting one.

The latest treasure to be revealed on that journey is the Saint-Louis Photography Museum in Saint-Louis, Senegal, which opened last November. The museum hopes to eventually build an extensive collection of historic portraits, but has started off with the impressive personal collection of its founder, Amadou Diaw, a Senegalese businessman and founder of Groupe ISM, one of the region’s most respected business schools. The striking collection, mostly dating from 1930 to 1950, highlights the country’s rich and deep photography tradition.

Many of the most well-known photographs from West Africa were captured by Malick Sidibe, an internationally renowned photographer from Mali who captured iconic black and white images of the region in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. Sidibe died in April 2016. But the history of photography in West Africa stretches further back. It begins in the coastal town of Saint-Louis in the north of Senegal, where a photo camera, believed to be the first to be used in West Africa (link in French), was sent by the French Minister of Marine and Colonies in 1863.

Saint-Louis was a leading urban center established by French traders in the 17th century. To maintain their stronghold, French colonists relied heavily on the establishment of a metis (mixed race) society. This society was born out of a union of French traders or soldiers (who usually had their own families in France) marrying local women (usually of a high class) to further their business interests. These women and their female descendants, known locally as the Signares, are an important part of Saint-Louis’ culture and history.

To read the full article, please follow this link to Quartz. 

In Senegal Tags Senegal, Saint-Louis, Dakar, travel, travelblogger, travelling, trip, holiday, Signares
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The grand feast of Ohira

June 13, 2017

Having spent a wonderful day with the kids at Natsuno's former high school in Ohira, the afternoon was all about passing out. 

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All 18 - 19 of us MirozinJapan were going to stay with different families during our time in Ohira. We were staying with 4 different families. Afternoon nap time was amazing and was to prepare us for what Natsuno had described as a night of feasting in each of our individual homes. When it was dinner time at Natsuno's, she told us to dress in pyjamas, "because we are going to eat a lot and you need space."

When we got downstairs, we realized that Natsuno had not been joking. There was so many different types of food and at least 7 different types of alcohol - including 3 types of sake. Her family was not playing games. 

Family time was amazing. We ate to our hearts' content and drank to our fill. Natsuno's dad played the guitar for us, we looked at photo albums - made fun of Natsuno's childhood pics and had merry night. After all this we slept very soundly till the next morning. 

In Japan Tags Japan, travelblogger, travel blogger, travel, travelling, traveling, trip, holiday, vacation, Vacation
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The day when sleep never saw us

March 21, 2017

Natsuno summarized this particular day so well.

“The folks woke up at 4.30am (I uncovered Lorna's futon to wake her up....gomen ne haha), folded futon and caught 3 trains and 1 metro in Tokyo to go to busy Tsukiji Fish Market. Just before the market, we saw bankers cleaning the street in front of a brunch of a bank and Patricia wondered why they don't hire cleaners (lol welcome to Japan). We wandered around the tiny streets in the market, and had sushi for breakfast. Then we rushed to Tokyo Station to catch a bus to go to a lake near Mt. Fuji, but we were  rushing so much that Nawal fell down on a zebra crossing ("yako" Nawal, but that was a funny moment!). We were so lucky to see beeeeautiful view of Fuji.....and Ciku and Mou Na learned how to ride a bicycle. On our bus ride back, Nyamwathi made new friends. Then, Sir-Ben Ngene had the moment of excitement - Shinkansen ride to Nagoya. One of the folks lost her Shinkansen ticket, but JR found it on the platform (#japaneseefficiency). We then had local Nagoya barbecue for dinner, and caught another train (so many train rides today) to head to a "theme park of public bath." On our way there, Edel got her dream item: a Japanese mask! She put it on and became a proper nihonjin (Japanese person). On the local train, a cute drunk Japanese woman kept talking with us. This drunk woman took off her artificial eye lashes, and asked Péchou to exchange her braided hair with the used artificial eye lashes. lol By the time we got to the public bath theme park, we were all tired and ready to fall asleep, but Ciirù opened her eyes because she got excited to see the crazy things in the theme park. From the morning to the night, people kept asking us where the hell we all came from ("Where are you guys from?" "We are from 6 different African countries." "Oh, sodesuka (I see). Welcome to Japan!”

In Japan Tags Japan, MirozinJapan, traveling, travelling, travel, travelblogger, travel blogger, trip, vacation, holiday
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Tea ceremony at a Buddhist temple

February 28, 2017

So Natsuno happened to go to school with the coolest, nicest, sweetest guy who later became a Buddhist monk. His temple was not too far from Tokyo and we would be spending the day and night there. We left our hostel at 9am, caught quite a few trains. One of the trains was on the chuo line – infamously known as the Japanese suicide line because of how many people commit suicide on that route. Natsuno also told us about another train line called the “groping line” where creepy men like to touch young women. Creeeeeeeppy.

We finally made it to the temple right around lunch time. We first got to meet Jokan – Natsuno’s monk friend. He was very welcoming and gave us a brief introduction to the temple before bringing us to join the rest of the group of mostly ladies (both young and old) who would later guide us through the tea ceremony, help us get into our kimonos and teach us the importance of each of the ceremonies.

We all sat down on the ground to eat from the low tables. Lunch was delicious noodles – we were instructed to eat them with quite a bit of slurping noises to show we were enjoying it. It was quite liberating to break this eating norm we had grown up with – of not making loud noises with your food. Soon we were all having a blast. The older women did not really speak English, but we were all able to communicate with hand gestures, smiles and a few words that transcended language – me Kenya, her Ivory Coast:-). The ladies were all magnificently dressed in their kimonos and so graceful even as they ate. After a few minutes, my thighs started killing me. Sitting on the ground in semi-tight angles is a learned art. I kept on shifting around to get rid of the pins and needles on my feet.

After eating we were split into groups for the tea ceremony. Tea ceremonies are steeped in Buddhism and is an art of performance with certain steps that have to be followed. Silence and paying attention is a very important aspect of tea ceremonies. We each removed our shoes and were led to thin pillows where we would kneel or sit on depending on the part of the ceremony. The hosts/ladies who would be serving us tea entered the tea room and welcomed each guest. The hosts then proceeded to ritually cleanse each utensil with such elegance – the tea bowls, the whisks, the tea scoops etc. in front of us and with very precise motions. The tea was then prepared in front of us.

Slowly we were each served in turn – the lady serving would bow and the guest would bow receiving the tea. Before sipping from the cup, each guest would turn to the guest next to them and raise the bowl (this is a gesture of respect to the host.) The guest would then rotate the bowl, take a sip and thank the host for the tea. This process would be repeated till all 7 or 8 in our group had each had a sip.

After this we were all individually given our tea with a few more formalities. We were also given some delicious confectioneries to take with the tea. I might just be imagining it, but that tea felt really special compared to other teas I had drunk as I got to fully concentrate on just enjoying the tea. The peace and solitude of getting to eat or drink something without having to talk, think etc. I was beginning to understand the magic of silence. We live in a very noisy world and this noise distracts us from enjoying simple pleasures.

After all the guests have taken tea, the host cleaned the utensils in preparation for putting them away. The hosts then collected the utensils. In total our tea ceremony lasted around 1.5 hours though I’ve heard they can last up to 4 hours.

I think this summed it up really well, “The matcha tea ceremony is a quiet celebration performed with grace and beauty, the matcha tea ritual is a bonding experience of mindfulness, respect and a focus on the now.”

Tea ceremonies, similar to meditation are about finding the sacred in everyday life.

In Japan Tags Japan, MirozinJapan, Tokyo, traveling, travel, travelblogger, travelling, travel blogger, trip
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Heading to Japan

February 14, 2017

It is almost mandatory that all my trips start with me running around. I had a late afternoon flight to Japan. Of course I did not take the day off. I woke up super early to get my work done. Even though these days I have waaaay more leave days than when I was in consulting, I still tend to be a hoarder with my days. I continue to live a Candy Crush life with my leave days – only using them when I absolutely must. Nguhi, see me looking at you and your Candy Crush leave days life:-). I will rationalize it – yeah. I am sure I can finish sending off that document – on the runway (a la Nungari during the Rwanda trip in 2011 or so. A story for another day.)

I slept at 5am and was up early to finish work. I hastily packed from 1:30 – 2:15pm. I consider myself a semi-seasoned backpacker. As such I know the essentials to pack. What really holds me back is the stupid stuff I add. I confess that I added around 2kgs of necklaces, bangles, rings and earrings to my 16kg backpack bringing it to an epic 18kgs (of which 2kgs was frivolity at its best.) I got to the airport. My backpack was weighed and that’s when I confirmed that it was indeed 18kgs. Ciku! Oops I did it again. I always pack my backpack with the best of intentions, but then end up adding jewelry, nail polish, lipsticks en masse. This is the monkey on my back. I think it might be a demon. The demon of packing unnecessary stuff.

At the airport I started bumping into some of the other #mirozinjapan – some of whom I knew quite well (close friends and colleagues and others I was meeting for the first time.) Our excitement was palpable. “It’s finally here! Japan, here we come!”

“How heavy is your backpack?”

“You checked your backpack in? What if it gets lost?”

[Good question – Dear Jesus, do not let my backpack get lost. I don’t think they have mitumba in Tokyo or Toi market. I will be rewinding my one outfit for 3 weeks.]

It was a 3 hour flight to Addis with a brief layover followed by an 8 hour flight to Hong Kong, but we didn’t have to get off the plane. We arrived in Tokyo to the friendliest immigration officials. Too many experiences have always left me tentative at such interactions – waiting for it to be a hassle, waiting to be pulled aside on a technicality etc. So when I walk through immigration without any problems, that is worth mentioning. All our bags also made it to Tokyo! We had landed at 8pm and of course none of us had Yen. All the exchange bureaus had closed. We were wondering how we would get money to pay for our train to our home for the night. After a while we found a vending machine that took your dollars and gave you yen. Amazing, right?

We found yet another vending machine that sold sim cards…What is this country where things work like clockwork? We were all impressed, but trying to play it cool. Of course we have vending machines in Africa for changing money and buying sim cards! Mschew! Where do you think we are from? The fifth world? No my friends, we are from the third world:-).

Finally we got our train tickets and jumped into the train. It was to take us 90 minutes to get to our stop. I was assigned as the one to be on the look-out for our stop. I was vigilant for the first 60 minutes, but then I started getting distracted by the bright lights and lovely shops outside the train.

Suddenly I was daydreaming, smiling to myself, “Japan, Japan, Japan. I am in Japan.” Listening to the rest of the crew chatting and laughing when I looked out and saw we were almost pulling out of our train station, “Jujo!”

“Guys! Jujo! Jujo! We’re here! Quick quick! Get your bags.”

It was  mad rush as everyone grabbed their backpacks to get out of the train before the train doors closed. We all made it out and spent a good two minutes dying of laughter about how we almost missed our stop. 

In Japan Tags Japan, Tokyo, traveling, travelling, travelblogger, travel blogger, travel, trip, vacation, backpacking, MirozinJapan
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I fell off a horse today

January 17, 2017

[flashback from July 2016]

I fell off a running horse today. I should start by saying I'm 100% ok..My lipstick didn't even smudge - Mac is the 8th wonder of the world.

I was always afraid of falling off a horse. You know that's how Don Draper's dad died. I think he fell off a horse and it kicked him in the face. Mine was less dramatic than that.

I think what happened is that my horse - Oasis - has been watching Usain Bolt and was inspired. We were three riders - Aurelien Chu who is an expert rider. Mou Na who is also a novice like me, but loves speed. Me who has ridden a few times but only with very calm horses that rarely/never gallop.

We start off, it's lovely - Aurelien is galloping, me and Mouna are mostly strolling or trotting.i see signs very early that my horse is an overachieving leader - never a follower. Oasis wants to be ahead of everyone while me I'm ok with staying close to the reassuring presence of the guide. By the ocean, she wants to run in and play around. I can appreciate that - I'm a water baby too..

Then the excitement begins. Mouna wants to go fast but her horse (my horse's twin) will only gallop for 5 seconds then chill. My horse on the other hand wants to go for gold. Every time anyone gives the call for their horse to run, it's my horse that goes off running. At first I'm freaked out by the speed - then I start to enjoy the adrenaline. I learn to lean forward when she's galloping and really squeeze my thighs hard so that you don't lose balance. We are at an ok rhythm - she gives me that nice adrenaline rush but when i kanyaga brakes, she stops. Everytime Mouna or Aurelien tell their horse to run, it's Oasis who runs fast.

Women, they never tell you. Wear a sports bra for horse riding. The ladies had long escaped from their prison.

Then we are galloping and she decided she has to be number one. So me I'm kanyagaing brakes telling her number last is ok. She wasn't having any of that. Now she's trying to overtake Aurelien's horse - sibling rivalry has already made her pass Mouna's horse. She's flying (at least that's what it felt like to my novice self.) She sees Aurelien's horse in the distance and says "bilaz! It can't end like this." Now she's really flying - I'm pulling the reins saying "Arrête! Arrête!" forgetting she's more conversant in wolof than in French. I lose balance and feel myself fall...

Oh my gosh! I've fallen off a running horse. I roll as far as I can - I don't want her to land on me! Turns out I have no need to worry, Oasis didn't even look back.. I thought we were friends! I petted you before the ride. The guide saying "Elle aime les câlins"/"she loves cuddling"…Me too! We have some sort of sisterhood!

Naaa aaah - this girl went for gold:-) Are you ok? Yeah - except my ass really hurts. I landed on it - which is a good thing.... Many worse ways to fall. I stand up ...hold up! What is that noise in my ear? VOK? Turuuuuuruiiiiii turuuuuuruiiiiii

.. Why do they sound so far? I fall on my ass again... .i momentarily remember there a major connection between balance and your ears.. After a few minutes I'm ok to stand up, get back on Oasis and finish the ride - with the guide holding her reins..

Oasis you're cool - we cuddled and took a selfie and all after that, but please don't judge me next time when I take Mouna's horse. It's not you.

It's me.

In Senegal Tags Senegal, Dakar, traveling, travelblogger, travel, travelling, trip, holiday
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Up close and personal with sea creatures

December 6, 2016

Two months into my Dakar move, I heard about a grand annual race that takes place from Dakar to Goree island – a distance of 4km. I love swimming! Me and a few friends decided to start training for the race by swimming from Ngor to Ngor island and back a few times a week. I still recall that first time. It was something from a bizarre comedy. This was my first time swimming in the ocean. Of course I have swam in the Ocean a few times, but it’s more of jumping, catching waves etc. – not intentionally leaving the shore to swim into the deep of the ocean – get to an island across and swim back. I have also swam in other water bodies including a river in Arembepe, Bahia in Brazil. There I was enjoying the swim in the peaceful river when my friends called me back. “Watch out for the snakes!” So river swimming – yes there are risks. My favourite open water swimming was in Lake Tanganyika in Rumonge, Burundi. That water was perfectly clear, freshwater lake – no salt, calm…and I was told that in this particular part there are no hippos or crocodiles. It was such an idyllic place to swim.

The ocean though – I had my concerns before. What about the salt? I was going to wear goggles but you know you can never trust those things – the number of times they get misty and you can’t see anything. What about the waves? We were going to swim at 7am and the waves were not expected to be terrible. What about the sharks? There have been only 4 shark attacks in Dakar from 1828 – 2004. Basically if I got attacked by a shark, then it was fate.

There were 5 of us the first morning. We got to the water at 7am. The view was lovely – the sun rising over the ocean, rocking boats by the beach, a nice view of the island we would be swimming to. We began swimming and everyone got to their natural rhythm. We were all swimming at different speeds and doing different strokes. I chose to do breast stroke as it was the easiest to breathe in, given the waves coming in from the side. I would have drunk too much water if I tried to do crawl – and crawl is tiring for a long-ish swim. Everything was going perfectly up until I was really close to the island. One of my friends is an outdoors rockstar. She had already done the Dakar to Goree swimming race twice, rides a scooter, surfs all the time……ooooh and by the way, she also happens to be an amazing project manager at DalbergJ, in addition to being a really nice, kind, fun person! Before we started swimming, she warned us “When you get to the other side, there will be rocks but don’t worry. They appear much closer than they actually are.” At that point, I had wondered why rocks should be something to worry about – I would soon learn.

I got to the rocky part – the rocks were still far beneath me. With my goggles I got to see lovely small fish swim past me. I was marveling at nature. I went a bit further and because the tide was low, the rocks were much closer to me. It was becoming hard to swim as the water was now really shallow and the rocks were touching my thighs. The obvious instinct was to walk on the rocks…..

But……

The rocks were covered in poisonous sea urchins.

At first I didn’t see the sea urchins. I stood on the rocks a bit. At this point, Tania (the rockstar) turned back and told me – “Ciku don’t stand. Keep swimming. Swim flat so that you don’t touch the rocks. There are urchins on them!”

Up to this point, my interaction with sea urchins had been limited. There had been a plate full of live urchins that my crazy cool Japanese friend – Natsuno – had ordered the first time we went together to Point des Almadies. Those things are ugly! So I knew they were ugly and move like something from a nightmare.

I had later learnt that on top of being a very creepy meal, they are extremely dangerous. Two weeks before, Tania had been surfing and landed on sea urchins on a rock. Her knee had been the size of small football for 4 days.

I knew I wanted nothing to do with these urchins – not on my plate, not under my skin.

“Ouch!”

“Did something sting you?”

I replied, “Yeah. My foot hurts and my finger too.”

“Oh no. You’ve been stung by sea urchins. Let me see if there is a way to get to the beach without having to pass these rocks.”

By this time I was petrified. I had no desire to get to the island anymore – we were close enough, but would have to go through poisonous territory to get there. I decided to turn back and swim back to the mainland. By the time I got to the mainland, my foot and finger were stinging. From an inspection of my wounds, we suspected that my finger had been stung by a jellyfish, while my foot had sea urchin spikes in it. Tania got a needle, heated it usinga lighter and got to work. I thought I would need a shot for the spike removal but it wasn’t too bad.

Some spikes were really deep inside and Tania advised to call a doctor home to come remove them immediately or risk getting really swollen and having to deal with lots of pain. A doctor was called and I needed quite a bit of language support from my friends as I could not even pronounce what got me Les oursins (sea urchins) et une meduse (jellyfish). I kept on saying Les Oiseaux (birds.) Clearly the doctor must have been wondering how “birds stung the sole of my foot.”

Aaaah. I got up close and personal with these sea creatures! Be warned. These stings get worse day by day. On the first day I thought “this is not too bad.” By the 3rd day it was really painful to walk. I had to bail out of a weekend trip to Gambia.

Sea urchins, next time I will eat you.  

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In Senegal Tags Senegal, Dakar, travel, traveling, travelblogger, travelling, trip, Vacation, holiday
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Arriving in Somaliland

November 15, 2016

I woke up around 5am in Addis - had a hurried breakfast then left for 8:30am flight to Hargeisa. I got to the airport and most of the women were in full hijabs. I was wearing diracs that I had bought from a kind Somalilander woman in Eastleigh called Fardowsa. She had assured me that this would be appropriate dress code for Hargeisa. Now that I was standing at the airport in a sea of women in full hijabs I began to get nervous that perhaps I had not bought appropriate clothing for my trip. 

We got on the plane. First and business class was all white people. I figured out they must all be working for development agencies. Economy class was the rest of us:-) We got to Hargeisa around 1pm. I arrived and met a really friendly French girl who was attending the festival. As we were chatting, we bumped into a very well-known Malawian professor of literature - he used to be a judge for the Caine Prize. I love literary festivals - you get to rub shoulders with the most fascinating people. I have found African writers to be the least pretentious people i've ever met. Maybe it's because as writers you might get fame, but very rarely have the fortune. I get the feeling that festivals with musicians or actresses would be more hierarchical - with the more famous artists not really mingling with "the watus." In literature festivals, all of you get to interact. As a new writer, I always feel so fortunate to be in the midst of people whose work I have admired for a long time and be sharing a beer or a rolex (egg rolled in chapatis,) and talking like old friends. Writers are also wacky - so I always feel quite at home at literature festivals, as I have always been a bit of an odd-ball.....and the conversations are the best!

The Malawian professor had arrived but all his luggage was lost. We got out of the airport and I remember wondering why there was no real customs check. We just landed, got our bags and left without anyone searching them. We got to the hotel -  a really lovely comfortable hotel. I slept for half an hour then went down to  the reception for lunch. I met some lovely Kenyan ladies who work at the Rift Valley Institute. My head scarf game was not yet on point. I had done a very traditional head scarf style that covered all my hair, my ears etc. I figured it was better to err on the side of too-conservative in the beginning then look around and see what everyone else was doing after a few days. Unfortunately I had tied my headscarf so tight that I couldn't hear anything well, my neck was hurting, breathing became a bit labored and I could not eat.....Rookie error. I had to excuse myself from lunch to go and tie it in a way that could allow me to function...

We left for the festival grounds. I stocked my books at the official festival bookshop. As I was walking around, I found another bookshop stall. The owner called me over, looked at my book and asked for 10 copies. She gave me $100 immediately for the books. I was really impressed. Most times at festivals, you stock your books and only get paid at the end for what sells. I had always heard that Somalis are the best people to do business with - and now I was seeing it. No haggling. No "come back after a few days we discuss", No "we will see" - Just "How much is it? Ok. Give me 10 copies - here is  your money." It has a lot to do with how tight family and clan relations are in Somali culture. A lot of Somali businesses are ran on trust rather than on official contracts.  People don't want to betray that trust because you not only bring shame on yourself, but shame on your family, your clan etc. It could explain the success of Somali money transfer businesses such as Dahabshill or Somali prowess in in international logistics e.g.  Salihiya cargo - that can get your stuff from locations the world-over to their warehouse in Nairobi. They are able to use the global Somali network of relatives to ensure logistics is flawless. The other thing about Somali businesses - especially retail - they are highly price competitive. When I went to South C to buy my diracs, I was so surprised to learn that each would cost me $3 for the fabric and $0.50 for stitching. I could not even negotiate. Where else are you going to buy a full outfit for KES 350? Only in Eastleigh..The customer service might not always be that great, but hey - many places have horrible customer service and still charge you an arm and a leg. 

I stayed on for a session on ancient manuscripts and a Somali play that I'm not quite sure I understood. It was in Somali.  I think it was about a fight between animals, but I could also just be making this up given how little I understood:-)

Everywhere I looked around at the festival, I saw the most beautiful women in the most amazing fabrics. Fardowsa had been right - my diracs would be quite at home here in Hargeysa.  I remember every single Somalilander I met saying "Thank you for coming to Somaliland." It just made me feel so warm and fuzzy inside that someone would thank me for coming to a festival I had been dying to attend ever since I first heard of it. 

No - thank you Somaliland and thank you Hargeysa International Book Fair for having me. 

 

In Somaliland Tags Somaliland, Hargeisa, Hargeysa, HIBF, Hargeysa International Book Fair, travel, traveling, trip, African literature
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Last days in Comoros

October 11, 2016

It was a Friday. We had lots of morning meetings then I came back to the hotel around midday as everyone went to the mosque for prayers. After lunch, I decided to go to the bank to change money. I was running out of local currency. There was a super long line at the bank. All of a sudden a guy came into the banking hall and spent half an hour or so yelling at another guy. We all just watched – no one came to pull him away or kick him out. A lady later whispered to me that it was an altercation between employer and employee. The employee had checked his account and had not yet been paid in full.

I got back to the hotel only to realize I had actually not changed enough money. I was off by a factor of 0. Oh boy! Who was going to go back to the bank? I went to the hotel reception to see if they could assist me. Quite coincidentally there was a gigantic guy sitting at the bar throwing back some whiskys (on a Friday afternoon – do you boo boo.) Spyros heard me asking the bartender about changing money at the hotel. Spyros turned out to be a half Greek – half Tanzanian clove trader who was more than happy to take my dollars and give me Comorian francs. I changed 400 USD with him and I was really impressed by how quick it all was – and what a fair deal he had given me.

The next morning we were leaving Ndzouani to head back to Grand Comores (Moroni). The airport was hectic. Everyone was rushing to us giving us packages to take to people in Ndzouani. Comoros kept on reminding me of what the world was when we all trusted each other. My gut instincts is – stranger at the airport giving me a package – wants to make me a drug mule. My travel companion though happily took everyone’s package. One of the packages was from an old man. It was an envelope containing his passport that needed to go to the Malagasy embassy in Ndzouani – and money. Just how trusting are people? I can never imagine giving someone my passport.

Today again we had the same female pilot from Malindi. Saturday was a work day for us in Comoros. I was struggling getting used to this system. By the end of Friday, my body generally crashes and I want to have “me” time for the weekend – not have stakeholder interviews. Our morning in Ndzouani started with Government meetings that took almost 3 hours.

Lost in translation. I remember on our drive to the Government meetings, our car was booming Eamon’s “F*** you” None of my travel companions was Anglophone – as such none of them seemed to realize what the lyrics were. I find it quite hilarious how curse words can only be fully appreciated by those who speak the language well.

After that my field work was officially done. I found a lovely hotel and had a 4 hour lunch – including a beer or two.

I left Moroni for Nairobi the next day. It had definitely been an interesting time in Comoros.

 

In Comoros Islands Tags traveling, trip, Africa, Comoros, Comoros Islands, Moroni, Grand comores
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Shikomori for beginners + Leaving Moheli for Ndzouani

September 27, 2016

Marahaba = Thank you (while in Kiswahili it is a response to a greeting, “Shikamoo” “Marahaba”)

Lala unono = See you later (while in Kiswahili it means “sleep well”)

Watiti = children (while in Kiswahili the word is watoto)

Fahamu = Listen/Pay attention/be cautious (while in Kiswahil it means “to know”

Fundi = teacher (while in Kiswahili it means “repairman” e.g. carpenter, plumber etc.)

Kizungu = French (while in Kiswahili it means “English”)

This last one in particular fascinated me. I realized kizungu in the Anglophone sense is English, only because the wazungus in our context were British, but in a Francophone sense, kizungu (i.e. the language of the wazungus) would be French while it would be portuguese in a lusophone context.

Someone needs to do a study on coastal people and mysticism. Before we left the hotel at Moheli, I ate breakfast by the beach. There was a certain guy on the beach who looked unstable. The hotel owner told me that he had stolen a mattress from his mother’s house. His mother had then gone to see a witchdoctor to place a curse on whoever stole the mattress -not knowing it was her son. Ever since that day, he had lost his mind. The hotel owner told me he also had a friend who stole a necklace from his own mother because he wanted to sell it and use the money to go to Europe (I’m assuming it was a very expensive necklace.) His stomach started growing and growing – finally he died. I vowed there and then never to steal anything from my mum -  and if I did, to make sure she doesn’t go to the witchdoctor.

We left the island of Moheli for Ndzouani on a Sunday morning. We got to the airport at noon even though the flight was at 3pm. It was a long wait. I was pleased to see a female pilot and co-pilot. After the flight I chatted a bit with the pilot and she was actually Kenyan -  born and raised in Malindi. On arrival, I met a lady who was half French, half German and I was so excited to speak in German. It had been a while. This was the first time I noticed my French was interfering with my German. It’s as if my mind only has space for one foreign language at a time.

I got to Hotel Papillon (butterfly) and it was ok. I spent the rest of the day resting – discovered our hotel had a bar later on and took the first beer of my time in Comoros. That beer felt so refreshing! You never miss the water till the well runs dry. 

In Comoros Islands Tags Comoros, Comoros Islands, Moheli, Ndzouani, travelling, travel, travel blogger, traveling, travelblogger, trip, vacation
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Adjusting to a different culture and finally getting rid of a certain bugga--boo

September 20, 2016

The afternoon of the day The Terminator went hard on the non-compliant teachers was a Friday. At lunchtime, everyone went to the mosque for prayers. I was left at the beach to kill time – there are definitely worse ways to kill time:-). After that we went for lunch at a small roadside place. I had the most delicious fish ever – everyone insisted I should order it and said it was rare and a specialty in Comoros. It was called “poisson rouge” which translates to “red fish.” It was only months later during a French class that I learnt goldfish are poisson rouge. Comoros has rare goldfish that grow to a full size. That fish was delicious and so soft! There was a lovely baby at the restaurant. I could see the fascination in our driver’s eyes. He told me how much he loves babies – and he had many of them. When he had come to pick me from the beach earlier, we had met his wife and one of their small babies. He was such an affectionate father. Later on the streets we had met one of his daughters and he had called her over, hugged her tenderly, exchanged kind words with her and given her some money to go treat herself. Comorians were really warm. We kept on stopping everywhere along the way to give people lifts.

We had some official meetings later in the day. Given that some conservative muslim men don’t shake women’s hands, I had chosen to take the cue on what was appropriate from the interviewee. Most times I would simply bow my head and do a small hand wave. If they reached out for my hand, I would shake their hand too – but I would never stretch out my hand first – just in case they did not shake hands with women. You can imagine my confusion when one of our government interviewees cheekily asked me to kiss him on his cheek after a meeting. It was quite strange. It would have been less strange if he had just initiated the cheek kiss – a lot of Franchophones greet in this way – but asking for it just gave me a very creepy feeling….plus he was sitting down and I was standing – so I had to bend down to give this awkward kiss – with a few men standing behind me. I had already began to get self-conscious about my work clothes in Comoros. In many other countries, my work pants and skirts would be normal, but in Comoros the women generally covered up quite a bit and I instantly felt like my regular work pants were suddenly waaaaaaay too tight – when I compared them to the other women’s dressing.

On our long drive, we passed a lovely lady who came to greet our driver. Instantly from the way they interacted with each other, I knew they were an item. There is a certain energy that’s around two people who have a thing together. I think he noticed I noticed and decided to entertain me and the local consultant with the highlights of his love-life. Yes, this was his girlfriend. He has 2 wives, 2 ex-wives and 8 children in total. I have no idea how anyone manages all these close relationships. All those wives, lovers and babies. When do you sleep?

In Comoros, I also experienced for the first time the faux pas of not knowing how to behave in certain situations in a muslim country. For example, sometimes we would walk into a government building for meetings – find our interviewee in the middle of prayer and my first instinct would be to wait outside till they finished. My Comorian colleagues for the trip however would tell me it’s ok to wait in the room as the person finishes praying. I felt like I was intruding.

There was another thing in Comoros that I never quite figured out. Most of the areas we were visiting were extremely remote and we were using latrines. For some weird reason, all latrines had 3 holes. 2 small ones and a bigger one. What was that all about? One small one and one big one would make sense, but why the three?

Later in the day, the local consultant declared his undying love for me in a long soliloquy. I did what I usually do in such situations – I feigned ignorance and acted like I thought he was telling me all these things in a platonic way.

My salvation was to come later in the day. In the next island we would be in, the hotel I was to stay in was more expensive than the one he was to stay in (he had already been paid his part and that was to cover his accommodation too.) He tried to be cheeky and call our other consultant in Moroni to insist we need to stay in the same hotel so as to be more productive. He was told that this would only happen on his own budget.

When I met the local consultant after he had been told this news, he almost had tears in his eyes. I sympathized with him as much as was polite to do so, but secretly oh secretly I thanked God for saving me from all this awkwardness I had been dealing with in the past few days.

In Comoros Islands Tags Comoros, Comoros Islands, Moheli, traveling, travel, travelling, travelblogger, trip, Vacation, holiday, vacation
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Ni kama vindeo - ni kama ndurama

September 13, 2016

Today morning, the first issue we had was finding fuel. There was a fuel shortage and we desperately needed to fill up the car tank or we would not be able to make it for our meetings. We ended up at a petrol station that looked like the back of someone's house. A huge jerrycan came out of nowhere, we filled up and left for our meetings.

Previously we had distributed surveys that needed to be filled out by 3 people at each school - one by the teacher of CP1 (standard one), CP2 (standard two) and the Koranic pre-school teacher. Today, the head of the teachers' association was joining us as we went to pick up the surveys. Heads would roll. 

School one - Not a single survey had been filled in. We patiently sat as they started to fill them out. The head of the teachers' association had to explain some of the French to the teachers. 

School two - The School Director is not around. None of the teachers are to be found. Head of teachers' association asks for directions to the school director's home. He is at home fast asleep - from what I gather standing outside his house with my extra survey copies. Our guy - who I shall now call - The Terminator - yells at him. Orders him to get in our car and take us to find the other teachers. On our way there, The Terminator sees one of the teachers we need on the road. You can tell from his disheveled look that he's heard trouble is in town. The surveys! Where are they? He sheepishly hands us blank surveys. The terminator gets out of the car gives the guy a dressing down and orders the director out of the car. He tells them that they must get the surveys back to our hotel by end of day. 

I am now so exhausted from all the unavoidable drama. It's lunchtime and we haven't yet had a chance to eat. We need to drive a few hours to our next meeting. On the roadside, we stop by a coconut plantation. The Terminator calls some young boys from the roadside and asks them to climb up the tree and get us some coconuts. I'm still trying to figure out if he knows these kids - as they obediently climb up the trees. This is not the first time i've seen people stopping random people and asking for favors that back in Kenya would get you looked at as if you have totally lost it. I guess it's beneficial when there are few degrees of separation between people in a country. Anyone could easily be your relative and as such the only thing that is important is seniority. Kind of similar to how in Kenya upcountry, anyone can send anyone's child - because if you refuse to be sent - you know information will get back to your parents....Try that in Nairobi....Woi!

Why did I refer to the day's drama as unavoidable? So many factors. One - the project I was working on was the evaluation of a program that had funded a major revamp of the curriculum in Comoros and provided tools that were used throughout the country. The Terminator felt that it was a personal insult to the funder for the beneficiaries to not even spend 5 minutes to respond to a nationwide survey knowing well how the education system in the country was underfunded and how much it really depended on external funders. 

Two - did I really blame the teachers for sleeping when they should have been at work or farming? Would you keep going to work if your boss didn't pay you for 3 months? Then why do we expect the same of teachers and some other civil servants. They are human too. If they can't pay their bills by doing their job, are you going to stop them from dedicating more time to their farms - at least there they can earn a living.

Finally though, due to all these problems is it fair for children to not have the same chance to excel in Comoros as in other countries because they spent a significant amount of school time without teachers, materials etc? In the long run, it is these young children who suffer when systems fail them. I was a young African child once. Where would I be if my teachers more often than not were on strike. Don't get me wrong - teachers went on strike a lot when I was growing up in Kenya - including the year of my high school examinations. Even then these were fortunately exceptions. I was also fortunate enough to be from a family that could afford to pay for holiday tuition to strengthen my skills when schools closed. Textbooks were expensive, but we had them. We had power blackouts too, but again these were the exception - not the norm.  Teaching at that time was still viewed as a profession to be admired - as such we had qualified teachers. We were therefore positioned for success. When conducting this project and another one in Kenya that had me visit informal schools in Kibera and under-a-tree type schools in Turkana, I realized that for so many children - going to school is a privilege, having the resources to survive there is a dream, thriving is a miracle. I remember the kids I saw in Turkana who studied under a tree with only a very thin sheet above them - hearing stories from the teachers about how sometimes some of them passed out due to heat exhaustion....We should do better for the next generation. 

It's very easy to get caught up in politics - in whichever country we are in, but I want us to think of the real lives that are affected when systems fail. 

This picture above gives me hope. Little girls in school - something that most of us take for granted. Millions of children around the world will never get the opportunity to step into a classroom and most of those children are the ones who stand to benefit the most from accessing the great equalizer that is education - marginalized children from impoverished communities in poor countries - triple jeopardy. When I look at Nimroh and Hanissah I am hopeful about the future of my continent. In this little girls I see future Nobel prize winners, agents of positive change in this world, I see hope cloaked in the body of a 5 year old girl from a village no one knows exists but whose name she will one day put on the world map.

In Comoros Islands Tags Comoros, Comoros Islands, travelblogger, travelling, traveling, travel, travel blogger, trip
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Those moments you wish you had just spoken your mind

September 6, 2016

I was to wake up at 6:30am today to be ready to leave early for meetings. My alarm clock did not go off. I woke up much later when the local consultant was banging on my door. Such a fail - almost late! I ate breakfast in a rush. We drove for hours to get to our first meeting. 

Our first meeting was rough! The sun was hot and the interviewee had the most soothing voice I have ever heard in my life. The head of the teachers' association had tagged along with us for meetings that day - the nice old fiery guy. Quarter way through the interview he fell asleep. The local consultant had discovered there was wifi in this particular school we were at - which was surprising to me too. We were in a very remote area but the wifi was perfect. He spent the rest of the interview on his phone. I was so irritated but didn't know what to do. I needed him to ask the questions - which he did - but he would immediately go back to his phone - which was both rude....and frustrating for me - as it meant I was left to my own defenses to understand the responses. 

After this meeting, we had a three hour drive to the next meeting. The views were stunning but I began to worry how much work we were actually going to get done in my 2 weeks in Comoros - if the distances between my meetings were so long. This second meeting was only attended by the local consultant and myself. After the meeting, once we were walking out of the building to our ride he tried to hold my hand and walk hand in hand. I was so creeped out. I just quietly pulled my hand away, but didn't say anything. In retrospect I realize this is where I should have given him a piece of my mind, but I kept on justifying his actions to myself. "Well, it was just a hug and now he's trying to hold your hand. Maybe it's the culture here?" Now I realize, if something makes you uncomfortable, it makes you uncomfortable and you don't need to go through it without speaking your mind, "to avoid problems." No one should make you uncomfortable and if they do, you should let them know.

This was a Friday and work hours in Comoros are 8am - noon on Fridays then 3-5pm - so it turned out we really hadn't wasted time going from place to place. We would not have been able to have meetings either way. 

We get back to the hotel and have a delicious snack of hot milk with cardamon and something else I don't recognize, but find quite delicious. I decide to take a walk on the beach around sunset. Shortly after - he arrives. He asks if I want a picture of myself on the beach. I gladly accept - only to remember immediately after, that this might become another awkward moment. I find it hard to pose as I normally would - because now the person behind the camera/phone is looking at me with a bit too much excitement. He insists on taking the pictures with his phone and whatsapping them to me whenever we find wifi....even though my phone has a waaaaay better camera. When I go to look at the pictures on his phone, he tells me something that I don't quite understand but bit by bit I realize he is telling me, "You have a great figure - not too fat, not too skinny."

Yuck!

I go to bed later that night wondering how some men have the ability to make you feel dirty simply by looking at you.

In Comoros Islands Tags Comoros, Comoros Islands, Moheli, travelling, travel, traveling, travel blogger, travelblogger, trip
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Do you really speak French?

August 16, 2016

You know that moment when you feel like an impostor? Actually those moments are many. What I should really say, is “those moments when you are actually caught being an impostor.  When your 40 days are up….Siku za mwizi ni arobaini (a thief’s days are 40) and me I was on my 39th day – and I didn’t know. This was what happened on my first day of field work in Comoros.

Thus begins the day….

I woke up at 6am. I had successfully not given in to the big bad wolf the previous night – despite my thirst for something stronger than mango juice. I was to leave the hotel for the airport at 7am. The driver had not understood this. He thought he was to come at 8am. Mini-crisis, but it was averted. He managed to still get me to the airport on time. On the way to the airport I noticed the strangest thing. Lots and lots of women were walking around the city with yellow/white pasty facemasks on. Yes, proper facemasks in broad daylight. You know the ones I’m talking about. Every romantic comedy has a scene like this. Girl is chilling in the house in her most comfy “seng’eng’e ni ngombe” t-shirt, that leso that has a hole, a headnet and a green face mask. Unbeknownst to her, her Romeo is coming over to surprise her. Ding dong! She rushes to open the door – just like that – cause you know Nairobi is so safe, you just open the door without first carrying out a background check on the person behind it. Alas! It is her prince charming. He has come to surprise her with a bunch of roses and a pair of tickets to Paris! He had a crazy revelation when he was chilling drinking his Jameson with the boys at Tamasha. “She is all I need! I am tired of this life of debauchery, mismatched bedsheets, bachelor meals. I need to marry her now…..All this money I have been saving to buy a pro-box to use for biashara…..Yote ni vanity. I am buying us tickets for today to fly to Paris and propose to her on top of the Eiffel tower!” Later in the day you can see his love interest has gotten over her earlier mortification at being found with a green face mask on. They hold hands as they board their evening flight to Paris.

Ok. Snap out of it. Which African is this getting a visa in a day to anywhere in the world?

Ok, but you get the point – yes, that face mask that women only put on in the privacy of their homes to exfoliate, detox, open pores etc….some women in Comoros are walking around with it on the streets daily “to keep their skin from getting damaged by the sun.” That’s the official word on the streets, but I did tend to notice some tell-tale signs of bleaching in some Comorian women when I did see their faces and compared the color with their knees and knuckles….This bleaching thing is really affecting black people worldwide. 

Anyway, we get to the airport and turns out the local consultant we have hired – he knows everyone in Comoros – including my driver.

It was a really quick flight to Moheli – on a small plane – it took around 30 – 45 minutes. Once we arrived at Moheli – we were picked up by the head of the teacher’s association in the island. He was a fiery old man – I really liked him. He was extremely passionate about education and required excellence and dedication from those working for him. You can imagine that this is no easy feat in a country where teachers’ salaries hadn’t been paid in over 3 months at the time of my visit. He immediately took us to a focus group meeting with other heads of the association. It was during this meeting that I heard snatches of conversation from our local consultant saying I would lead the interviews – which were to be in French. I thought I had heard my own things. We had agreed that he would be the French expert. We had questionnaires translated into French – he was to lead the interview and I would support given my limited language skills – especially when it came to issues such as vocational training, efficacy of the curriculum changes, teaching pedagogy etc.

I was screwed.

The next meeting started and I was told to start – it was so embarrassing. I couldn’t even pronounce half of the words on the questionnaire right. After a few minutes, the local consultant realized that he was indeed going to have to do his job. It worked out much better once we switched because then I could focus on listening to the responses, understand the meaning, take notes etc. – rather than sweating as I tried to understand what the respondent was saying, think of how to ask a follow-up question, take notes and wonder how I was going to get through the next question that had so many words I had never seen before in my life….Le sigh….Impostor

After this we had 2 more meetings with groups of teachers numbering 4-5. The local consultant had all sorts of questionable habits – like hitting on the female respondents thinking I didn’t understand what he was doing. We then went to another school, but as soon as we got into this village – there was a very somber mood everywhere. It turned out a 30 year old guy in the community had been unwell – he had just died and the whole area was in mourning. The school had even shut down for the day. I quickly learned how small and familial everything was in Comoros – everyone knew everyone; everyone was somehow related to the other or at most one degree of separation from the others. That’s not surprising though given the population on all the 3 islands totals up to less than 800,000 people. In this particular island I was on, the population was 54,000 people.

We went to yet another school – in this particular school – it took over an hour to find any teachers or the school directors – the head of the teacher’s association gave them a proper lecture. It was a bit awkward being there for this “Vous-etez parasseux”/”You are all lazy!” I pretended I didn’t understand just how much trouble they were in.

This was only halfway through the day and it was turning out to be very eventful….

In Comoros Islands Tags Comoros, Comoros Islands, traveling, travel, travel blogger, travelblogger, trip, travelling, holiday, Vacation, vacation
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Little red riding hood in Comoros

August 9, 2016

The first and only time I ever flew business class, was to Comoros.  This was because on the day I needed to get to Comoros – all economy flight tickets were sold out. It was a 7am flight to Moroni via Mayotte. At that time I wondered, “Where on earth is Mayotte?” I was so upset when I discovered that Mayotte was in fact in Africa and was still a French territory. When we learnt about the Scramble for Africa and colonialization, why did they leave out the chapter about some African territories still being held by European countries? In Mayotte, obviously there was no getting out of the airport – as we were now in France (though still in Africa…) and I didn’t have a Schengen visa. Oh, I almost forgot – in business class – you get offered champagne – even at 7am – I could not resist:-)

The plane announcements were a bit different. The pilot mentioned we would be watching a certain movie – then proceeded to list the cast – Bette Midler….the director…I don’t remember. I got to Moroni and the weather was lovely. I got out of the airport and jumped into the first cab I saw. Ahmed, the driver was really friendly. He had spent some time in Nairobi and Zanzibar – he spoke perfect Kiswahili. We had a few minutes of small talk, then he jumped straight into the question many Comorians ask a few minutes after meeting you, “Are you married?” I am beginning to think the world-over, questions such as marital status, age, number of children etc. are the first things most people want to know about strangers, but we have been taught it’s impolite to ask such questions without knowing someone well. I say this because the more I travel, the more I realize that what “we” consider appropriate is not the same everywhere. I say “we” because even that needs to be questioned. Who am I talking about when I say we? Kenyans? Africans? Africans who have lived abroad? That’s the thing with culture – it is not static and there are so many sub-cultures even within what might be considered the dominant culture.

I needed to change cash. I told Ahmed about it – expecting we would go to an exchange bureau, but instead we ended up at an Indian owned supermarket – the owners changed money for me behind the counter. As we drove through Moroni, I kept on waiting to see the real city center – somewhere perhaps with many high rise buildings, supermarkets etc., but this did not quite happen at any point. 

I got to my hotel and the view from it was stunning. Comoros had such great natural beauty – I kept on wondering how it could be so stunning, but not be a tourist attraction. There is so much potential in Comoros as there is in many other struggling nations – if only certain major issues could be resolved. Around 2pm I was called from the reception to meet with my project team-mates. I was in very casual clothes – I  got down and the team instantly said we needed to go visit the client. I was a bit mortified as I didn’t have a chance to change into more formal clothes. I survived though – I think the client assumed I had just flown in. It was more of a courtesy call – rather than a real visit. I was able to converse in French enough to not look absolutely ridiculous, but I had an awkward moment when the client needed to give me a phone number. Has anyone ever been given a phone number in French? This is what this number will sound like.

731-96-74 = Seven hundred thirty and one. 4 times 20 and 16. Sixty plus fourteen….

In short, it is absolute rocket science. Someone starts reading out the numbers and you realize you just can’t keep up or understand. After various tries, I just humbled myself – gave them my notebook to write it in.

Also the client kept cracking jokes – I joined everyone in laughter – though I only understood a fraction of what he was saying. The challenges of languages you’re not perfect in.

After the meeting, I went back to the hotel. In Comoros, we had hired a local consultant to help me navigate the islands – I would be traveling around the country. Our project entailed surveying about a third of all the primary schools in the country. I was to cover the islands of Moheli and Ndzouani with the local consultant, while my Francophone colleague would cover the main island – Grand Comores/Moroni. Me and the local consultant were mostly conversing in a mix of French and Shikomoro (which has some similarities with Kiswahili – about 20% of the words are Kiswahili ones, though with some interesting variations. For example “Lala unono” means goodbye in Shikomori, but in Kiswahili it means sleep well. Fundi means repairman (carpenter, mechanic, plumber etc.) in Kiswahili but in Shikomori it means teacher. I am always fascinated by how language changes over time. I had noticed that the only other people staying at the hotel – were high ranking military officers from the African Union troops. I could tell they were all from different countries as I overhead conversations in Portuguese, French, English etc. in a variety of accents. I went to my room in the early evening, but my door wouldn’t open. One of the army generals passed close to my door and saw me struggling. Quite coincidentally he was Kenyan – General Githinji. He must have been in his mid 60s.  I thanked him and got in. A few hours later, my room phone rang. I was surprised – who was looking for me in the evening?

“Hello! Wanjiku. Ni General Githinji. Ndina kawine guakwa. Uka ukude kawine mum”/ “Hello Wanjiku. It is General Githinji. I have some wine in my room. Come have a sip.”

Funny thing was – I would actually have killed for some wine right around then. I had not realized how hard it would be to get alcohol in Comoros, but this little red riding hood – knew the big bad wolf was not luring her to his room for wine. I was not born yesterday.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m about to sleep. I have an early morning flight. Have a good night General Githinji/Big bad wolf trying to lure me with candy...."

In Comoros Islands Tags travelblogger, travel, trip, traveling, travelling, travel blogger, Africa, Comoros, Comoros Islands
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The wages of epic debauchery, is missing your flight

June 28, 2016

After the Amsterdam tours, we went to town to have a beer. Then we visited a coffeeshop - after which we went back to our hostel for happy hour. Our hostel was really really bad (White Tulip), but happened to be in the middle of all the fun stuff and right on top of a great Irish pub - Slainte. We got back to the hostel in time for happy hour - Buy one get one free. We each chugged around 4 beers in quick succession because we were trying to get to a certain club for free - by 10pm. We got to the club, but they were already charging entrance. We decided to go back to Slainte. Most of the team was sleepy, but I really wanted to party. I went to a club in Rembrandtsplein called Smokeys. I got there and it was lots of fun. They had 10 shots for 10 Euros - we indulged....I called The Reluctant and asked her to join me. We had fun and got home around 6am....

That night would however fade in prominence when compared to the next one...I  learnt many lessons the next day : 1. Expecting to party all night and catch your morning flight is foolhardy at best 2. Sleep is dangerous - don't trust it 3. Just because the offer is 10 shots for 10 Euros, doesn't mean you suddenly have superhuman strength to drink 4. They say with age comes wisdom, but Amsterdam proved to me that this can be a fallacy....

Such a lovely day - it started so well. We went to town to buy boots. We got back to the hostel in time for an early dinner and happy hour. There was a huge crowd of pockmarked guys at the bar chanting some football songs in an unknown language. They looked like fun - though we couldn't understand their language. We had our happy hour beers as we tried to figure out what to do. At some point in the night, the leader of this tribe of football fans approached us and we became instant friends. That strange language they were chanting in - was English.....apparently....they were Man City fans who had traveled for a game. Him and his friend joined our table and they were good company. Their 30-40 football tribemates did not disturb our peace. 

Our new friend told us to join them on one of the bridges for a post victory drink. We got there and there were thousands of people drinking and dancing by the bridge. Our friend was a gentleman and plied the 6 of us with lots of beers. Finally around midnight we were finished. The more logical in our group went back to the hostel to sleep. They had a flight to Nairobi that they would need to leave the hostel for at 8am. The Safety Net and I who had to leave the hostel at 5am for our flight to Copenhagen, decided "it is easier to wake up if we don't sleep." .....Yeah. I know. The devil comes in many forms. 

We went to Smokeys to party the night away...I bought the first round - 10 shots - which we shared. The Safety Net bought the second round - 10 shots - which we shared. After that, hell broke loose. We made it back to the hostel and The Safety Net pleaded with me "Let's just go to the airport now" but sleep and alcohol (the two headed demon) had taken control of me. "No, please. Just let me sleep 15 minutes." We had only an hour before we needed to go to the airport.....

You can guess what happened. We woke up at 8am as those who were leaving for Nairobi were on their way. We decided that since we had already missed our flight, there was no need to panic. We went to the Jamaican-Ethiopian hostel manager and pleaded to check out at noon. He was quite kind - and I did look like a train wreck - he knew we needed that sleep. 

Around 1pm we finally went to the airport. In the US when you miss a flight, you pay around $25 to $50 to book a new one. We thought that would be the case.....If only.

"Miss Kimeria - you two were a no-show. Your tickets have been cancelled. If you are to travel, you need to buy a new flight for 350 Euros each" (over 3 times the cost of our initial flights.)

I still remember the moment I heard that news. This was the end of a 6 week Eurotrip. None of us had 350 Euros to spend just like that.....I had already paid for housing in Copenhagen....We had no money to pay for new housing in Amsterdam.....and our return flight to Nairobi - required us to leave from Copenhagen to Munich. We thought of our options......We really had  none. We thought of taking a train - costs were almost similar and the journey would take 24 hours or so.....I put the new costs on my credit card - really hoping it did not get declined.

The wages of epic debauchery is missing your flight.....and having to cough up 350 Euros...and having to sit at the airport with your hangover from 1pm to 9pm for a flight..OUCH!

In Netherlands Tags Amsterdam, Netherlands, Holland, travelling, travel, traveling, travelblogger, trip, eurotrip, Vacation
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Touring Amsterdam - Christian reformation, Rembrandt, Nazi occupation etc

June 21, 2016

Continued from last week

Another area in the town that showed us Dutch Tolerance was the 'square of the spiritual women.' It started as a home for Berginjof nuns who were being persecuted in France. Berginjof nuns are pretty much nun-tryouts who didn't make it to become full blown nuns. They were ostracized throughout much of Europe, but the Dutch welcomed them with open arms. Their former home is now the home of spiritual women. Women the world over who adhere to a religion- any religion and want to grow spiritually apply to join the place. It offers a home to Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Bahaaists etc.  I thought it was so interesting that one place would encourage growth of spirituality in different religions. The place was quite tranquil.

Amsterdam officially has only 5 Catholic churches. After the Reformation all Catholic churches were seized and Protestantism was declared the official religion. Unlike other countries, where all former priests, nuns etc would be killed, in the Netherlands they just had to convert. The State even let them meet in a house as long as the house didn't have a cross. This turning a blind eye and letting people live their lives was something I really admired. Everyone knew it was a catholic church. Every Sunday a crowd would gather there. They had an organ, hymn books etc. As long as it was subtle everyone was willing to pretend they didn't see it.

After this we passed by the museum where Rembrandt's 'Night Watch' was stored. I had never seen it before, but it was a painting that changed how portraits were done. It was an action portrait of the Rifle Squad of Amsterdam. It was later redone into a sculpture that was in the city park. I really liked it.

We got to see the widest bridge, and the narrowest house which were all on the same street. The narrowest house was 1.7m wide. Can you imagine? Horrid. I had noticed the importance of saving space in Amsterdam.  The last time I was in Amsterdam, the stairs in my hotel were so narrow that I had to climb them sideways.

Random note – The Dutch are officially the tallest European people. I
always thought it would be Swedes, Norwegians or something.

We passed a statue of Multatuli who was a Dutchman who wrote about the atrocities being committed by Dutch colonialists in Indonesia. He even named names. His book led to a huge reform by the Dutch public who were horrified to learn about how they were treating the locals. I really liked the Dutch, and wondered if they were really related to South African boers. Maybe the Boers were all the black sheep of the Dutch community....

Amsterdam was really multicultural. I kept on seeing all this people who looked African, but I couldn't figure out from what country. I kept on racking my brain trying to think if Netherlands ever had an African colony. It turns out this black people are from Suriname. I was so jazzed. Back in the day I used to think Suriname was a country somewhere in Asia probably near Myanmar. At least a few years back I learnt it was the smallest country in South America. Little did I know that it's a predominantly black country. That was an interesting history and geography lesson. The other foreign looking people come from Aruba, Dutch Antilles, Indonesia etc.

We then saw the old men's prison that was now a public pool. The Dutch being Calvinist believed in the redeeming powers of hard work. All men in the prison were meant to work daily to get atonement for their sins. Some men were rebellious and chose not to work. To force them to work, water would slowly be let into their cells. At the corner of the cells there was a pump. The only way to prevent one self from drowning was to continuously pump i.e. one was forced to work to live. One prisoner completely refused to do this, and let himself drown. This
method of getting people to work was promptly stopped.

Netherlands being such an open and welcoming society had attracted a lot of persecuted Jews from other European countries – Portugal, Germany, France etc. They all lived in the Jewish Quarter which was an upscale region and not a ghetto like in other countries. Famous
Non-Jews like Rembrandt even chose to live in this region because it was really good housing. When the Nazis invaded Amsterdam in the early 40s, their occupation was a peaceful one. The Nazis liked the Dutch and believed they were distant relatives since they all spoke funny.
For a year they didn't do anything other than stay on as occupiers. Finally they started their attacks on the Jews. The first day they attacked the Jews was on a Saturday and very few Dutch people were in the Jewish Quarter to witness the atrocities. The next day they did it
was a Sunday – market day. The Dutch witnesses were horrified by what they saw and decided to revolt against the murder of their brothers.
The 'February strikes' were led by Dutch workers to oppose the mistreatment and deportation of the Jews. The Nazis fired at the crowd, and killed many citizens. Though this was by no means a success for the Dutch, it however was the largest demonstration during World
War 2 by non-Jews for the Jews. It did not stop the deportations, and it probably did not save any lives. It however showed the Jews that the Nazis were a minority, and not all Europeans shared their dream of exterminating them. It was a moment of hope, and a day when the Dutch
policy of tolerance and turning a blind eye was put to the test. They would not turn a blind eye to acts of torture, hatred and inhumanity against their fellow humans.

When the Allied forces started freeing European cities, they neglected to free Amsterdam. It was so out of the way, and they had no idea that many Nazis were occupying the area. The Nazis starved the people for their collaboration with the Jews. By this point the Jewish Quarter
was a ghost town. All the Jews had been deported and met their end in the Nazi concentration camps. Anne Frank's family was one of these. The winter of 1941 was the worst winter in Europe. Food ran out. All the trees were cut and used for heating. People ate the
'roof-rabbits.' Roof-rabbits was a euphemism for cats. Then they ate the rats. Then they went to the ghostown – the Jewish Quarter and started using furniture, building materials and anything they could get their hands on for heating. Today all the trees in Amsterdam are
the same height. They were planted around the same time – after the war. The old Jewish Quarter does not look anything like it would have in the past. Everything was destroyed in the search for firewood. It has been redone in garish 70s architecture. Bold, bright colours. Long
clinical columns. It's an eyesore.

***The Miracle of Amsterdam****

This is a true story. It has no exaggerations and no additions. I am
telling it as it came from the horses mouth.

Sometime in the 1600s in Amsterdam an old man was on his death bed. A priest and a nun came to give him his last rites. They gave him the communion bread to eat, but as he was so sick he threw it up immediately. As the bread was blessed it had to be disposed of in a
certain way. The nun wrapped it up in a bundle and cast it into the fire. All of a sudden she notices that the bread doesn't burn. It instead floats on the fire with a strange glow. She grabs it and realizes it's a miracle. She begins her journey with the bread to see the pope (all miracles had to be declared a miracle by the pope.) She gets to Rome and realizes she doesn't have the bread. She panics and wonders how she could have lost it. She realizes these are serious
negative nun points – finding a miracle and losing it. She gets back to Amsterdam and it's in the house. Her and the priest now take it to Rome. They get there, and discover the bread has vanished again. They find it in Amsterdam. They then build a church where the loaf lies.
That must be what the bread wants from them. In the next 50 years, the church burns down twice. The only thing that survives is the bread. They move the bread to another location. This fires are a bit worrisome and they want a safer location. This time the bread agrees
to be relocated. They put it in a nice steel case in the new church. A thief comes one night and robs the church. He takes off with the steel case thinking it has money.

He runs over a bridge and pries it open. With each push his heart is pacing faster and faster. He expects to find jewels, money or something precious. It finally opens, and he finds a dry dusty piece of bread.

He tosses it into the river Amstel.

That is the end of the miracle of Amsterdam.

Moral of this story? The bread was fireproof and could translocate, but wasn't waterproof.

Ps- The old man didn't survive. The miracle was only for the bread….not for him.

In Netherlands Tags Nazi, Amsterdam, Netherlands, Holland, Jewish, travel, traveling, travelling, travelblogger, trip, eurotrip, Europe, vacation
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