Arrival in Benin - Grand Popo, Snake Temple in Ouidah etc.

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...

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.

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.

How Senegalese wrestling became a modern martial arts sensation

The crowd is buzzing as the unforgiving Dakar sun beats down and the stadium fills past capacity. The air is thick with tension — one fears to step on anyone’s toes. The drums pound louder in anticipation of the historic match that is about to begin. Two loincloth-clad wrestlers prepare in an expansive ring, their feet deep in the sand. Each grappler is joined by a maraboutor two, spiritual guides who lead their men through rituals that, while steeped in traditional culture, also borrow heavily from the mystical Sufi Islamism practiced by most Senegalese.

In the ring is Fodé Doussouba, the 6-foot-2-inch, 330-pound star of traditional Senegalese wrestling sans frappe (without hitting or punching), who has enjoyed an undefeated, 11-year reign. He walks through a wooden loop four times to ward off negative spells.

His opponent is the heavy favorite, Bory Patar, the 6-foot-5-inch, 265-pound champion of wrestling avec frappe (with hitting or punching), the modern, commercial version of the sport that combines elements of wrestling and bare-knuckle boxing. Patar, who is wearing leather charms and amulets, douses himself in an oily liquid handed to him by his marabout — a potion to increase his strength, make him invincible and assure victory.

In the stadium’s seat of honor sits a regal man in a grand boubou — Bassirou Diagne Marème Diop. In a few decades he’ll become Le Grand Serigne de Dakar, the leader of the Lebou people, fishermen who are the original inhabitants of the region. For now, in 1961, he’s a rogue wrestling promoter who has rigged the match between old and new, giving the fighters different contracts that require each to compete in his own style, while filling the stadium with fans hungry to see what type of fight it turns out to be.

4, 3, 2, 1 — wrestle!

Patar lashes out. “He punched me!” yells Doussouba, holding his head in shock.

Diop rushes into the ring and loudly berates Patar. “Why did you hit him? You know this match is meant to be a traditional wrestling match — no punching!” As he walks away, though, he whispers to Patar: “Next time, hit him harder.”

4, 3, 2, 1 — wrestle!

Bam!

This time, realizing he’s been tricked, Doussouba reaches for a big stick and uses it to beat Patar. The event descends into chaos as the fans start fighting in the stands. The match is stopped, but a winner can be declared: the modern style. From that point on, the dominant wrestling in Senegal is avec frappe.

To read my full article for Ozy click here. 

Big budhaa at Kamakura, boat cruise at Yokohama and partying “la petite Dakar a Tokyo”

Saying this was going to be a busy day is the understatement of the year. In the morning, I took a train with Nguhi to go see the big budhaa at Kamakura.

The Great Buddha of Kamakura is a bronze statue of Amida Buddha, which stands on the grounds of Kotokuin Temple. It’s 13.35m in height and is the second tallest bronze Budhaa statue in Japan, surpassed only by the statue in Nara's Todaiji Temple. It was built in 1252 and similar to most budhaas in Japan, it was inside a large temple hall. A series of typhoons and tidal waves in the 14th and 15th centuries destroyed the temple buildings and the Budhaa has been in open air since 1495. Kamakura used to be the capital of Japan in the 12th and 13th century.

After Kamakura, we went to meet the rest of the #mirozinjapan for a night boat cruise in Yokohama.

Yokohama was one of the first Japanese ports opened to foreign trade, in 1859. It contains a large Chinatown with hundreds of Chinese restaurants and shops. Before the cruise, a few of us ate in Chinatown. The cruise was lovely in a strange way – most such cruises are about seeing nature, but we were intentionally going to see factories and industrial areas of Japan😊.

One would think that the day was complete, but not at all. That evening #mirozinjapan were hosting a party in a club where drinks and snacks from our different countries would be served. We had all carried a few unique items from our various countries. My contribution had mostly been in the form of tuskers and sesame bars. After the night’s partying, I got a second wind. I would be leaving Tokyo on the next night and I knew that this particular night would be my only chance to give Tokyo my all.

Party plans were also aided by the fact that I overstayed at the “La petite Dakar a Tokyo” party and missed the last train home. You should have seen Kabura and I running like mad women to catch that train only to find it had left us. Having given up on getting home affordably, partying all night sounded like a great alternative. Ben and I ended up going to Roppongi and finding a bar with a Kenyan owner. We were welcomed like long lost relatives. I love my Kenyan people! Especially when traveling – it feels as if you’re home when you bump into other Kenyans. We stayed there then finally ended up at an all-you-can-drink bar. It was all-you-can-drink for women, but I believe we got in and I sneakily shared drinks with Ben. Then I got a message from my roomies that the key to our Airbnb was not working and they had all gone to get hotel rooms for the night. I knew that partying had been divine intervention as I would have been in a similar homeless situation. I was lucky to be able to spent the night at Kabura’s Airbnb -  which we staggered into at 4am.

Alone time in Tokyo - Harajuku, Meiji shrine, Akihabara, Roppongi

Tokyo had revealed to me just how exhausted I was after all our crazy backpacking. I was almost never able to make it for any of our morning group plans in Tokyo. All I wanted to do was sleep, sleep and sleep some more. I recall Mouna asking me, “Did you come to Japan to sleep?” Death..My friend has a way with words. So I took my Tokyo trip into my own hands and decided that I was not going to let this be an expensive sleeping trip, but really take advantage of the fact that I was in Tokyo – Tokyo of all amazing places with Natsuno as our fabulous tour guide, and I was going to explore the city.

I spent a few days wandering around Harajuku – the home of Tokyo street fashion. A long walk down Takeshita street – revealed lots of fascinating and amusing people and shops.

I spent a lovely afternoon visiting the Meiji shrine – Tokyo’s most famous Shinto shrine dedicated to the late 19th century emperor who opened Japan to the West. The shrine is dedicated to the spirits of Emperor Meiji and his wife, Empress Shoken. In the Edo Period (1603-1867), the site had belonged to the Kato family and Ii family, both feudal lord families. In the Meiji era, the shrine was built in 1920 at the site and the inner garden – Yoyogi garden.

I marveled at the 40 foot high gate at the entrance to the 200 acre park Meiji shrine is in. The gate is made of 1500 year old cypress…..Japan must have the most polite termites….you’re telling me wood can survive that long?

I wondered about the hundreds of wine barrels near the shrine. Turns out that Emperor Meiji who had embraced western culture, was a lover of wine and particularly loved wine from the wineries in Burgundy.

When I finally got to the shrine, I enjoyed the tranquility of it. It was very understated compared to Akasuka shrine that I had visited only a few days back. Everything was more moderate. There was the budhaa with the two angry genies next to him to chase away evil spirits. There was a little place where coins were dropped into for good luck. There was smoke and incense.  

I also spent half a day at Akihabara – the gadget/tech part of Tokyo.

In the evening me and my roomies walked to roppongi hills – a really popular area with great restaurants, an amazing club scene etc. and enjoyed a calm dinner in a really great restaurant before walking back home and calling it a night.   

Yokozuna is not just the name of a wrestling star in WWF

We spent the earlier part of the day at the Sensoji Temple in the traditional Asakusa Area. The Sensoji temple is a lovely Buddhist temple built in the 7th century. Asakusa is the traditional part of Tokyo.

We ate in a lovely local restaurant that had horse sushi as one of the items on the menu….Paasssss….I’m not trying to get tapeworms at this stage in my life.

Next we were off to watch Sumo. I was extremely excited. There was a bit of talking going on down on the stage and I kept hearing “Yokozuna…Yokozuna….” I thought back to the good ol’ Wednesdays of my childhood of chapatis for dinner, watching smurfs after school then watching wrestling in the evening….bah – I might be mixing up days….but I do remember those WWF matches – which I would only later on in life discover to be staged.

Yokozuna! Yokozuna! It was only in Tokyo during the sumo match that I learnt that Yokozuna is a title given to wrestlers who have reached the sport’s highest rank.

I am a fan of traditional wrestling. It’s just a pity that when I was in Bolivia, I didn’t get to see the female wrestlers – the fighting Cholitas. I thought to do comparison between sumo wrestling and Senegalese wrestling – la lutte/laamb gi.

Same – same

1.       Squat game on fleek- Given how huge the sumo wrestlers are, I was extremely surprised how fit they are given their large size. My favourite move during sumo would be when the fighters would squat and shuffle across the room in this squatting position. I’m carrying only a fraction of the weight each of them have and I would die if I tried this move.

2.       Loin cloths….check! – If you are easily upset by the sight of people’s bums, you should not go for wrestling matches. The bare buns are even more noticeable in the Japanese context where there is a lot of flesh to be seen. I remember sending pics from the sumo match to my mum whose prebyterian church of East Africa inclinations led her to respond, “Ngai. They're just showing people their mapotties like that?"

3.       Gris-gris -  The sumo wrestlers were purified with salt before the match began while the Senegalese wrestlers each have their own marabout who blesses them with a liquid containing different elements for good luck. These ritual elements and the mystic nature of traditional wrestling seems to hold across different cultures.  

4.       Dramatic entry – Part of each match is about intimidating your opponent by showing them your strength. In sumo, the main ones seemed to be what I will call the sumo-bounce where the wrestler gets on one leg, tilts to the side and has a crazy power pose before going to the next side. In the Senegalese context, this was mostly dancing with power poses, some amazing stretches before fighting and call-response with one’s supporters to show strength and fame.

5.       Rigorous training – Everything in a professional sumo wrestler’s life is planned out – their look, their way of dressing, their meals, their rigid exercise schedule. Wrestlers are not normally allowed to eat breakfast and are expected to have a siesta after lunch.  They have to exercise in the morning on an empty stomach. Lunch is usually a stew with various fish, meat and vegetables served with rice and washed down with beer. The training for Senegalese wrestlers tends to be more focused on muscle gain more than weight gain, but is also quite rigid for the top wrestlers as competition is stiff and opportunities to make fortunes in la lutte are few – thus all the wrestlers are trying to be the next big wrestler. Large wrestlers train in the US where there is more advanced knowledge on bulking up. 

6.       Super-star/sex-idol status for the few greats – In each case, the most famous wrestlers have superstar status and are respected as local celebrities. In Japan, some of the famous wrestlers date supermodels. In Senegal, the biggest stars are recognizable faces everywhere, driving expensive cars, highly respected in the communities they come from and sometimes even getting advanced training in the US for the sport. The one interesting moment I do recall was when we witnessed 3 yokozunas coming out of a regular sized car. Maybe flossing is not that common in Japan? And that car….what type of magical stuff is it made of to not crumble under the weight?

7.       Path to winning – in both cases, the winner is whoever gets any part of the other’s body to touch the ground first…knees, hands, elbows etc.

 Different

1.       Size – Though both Senegalese wrestlers and Japanese sumo wrestlers are extremely strong, sumo wrestlers stand out when it comes to size. They are the largest people I have ever seen. It was quite beautiful when all the Yokozunas stood together on stage. If I had a boyfriend that size, would anyone ever bother me? I could be that chica who starts up fights in the club....just because..

Picnic at Yoyogi park and finding platform 9 and three quarters in Tokyo

After the crazy party night, everything was difficult – including waking up. I finally dragged myself out of bed to go to Natsuno’s annual giant party at Yoyogi park. I was almost at the park when I got a message that this was our last opportunity to go get anything we had left behind at the temple we slept at before our cross-country Japan trip had started. I have to confess that I left around 2kgs of earrings, necklaces and rings because I realized that I would hate myself within a few days of backpacking.

We all have our addictions....

I took the train to the temple to get my stuff. Finally, I made it to Yoyogi park and it was lovely. Hundreds of Natsuno’s friends from everywhere round the world, eating, drinking and making merry. We were at the park till 8:30pm.

Mouna and I finally left to get to our Airbnb. We had been warned about train stations in Tokyo and how you can get lost in them for life, but we had not taken these warnings seriously. In the train station next to our home, we had very detailed instructions on how to get out and it took 15 minutes each time from getting off the train to actually getting out of the train station. Lazy and tired as we were, when we saw an elevator, we decided to take it up?

How difficult can it be to get to our exit from where the elevator takes us?

That’s how difficult.

We got out and decided to try googlemaps as nothing looked familiar. How huge is this train station? Are we even still in Tokyo? Googlemaps directions read as follows, “Go straight. Get into the elevator…followed by lots of other directions.”

We ignored this – surely we won’t have to get back into the train station to find our home? We can’t be that far. After walking around for half an hour and having no luck, we decided to go back into the elevator and follow the directions we had initially been trying to avoid…the one we took every time that took 15 minutes for us to get out of the train station.

You would not believe it….the elevator that had brought us out of the train station, would not take us back down to exactly where it had brought us from. In short, we would never find Exit 2 – the exit that would get us home.

Did we imagine that we had been in that elevator before? We got so desperate that we just took the elevator back to the street. By this time we were so hungry and frustrated. We got into a restaurant and had dinner as we brainstormed on how we were going to avoid homelessness that evening.

Finally, we came up with a plan, “Let’s take any train back to roppongi, take the train back..and just follow the directions that we always used before. None of this..I’m too lazy to walk 15 minutes out of the train station business and using magical elevators that take you nowhere.”

At that very moment, hours later – we finally saw a sign for Exit 2. Mouna and I almost kissed the ground.

Freedom at last!

Don't play with your food...unless it's running noodles in Japan

We all know that you are not meant to play with your food, but there are rare exceptions to this rule. Running noodles in Japan counts as one such example. No better way to explain this, than to have you watch it for yourself. 

Disclaimer: No food was wasted in this game. All noodles, tomatoes and cucumbers were eventually eaten after the game. 

The grand feast of Ohira

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

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. 

The day when sleep never saw us

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!”

First public bath in Japan, zen meditation at the temple and sleeping in the temple

I had been fascinated with the concept of onsens/public baths since the first time I heard about them. You’re telling me everyone just gets naked and bathes together? If I was going to get into a public bath in Japan, it was definitely going to be with mirozinjapan- that way in case of any staring, the stares would be shared. In the words of my lovely Senegalese friend, “Yeah. Everyone is naked, but what if this is the first time they are seeing a black butt?” It was an important point to consider – you could all be naked, but some of you might be more of a novelty than others:-). My other friend did have some interesting concerns, “You know in Senegalese culture it’s considered bad luck to see someone’s butts. I don’t know if I am ready for all this bad luck.”

After the tea ceremony we all dressed up in kimonos and did amusing photo shoots. In our attempts to look dainty and demure as the Japanese ladies who had led us through the tea ceremony, we sometimes ended up having pics that made us look like sheep about to get slaughtered. FAIL.

Natsuno had managed to get media to join us for the day. They were fascinated about this group of 18 or so mirozinjapan who were traveling together and wanted to hear about our first impressions of Japan. Later we sat with Jokan – our monk friend, drank tea and chatted a lot about his path to becoming a monk. He was so interesting and calm. We all enjoyed being with him.

We walked half an hour away for dinner at a local restaurant. Before getting in to the restaurant, we took off our shoes. This would become the norm in most of the restaurants we went to in Japan. I found it strangely calming – as if you were entering an African home and had to take off your shoes before stepping on the carpet. It made the restaurants seem more intimate – like someone’s house rather than a hotel. The dinner was delicious and we had yummy sake after that. Gift giving was very big in Japan and Natsuno had reminded us to bring enough trinkets to give as gifts as everyone else would alsobe giving us gifts. We were each given delicious boxes of wafers and in return we gave an assortment of our gifts that represented the diversity of countries we represented. After dinner we walked back to the temple and picked our bath essentials. We got to the public bath house. We walked into a giant room (women-only) where a few naked women were sitting on green buckets soaping themselves. We followed suit – soaped ourselves sitting on the green buckets – still not sure why this has to be done seated. (Maybe it's also bad luck in Japanese culture to moon people?) We rinsed off a bit then jumped into the giant bathtub. I believe that the bath had been set up to boil lobsters – cause that water temperature. I was only able to stay inside for five minutes before I started to fear for my life. I got out of the bath and had to drink lots of water to rehydrate. We wore our pyjamas at the bath house and walked back to the temple in our pjs. We got to the temple – made our futons for sleeping then proceeded upstairs for a session of zen meditation. It was quite relaxing. I believe most people were already half asleep five minutes in – after our long day. It was quite hilarious when in the midst of chanting, the monk hit the gong. Some people almost fell off their seats as they were already drifting off to sleep. We slept at 12:30am and were up by 4:30am for an adventure filled day that would start off with eating the freshest sushi and sashimi at Tsukiju fish market.

Heading to Japan

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. 

Shikomori for beginners + Leaving Moheli for Ndzouani

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. 

Adjusting to a different culture and finally getting rid of a certain bugga--boo

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.

Do you really speak French?

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….

The face of 14th century traditional Senegalese wrestling in a changing world

It is dusk. You are one of the thousands in the roaring crowd at Demba Diop stadium in Dakar. You catch snippets of conversations in Wolof and some French – but such sports events rarely need explaining. You look down at the stage to see the two opponents preparing for their big fight. Each has a marabout or two who leads him through a series of rituals that while steeped in traditional Senegalese culture also heavily borrows from mystical Sufi Islamism that is practiced by most Senegalese. A huge well sculpted loin-cloth clad wrestler walks through a wooden loop four times to ward off any negative spells that might have been placed against him to cause his defeat. Another equally huge sculpted loin-cloth clad wrestler wearing leather charms and amulets douses himself in an oily looking liquid handed over to him by his marabout (spiritual leader). This potion is to increase his strength, make him invincible and assure him victory. The match is about to begin and there are hundreds of people in the sandy stage below. You take a minute to assess everything else that is going on there – just a minute – any longer and you might miss the actual fight. Awrestling school’s members are run-dancing a lap round the field. They are clad in their jerseys – every so often they stop and break out into the most amazing dances – each wrestling school has their own signature songs and dances. To the right you see a drumming troupe – the crowd gets more excited the faster the sabar plays. Near the drumming troupe there is a dancer who moves as if he has no bones in his body – the drumming tempo increases, he dances with even more vigor, the crowd is elated. Near the center stage there is a group of women singing. You are taking it all in then you remember that the main event is the fight. You look back at the main fight – they have started. Years of preparation for the wrestlers, hours of smaller fights and the side-shows at today’s event – all culminating in this one large fight. If you are lucky it might last four minutes. If not so lucky it might be a quick fight where one wrestler simply knocks the other on the head and within less than 5 seconds the whole match is done – once the wrestler falls to the ground howling out in pain (as was the case the evening I watched a match between Ama Baldé vs. Gouy Gui). In any case, you will have been fortunate to see a 14th century Senegalese wrestling match come alive right before your eyes in a 21st century stadium.

La lutte or laamb as it is known in Wolof has existed since at least the 14th century in Senegal when the first known wrestler – Boukar Djilak Faye lived. While traditional wrestling is also common in other West African nations, La lutte is unique in how it has managed to grow, adapt to the times while still holding on to the interesting cultural and mystical elements that make it a must watch. It is one of the few bare-fisted wrestling forms that exists worldwide. The fame of modern day wrestling in Senegal is attributed to a wrestler called Tyson who started off in the 90s. He is credited with changing it merely from a sport to a real business becoming the first Senegalese wrestler to earn lots of money from the sport. Traditionally wrestling served various purposes In Senegal. It was a form of entertainment – after the harvest season villages would organize wrestling matches against each other. It was sometimes a way of paying homage to respected leaders – wrestling matches could take place at funeral remembrances of community greats. Sometimes it was used during initiation, to court wives or a show of masculinity. The sport has now grown to become even more famous and attract larger sponsors that football.

In a country where at least half of the population is unemployed. The fame and fortune that wrestling promises attracts many fighters – especially those from less privileged backgrounds. But what really is the potential earning from wrestling? There are around 3000 registered wrestlers in Senegal. Of these, only a dozen or so earn the legendary figures sometimes quoted of $100,000 - $300,000 a fight – and most times these wrestlers will only earn that once a season – wrestling season runs from January to end of July. Majority of the other wrestlers make around $2000 per season (which is still significant in a country where the UN estimates of annual income per capita are less than USD 1000.) As such people who are turning to wrestling might still not be wrong in thinking that this might be a good alternative option for them to create a livelihood.

But what about all the violence that such sports encourage? It might be counterintuitive but with high unemployment and frustration, violence is typically on the rise (as seen in many countries.) To create an outlet where people can channel these emotions within a controlled environment might calm some of these tensions. In reality the option is not really between wrestling and formal employment for many, but really wrestling and unemployment (or underemployment.) Senegalese society is also quite peaceful in general. Even during the matches themselves, people are not out for a bloodbath, but really for entertainment. Many Senegalese will speak of a wrestler known as “The Butcher” with derision – he was known for leaving his opponents bloody – the fans did not like it. During the matches, people are not baying for blood but really for an entertaining match that combines skills, culture and technique. Violence among fans as a result of the sport is also a concern, but the incidences reported are nowhere near as serious in magnitude as those witnessed in European countries after English Premier League matches or even sometimes in my home country (Kenya) after some football matches. Past incidences have been attributed to the fact that betting on the matches is really high and a vast proportion of youth from neighboring environs who place bets get violent when they lose their money – if the match does not end in their favor.  Increased security at the matches can ensure that they remain safe for all who wish to watch it – sports betting globally increases with popularity of a sport.

Why La Lutte is really fascinating is that it is further evidence of a growing trend on the continent where we are beginning to look within ourselves, embrace some of our unique cultures and find ways to grow them locally and then internationally. It is Africans refusing the rhetoric that arts and culture on the continent never existed before colonialism, that the most interesting thing about our countries is colonial history and post-colonial struggles and that the only good things to be found in our countries are those we got from the West. There is a cultural revolution taking over the continent – one that has started with music and literature and is spreading into even more aspects of our cultural heritage. We need to realize that even across the different African countries, people hunger to know more about other African countries. My education system taught me little other than we had some kingdoms, then we enslaved each other, then Arabs and the West came and took slavery to another level, then colonialism happened, we put up a good fight (The Battle of Adowa, Mau Mau rebellion, and so many other not so successful rebellions including using some magical potions that were to ward off bullets (Maji Maji rebellion). After that the colonial powers left us to our own defenses and we made a mess out of everything – descending into war, famine, disease etc. The West then came back to save us in various forms and anything good or interesting taking place on the continent right now is because of the benevolence of the West.

We as Africans need to change this rhetoric – and what better way to do that than owning and embracing our unique cultures, discovering them and monetizing them (La lutte attracts numerous corporate sponsors, but has still managed to remain authentic.)

La lutte in Senegal is a must see – now my next article will be on this little pesky visa situation that makes it EXTREMELY difficult for an African to travel in Africa. Thank you Senegal though for not requiring a visa for most people – lots of other countries need to take up this initiative.

First published on Suluzulu

Touring Amsterdam - Christian reformation, Rembrandt, Nazi occupation etc

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.

Touring Amsterdam - Redlight district, religious tolerance, marijuana laws

We left Geneva early on a Sunday morning. We traveled to Amsterdam through Brussels and Paris. We got to Amsterdam at 4pm - checked into our hostel - a really dingy hostel, but it was on top of a fabulous bar. Winning! But that hostel was dingy! We had to pass through some toilets to get to our room - yes.....who built this place???

4pm - everyone passed out and we vowed to wake up and PARTAAY! Cause, hey - this is Amsterdam......Well, we actually fell asleep till the next morning. All our traveling had finally finished us. The next day we woke up and went for Sandeman's New Europe Tours - amazing free tours in different European cities.

**The tour***

Amsterdam was actually really cool and quite multicultural. I kept on wondering how a country that is bordered by Germany and Belgium attracted so many people of all races, religions , ideologies etc. I also wondered why the people were so nice.  People had been so nice
and friendly even the older generation who usually stare at you with xenophobic suspicion. 

Amsterdam was founded by two men and a dog. History claims that. How two men and a dog were able to build this town is a good question. They built a dam on the river Amstel….Amsteldam became Amsterdam. We  went to check out the old part of town and it dawned on me how fragile the place is. Most of Amsterdam is on reclaimed land. People don't store anything in the basement for fear of flooding. We passed one street where all the houses were toppling forwards. Apparently this was intentional. All houses had a one meter or so beam extending horizontally from the roof. This was used to support ropes to pull up
merchandise from the river direct into the attic when the merchant boats came. All storage had to be done in the attic for fear of flooding. The houses were built leaning forward so as to avoid stuff breaking your windows as it was pulled up. It took the town 100 year to realize that this danger could be avoided if they made the beams longer.

During Napoleon's reign in France, he invaded Netherlands and gave it to his silly younger brother. His brother was not that sharp. The first time he tried to speak Dutch to the people and announce, "I am your King," he actually said "I am your rabbit."  They never really took him seriously after that. Before his time, the Dutch never used surnames. They had names like, "Dirk from Utrecht" or "Jan the baker" etc. A law was passed forcing everyone to have a surname. The Dutch had an interesting sense of humour and took on nonsensical surnames –
"Dirk PeesInTheForest", "Jan TheLaughingCow" etc. It was quite funny then, but many young Dutch of this generation do not find their surnames that hilarious.

Another curious thing was that houses in Amsterdam didn't use to have addresses. They had gablestones. If the dentist lived there, there would be a tooth sculpture at his door. The baker, there would be an oven etc. I found the founding of Amsterdam quite organic. Who says
addresses are the only way to mark houses? It would be nice to know
who lives in what place by looking at their door.

Our next stop on the tour was the Red Light District. Right at the entrance of the Red Light District was an old church. This District is the oldest part of the town. When the sailors came back they would visit the bordellos first. After this they would go to the church, repent their sins, pay for their forgiveness and get a "Get out of hell free" card from the priests. Understanding the Red Light District is an important aspect in understanding Dutch culture. They are very Calvinist, and believe that everyone has a right to live their life how they see fit. It surprises people, but the Dutch are actually quite conservative themselves. They however tend to turn a blind eye/ have a non-inteference culture when it comes to many things. This is why the Netherlands is known as the hotbed for people of different sexual orientations, marijuana-legality and lax immigration laws. They themselves may choose to live what they consider pure or religious lives, but they don't impose their thinking on anyone. I really liked
that. Your reality is not my reality. 

The Red Light District is basically a collection of windows in buildings with red lights, and women on display behind the windows. Pimping in Netherlands is illegal. All the workers here are self-employed. They pay 150-200 Euros a night for their window, and what they do there is their business. They also pay taxes. I thought it was very practical as banning prostitution just means that more people are forced to be sex workers and work under horrifying circumstances, have no basic rights, have a middle man oppressing them etc. In Amsterdam they are unionizable workers just like teachers etc. They also have better police protection than they did when it was 'illegal' but still happening. In Kenya one always hears horrific tales of prostitutes reporting cases of violence or rape to the police, only to be further brutalized -because the police know the women have no one to turn to - as their trade is illegal...

The first three windows I saw were African women. The next one I saw was a woman with bondage gear. The next one was a woman sitting with a huge dildo on. The District is organized into all sorts of different fetishes. I was told there is also a part just for Asian prostitutes, leather, foot fetishes etc. A basic appropriately named "suck and **ck" goes for 50 euros and lasts 15 minutes. These women are making bank. How many 15 minutes do you have in 8 hours?

Another thing that would be worth mentioning about Netherlands is the marijuana laws. In the 60s and 70s Amsterdam was hit hard by the drugs madness. The town had more heroin abusers than it could rehabilitate. The Government took drastic measures. It decriminalized marijuana which it considered to be a pseudo-drug and had stricter punishments
for heroin and cocaine. Though these measures seemed crazy, it helped the town put more funding into catching dealers of hard drugs, and leaving the pot-head down the street alone. Contrary to popular opinion, weed isn't legal in Netherlands, but is tolerated. 'Tolerated' means that as long as it doesn't disturb anyone else then it is fine. I can't tell what the difference between tolerated and legal is. There have been no weed-related arrests in over  30 years.  The
Dutch also believe in subtlety which is why everyone calls these places 'coffee shops.' Netherlands now has half as many heroin addicts, percentage wise as the US. Their experiment was a success after all. It was funny to learn that the Dutch are not even a big consumer of the product. It is now quite a tourist thing. The Dutch themselves rank 7th in Europe on the list of most marijuana consumed. The highest is Spain, France, Germany etc. Also equally surprising was learning that New Zealand is the country in the world with the highest percentage of weed smokers – 16.7%. Everyone had thought it was Jamaica. We were also given a tour of the outside of the Hemp Marijuana Museum and the Cannabis College.

To be continued......

Heading to Paris

We got to the train station quite early for our train ride to Paris, but the journey was delayed as a result of someone jumping on the train-tracks. We left for Paris at 2:30pm on the TGV – one of the fastest trains in the world. The journey was good with a proper lunch being served on the train – there are some perks to traveling with the faster, more-expensive option. I had booked an apartment for us in a place called Chelles. This was the first place I was to find with reasonable prices when I was looking for Paris accommodation. I would later realize that this price meant we stayed quite a fair distance away from the city and the inconvenience of a very long walk to the apartment. From the central Paris station, our stop was around 20 minutes away. This was not that terrible, but once we got off the train – with our heavy backpacks, we realized there were absolutely no taxis in this part of Paris. We asked around at a bar and a restaurant near the train station and we were told that the only option would be to call a taxi from Central paris (which would automatically charge us $40) to get to us. Thus with our backpacks, we began the 30 minute walk to our apartment. This became our daily routine while in Paris (obviously without the backpacks.) A 20 minute train ride followed by a half hour walk to our apartment or vice-versa depending on whether we were heading out or coming back home. On the plus side our apartment was lovely – and affordable. We got there around 10pm and immediately passed out after our long journey.

The following morning we went to town to catch the free city tour, but didn’t get there in time. We instead walked around by ourselves – we went to the fountain at St. Michael the archangel – the most flamboyant statue I have ever seen. After that we went to the world famous museum that houses the Mona Lisa – the Louvre. We then went to Champs Elysees - the beautiful 2km long boulevard which runs between Place de la Concorde and Place Charles de Gaulle and is where the famous  Arc de Triomphe is located. We also passed by the  royal gardens etc. Paris is extremely beautiful. 

After what must have been a 20km walk, we went for dinner at a lovely Greek restaurant – washed down our dinner with delicious Kir cocktails (champagne and crème de cassis.) I begged the team to pass by a French lounge that I had fallen in love with a few years back (Les Soffleurs/the glassblowers.) I had wonderful memories of being directed to this place a few years back when I was working for the German Rail Company (Deutsche Bahn) in Saarbrucken, Germany and was in town for a meeting with the French rail company officials (SNCF). My first night there had been magical – I had spent it drinking lots of champagne with Chantal – the 65 year old Martinique owner, a few musicians from St. Martinique, some French actors etc. The vibe was great. I remember at 5am, Chantal completely refusing to accept payment for my drinks (because she said I was great fun and I was the first Kenyan she had met in Paris) and even getting me a free ride back to my hotel. After that trip, I had gone back to Paris that summer once or twice more to party at Les Soffleurs. One day I will tell you my Les Soffleurs stories. We walked all the way there and were sad to find out that it had closed up. I had been dying to see Chantal again and listen to her funny stories. I realized I didn’t even have her contact details anymore and silently wished that the universe would bring us back together. 

Heal the World - Oktoberfest style

We had one day in Munich before the end of Oktoberfest. We were in a very festive mood. We woke up at 2pm – exhausted from our various trips. One of our close friends from Nairobi arrived shortly after – she would be joining us for the second part of the trip. Her pseudonym will be “The Lady.” “The Safety Net cooked up a storm. We ate to our heart’s content and went out clubbing later to Pimpernel – We had a lovely time and got home quite late.

In the morning we woke up excited about the last day of Oktoberfest. I went with The Lady to the festival around 4pm. There we met up with 2 of my lovely college friends who had come in from Switzerland to join us for the festivities. It was one of those nights that is difficult to explain if one wasn’t there. Key highlights of the night for me included:

·        Me having a mini-meltdown and yelling at my friends when I started feeling frustrated – like I had to be responsible for everything given I was the organizer of the trip. “I am not your mother! People need to start being responsible for themselves – you can’t expect me to know everything, do everything, tell you everything, have all the directions etc.” It was not pretty - especially because I was inebriated, likely slurring and repeating the same thing over and over, but we had a debrief the next day and after that I felt that people were being more responsible for themselves. I can’t really blame them though because I also know that when someone takes charge it becomes very easy to just go along with the flow and not feel the pressure to know anything/do anything for yourself. How many times have I been driven somewhere and not bothered to note the directions given someone else is doing it for me? It’s human nature.

·        Lighting candles with random strangers, singing “heal the world” and hugging people over mugfuls of beer – that closing ceremony was a very wonderful emotional experience – those moments when complete strangers are brought together by the powerful force of alcohol and pyromania and cheesy kumbaya music

·        Going out clubbing alone – determined to squeeze out the most of my time in my beloved city of Munich. Getting lost trying to get to Pimpernel, but making random friends along the way who I partied with till 6:30am

·        Getting home at 7am, packing in a state of drunkenness and us heading off to the train station – Paris bound. 

Touring Copenhagen - getting royally lost

Aaaaah, that hostel – Danhostel Bellahoj! What a pain. In addition to having to physically construct your own beds , the showers and bathrooms in the hostel were closed from 10am – 2pm. I imagine that this time range is when most backpackers are waking up….arrrgh. On this day we actually managed to make it for the city tour. To be honest it was not that great a tour, though we did learn a few interesting things – we passed by the royal family house – found out how approachable the Danish royal family is – one can bump into them on the streets. We learnt about how Denmark made a fatal error in partnering with Germany during WWII – not really partnering but never putting up a resistance to German occupation. During much of World War II, Denmark was occupied by Nazi Germany – from April 1940 up until German forces withdrew at the end of World War II following their surrender to the Allies on 5 May 1945. Contrary to the situation in other countries under German occupation, most Danish institutions continued to function relatively normally until 1943. Both the Danish government and king remained in the country in an uneasy relationship between a democratic Danish government and a totalitarian nazi system. Over 3000 Danes died as a direct result of the occupation.

Later in the afternoon we went to the city center to visit my company’s Copenhagen office. After this we went to Freetown Christiania – a self-proclaimed autonomous neighborhood in Copenhagen – which is the hippie part of Copenhagen. We then took a boat bus round the city. Soon it was time for us to meet our new friends and my boss who was in Denmark for meetings. We got so lost and walked round in circles for 2 hours in Copenhagen before we finally made it to the meat-packing district. Times got so desperate to the extent where we had to sneak into some art gallery or something of the sort to use the washrooms – we had drunk a few beers in Christiania and after many hours of walking idly, we were really really pressed. We met up with everyone in a reggae place in the meat-packing district, partied the night away there and in another club close by called Joleen. The next day was chaotic – we left Copenhagen in the morning and were to get to Munich at 11pm, but a train had fallen on some train tracks. We finally made it to Munich at 5am the following day, and quickly prepped for the festivities that would be the closing ceremony of Oktoberfest.