2013年12月22日日曜日

Africa No.5 - Memory and sequela of red-soil / Rwanda




History is an event happened sometime before my early recollection. Current news is an event happened sometime after I began to understand things.
Rwanda Genocide was in between. It was something I read in the paper, not the textbook when I was 12, and still, looked as if it was a tale, a chiller one. ‘Once upon a time there were two tribes in a small inland country in Africa, and they hated each other. One of them decided to eliminate the next-door tribe, tried to kill every single man from that tribe, and in fact, killed them all. The red-soil covering the whole country was thoroughly ensanguined.’

Well that was all I knew about Rwanda Genocide, or, the history of Rwanda, for 19 years. Even until I got in to Kigali, the capital in Rwanda on 27th of February. What was added to this chiller tale were; two names of the anonymous tribes, Tutsi and Hutu, and the vague impression from two movies, ‘Hotel Rwanda’ and ‘Shooting Dogs’. And no more.

(Hotel des Mille Collines, as 'Hotel Rwanda')


1.  Kigali / To begin with
I went in to Kigali right after getting an entry visa in Kampala, Uganda.
Kigali town was clean and organized. Streets were neat, unlike the rest of the African countries. Motorbike taxis were safe and were obliged to carry only one passenger in one bike and to wear helmet, unlike the rest of the African countries. People I met here were not aggressive; rather, quiet, when I was negotiating, unlike the rest of the African countries. And at night, streets glittered in the orange light of street lamps, which I have never seen in the other parts of Africa.

All these encounters in Kigali had dissociation from my image of Rwanda, which was supposed to hold bloody memory in the recent past.

(Morning town, Kigali)

I went to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center in one morning, as soon as I got to Kigali from Kampala. The Memorial was clean with the shiny white floor and felt a bit unsettled. I thought it was because I got used to be in the Black Holes of messy lical stores in Africa, but it turned out that it was not the right reason.
Anyway, I started browsing around the exhibitions in Memorial and soon found out that it would take a long time to be fully understood, as the Memorial talked a lot about the genocide in 1994 with lots of panels and displays.

The story went like this.
- The Tutsi is the minority and the Hutu is the majority.
- Distinction between Tutsi and Hutu was not very clear in the old days.

- Just as the other African regions, colonial power came in to Rwanda(and Burundi); It was Belgium for Rwanda.
- As Belgium started to govern, it tried to maintain the divide between Tutsi and Hutu, in order to make the colonial rule easier. Belgian colonialism introduced separate ID cards for these two tribes.
- The Tutsi has been the ruling class under the colonial rule. The Hutus was the subordinate class.

- Anyway Rwanda went independent in 1962.
- Repression against Tutsi dated back to 1959, when Hutu government came into power.
- Hutu government pushed propaganda which inflames Hutu’s animosity against Tutsi.
- There have been some civil wars and many Tutsi got pushed out and became exiles in Uganda, Congo and Tanzania. The Tutsi based exiles formed RPF(Rwandan Patriotic Front) and started fighting back.

- On April 6, 1994, the plane carrying the Hutu president’s crashed down mysteriously, and the president died. Hutu military declared to set out for murdering Tutsi.
- Hutu turned into thugs armed with choppers and machetes, to slaughter Tutsi as well as Hutu moderates. Half to one million people were killed in 100days.
- UN failed to work effectively to prevent the mass murder even though it knew what was happening here. French troop was even worse; they gave arms and trainings for the Hutu mobs to help them murder more Tutsis. The Tutsis had to wait for the Tutsi compatriots of RPF to fight back.
- RPF launched an offensive, took the capital on July 4, and the genocide has ended.

(Afternoon Memorial, Kigali)

As I went through the panels, I encountered some interviews done with the survivors from the Genocide. One of them was the one with a Tutsi lady who has survived from the worst 100 days of her life, witnessing all the murder and torture in front of her. She had somebody helped her to hide from Hutu mobs. In the interview I saw her saying, ‘In this world there is 5% of good people, but 95% are the evil or the normal people who don’t care’.
Normally it feels more real to hear the voice of the actual survivor of an historic event than reading a history book or articles, but this time the voice of a lady sounded somewhat different. Her voice echoed from far away, and sounded a bit unreal. Partially because of the sadness of the stories she talked. Partially because of the way I perceived.

Then I started to realize why I was felt a sense of discomfort during my visit to this memorial. It was not the fact that this place is quite gloomy and depressing.
It was the fact that good and evil are so obvious here. There was a line between victims and victimizers, a clear-cut line which nobody was entitled to challenge. There was good and evil in this situation and these two were completely divided into two, nothing else.
The Tutsi was the victim and the Hutu was the victimizer. The Tutsi was good and the Hutu was evil. RPF, the Tutsi-based government who is in the power currently was the right, and the Hutu who made mistakes was wrong.

‘Isn’t this place too much one-sided?’ I thought. And that was only the beginning of the story.

(Evening hangout, Kigali)


2. Butare / sequela, of history
I traveled to Butare, a southern province of Rwanda, after a few days in Kigali.
‘Mille Collines’, meaning ‘a thousand hills’, is said to be the description for a beautiful hilly country of Rwanda and this was the perfect description. As I went through the mountainous road from Kigali down to Butare, slopes were getting steeper and more like zigzag, and scenery beyond the mini-van was getting rougher and greener. Air was not polluted anymore. I opened the window and breathed deeply. Very quiet, fresh green breeze came in through the window and brushed my cheek gently. Such a peaceful place.

In Butare, there was also a genocide Memorial, which was called Gikongoro Memorial. This Memorial was built in the spot where the genocide took place. It was in the mountain and I had to take a bike taxi for half an hour to get there. I saw rows of prisoners wearing orange salopettes passing by my bike. They were not chained and they were calm and quiet.

(Prisoners in the mountain, Butare)

The sight you see in Gikongoro Memorial is all the same as the ones you see in Kigali Memorial, except this; hundreds of mummies of the victims from genocide.

I witnessed these mummies just as same as the other visitors, I was shocked somehow-probably because of the smell they had which was similar to the smell of gypsum-, just as same as the other visitors. The fact that the dead were sleeping before me was not really pained. The painful fact is that they were murdered brutally and were piled up in here against their will. And I need some imagination which connects these two facts. It was way beyond my imagination.

‘Who funded this Memorial?’ I asked when I got out of the Memorial.
The staff didn’t really answer. I googled it later on. This Memorial -and the one in Kigali as well- was built by the current government and UK-based Aegis Trust.

(Memorial in the mountain, Butare)


This solved one mystery.
I was wondering why Rwanda was a part of the British Commonwealth although Rwanda has never been controlled by Britain, why English was one of the official language in Rwanda.
The current government is deeply connected to Anglo-American government.
And to know who constitutes the current regime, it is the Tutsis, who has been oppressed by the Hutus for recent 50 years, but was oppressing the Hutus before then. Many important posts are taken by the Tutsi, the president Kagame is a Tutsi, Even though the policy eliminated the distinction between the Tutsi and the Hutu, there still exists the distinction.

It is said that the Rwanda Genocide and the civil war was the proxy war between the Anglo-US with Uganda and France with French colonized African countries. It seemed to me as just a ignorant tourist, apparent. That was why the Memorial criticized a lot about the French troops’ movement during the genocide.

Does this mean that the regime just went back to the one before the last regime? Does this mean that the history repeats itself? I was trembled.
Since way back before I stepped into this Memorial, there was a stage set in the base of this Memorial. Time goes back and forth where we didn’t really notice.

(Sunday in the mountain, Butare) 



3. Kibuye / sequela, of space

The last part I spent in Rwanda was in Kibuye, the small town in west province, close to the Congo border. Located in the lakefront of astonishing Kivu Lake, shining gold for the sunset, this small town always got breeze from the lake.
A friend of mine just opened a cottage hotel in the lakeshore, and I was so happy to visit her new place. I took a bike taxi going around the lake a bit up the hill, and went in to the green bush to get to the lakeshore.

(Dusk in Kivu Lake, Kibuye)


The view was breathtaking. From the top of the hill you could see the surface of the Kivu Lake glittering just like a mirror. This surface was waiting for the sunset to cast the golden light.
We had beer together with the brochette of a fresh little lamp just sacrificed an hour before. ‘That island like shape you see in front of you is DR Congo’, a friend of mine mentioned. Congo. What an unknown world.

We started to talk about Congo and soon got into the conversation about the Congo War which was just happening.
At that time, it was just disclosed that the Rwanda government was unofficially supporting the anti-government troop in Congo, M23. Rwanda government, with large numbers of Tutsi military has been fighting against the defeated soldiers of Hutu who were the commanders of genocide and who went into Congo as refugees right after the genocide. The Congo War is the combination of the domestic conflict of Congo and the Rwandan conflict, conflict between the Tutsi and the Hutu which is still going on.

I was trembled again, to know that the history repeats itself, not just inside the country but also outside the country. And with involving so many people outside, who has been nothing to do with the genocide. The genocide is still having a lasting effect, in terms of space as well.

(Congo is close by, Kibuye)

Well, this fact that Rwanda was supporting M23 has been an open secret for a long time, but this time human rights organization reported and the western countries could no more ignore. They are considering cutting off the official development assistance towards Rwanda, which Rwanda has been relying on.

As for the fact that the astounding development in Rwanda-it is referred as a miracle of Africa- was based on substantial amount of these ODA, we never know where Rwanda goes with the cutting off of the aid. We never know where Rwanda goes with this sequel as well.


(Pray in random church)





2013年12月15日日曜日

Africa No.4 - Brochettes and loneliness / Uganda



Staying in eastern Africa for a few months, I was getting fed up of the food. Injera, made of teff in Ethiopia, stinks sour. Ugali, made of maize or cassava, feels flaky. Tough meat. Oily fries. Good or bad, being served the same thing everyday,

Food in Uganda is similar, but somewhat different. They eat matoke, fake bananas or rice for ugali. Fake bananas are a bit like roasted sweet potato with some flavor of apples. Not as dried out as ugali, it goes well with every single meat.
And the meat is also juicy here. Chicken, lamb, all the parts of beef, you name it, they serve it freshly-baked. At the bus terminal, on the random street corner, during your bus ride, you can smell the barbeque brochette meat baked on the cast-irons pans, all over the city.



(hustle and bustle, Kampala)

When I first got in to Uganda with friends travelers, we were supposed to take a night bus from Nairobi heading to Jinja, the small riverside town close to the border and to get there around 4-5am. It was 6am when we all woke up. We heard the hustle and bustle of the city. Seemed like we overslept the town of Jinja and came all the way through to the capital Kampala.
We were too tired. We wanted to get back to the little town Jinja, which we haven’t even seen. We were captured by a random driver and got in to a random mini-van, which would take us directly to Jinja.
To tell you this again, we were too tired. After the stress of getting a night bus in the middle of the dangerous city center of Kenya. After the stress of being forced to get up at the border in the middle of the night and being checked all over. So that we fell asleep as soon as we got in to the mini-van.

*

(wake-up call, on the way to Jinja)


We were awakened out of sound sleep in the van, with the loud scream, rather, roar. I tried to look out the window and found that I couldn’t. All the local women sticking to the window from outside shouted for selling something; barbeque brochette meat and matoke, fake bananas.
We then knew that we were more hungry than being afraid of being eaten by these shouting women. We took some of these brochette meats and gazed at each other. These meats tasted perfect. Salty taste was just, right. They were not as tough and chewy as the ones we had in Kenya. They have varieties of the parts off the meat, starting from a piece of gizzard to a piece of liver.

We were so fascinated by these brochettes then started to look for these in all the place we have been.
While we were enjoying chilling out at the riverside of Jinja, and being impressed by the headstream of Nile; Victoria Nile(This river was a bit red and contaminated but bright and cheerful place with all locals doing their laundries on the riverside).
While we were rushing up to meet the Pygmy tribes in Fort Portal, the area with rain forest close to the border of DR Congo(There were only a few village of Pygmies in the middle of the normal Bantu Ugandan village, but the king of that village was really small, just as the same as our image of pigmy people. They danced well).
And while we were waiting for the Rwanda visa and I was waiting for the visa renewal in Kampala.

(laundry in Nile, Jinja)

(dancing with pygmies, Fort Portal)


Great barbeque meats were everywhere and they were all cheap, from 30 cents up to 1 dollar.
My favorite place was the one in the suburb of the city Kampala, which was a few minutes walking distance from where I stayed. It was a small stall in the small market along with the road, and I always went out when the night has come. This little market started to smoke out for the dinner time, selling everything for the dinner. Meat, fish, chapatti, soup, omelets, pilaf. Fruits, doughnuts and vegetables.
There was a 40-years-old man and a 18-years-old son, sometimes a 22-years-old son in the stall. They baked the meat in good order every day. Starting with beef brochettes, they went on to the whole chicken, then liver brochettes, mixed ones, and gizzard brochettes. The father was baking all the time, the son was making the brochettes with all the spices with ginger and garlic. They didn’t talk much but they smiled a lot. This family-owned business was doing well. Probably because of the atmosphere they had with each other, locals came and talked with them while they were making the brochettes. Having something to eat is for family, for sharing. The food they, a family, made was something they offer for the dinner table, it seemed like they thought so. And this concept made their stall so popular, not just for locals, but for the tourists like me.

(a family stall, Kampala)


When my passport was renewed and I got a new one for the first time in 9 years and a half, I got these brochettes, went back to the hostel and bought some bottles of beer. Ugandan beer was as great as the ones in Kenya and Ethiopia, and with these delicious street foods, even greater than those.
I pulled out the plug and started drinking with these family-marked brochettes. Then I felt so alone. These foods were made by a family and for families.
When I renewed my passport almost 10years ago in Japan, I was not alone. When I started my travel I was not alone. When I came in to Uganda I was not alone. Now I was by myself saying cheers to myself in the most cheerful place with the warmest brochettes, holding a shiny brand-new passport in my hands.

(barbequing with friends, Fort Portal)






2013年12月8日日曜日

Africa No.3 - Co-existence / Kenya



In Kenya, human world and animal world are parallel..
They are mixed up altogether, making a big mess trying to confuse a random tourist like me.

(a beauty, Masai Mara)


As soon as I came in to Nairobi, I made a booking for a safari tour for Masai Mara. 310 US dollars for 3 days including entrance fee for the national park. Not bad.
I felt a bit pressured that time. Pressured to see touristic Africa. Animals in savanna. Lions hunting zebras there. Rangers driving around trying to spot them. These are everyone’s image about Africa and I wanted to finish them before going to off-the-beaten-tracks.

So I went with a tour group out for the national park- which is too huge to be called a national park, by a scrapped old Nissan 4WD. It took us a while day to get there after several times of engine break-downs. It was already eventide when the 4WD opened its roof to make it an open-air safari drive. The red sun was starting to set and trying to add some pink-orange flavor to this originally brownish national park. And there were a herd of zebras.

To our excitement, our driver who was a ranger as well started out the safari car. ‘It is not just zebras’, he said. ‘You will see more than that in a few seconds.’
And there they were. A couple of lions indulging in the dead flesh of a buffalo.
We could almost hear the sound of them crunching. Thud thud. They masticated the dark-red flesh and pure-white bones into the stomach. Then they started to flirt. It went on for 10-20 minutes and we felt a bit awkward than exciting after a few minutes.

(a couple, Masai Mara)


Animals kept on appearing to our sight for the next day and the day after. Hot bonny giraffes, sad fate looking antelopes, monstrous gnus and buffalos. African elephants lumbering around and white little birds singing on gray trunks of elephant. Jackals. Families of cat-like lions and cheetahs relaxing and gamboling at home. And zebras again and again.

What amazed us the most was none of those safari-like animals. It was a single hippopotamus walking on the dry savanna.
A hippo on the land? I was suspicious when our ranger ordered us be quiet. We were enjoying taking photos of a lion family at that moment. Kids were crawling around the mother lion and they totally looked like cats.
We saw the direction the ranger told us to see. There was merely a black and round little thing walking towards us, and this black thing turned out to be quite slimy. For sure it was a hippo getting out of the Masai river.
As the hippo was getting closer, the mother lion started to stare it, getting ready to stand up and fight against the hippo. Lions kids went behind her, watched attentively the situation.

“A hippo is strong.” I read this somewhere. “If they get down to work seriously they can always harm lions. They are the strongest.” Kidding, I supposed when I read this. I knew I had to believe it this time though. The mother lion gave her-and her family’s- way to the hippo.
That hippo was no longer a lazy snoozing hippo which we have always seen. It was a strongest animal which menace a herd of lions simply by walking towards them.

Co-existence, I felt. And compartmentalization at the same time. Some distinct species have their own territory which others cannot intrude. But they still have to encounter.

(a family, Masai Mara)



*

Having 42 tribes in one country, Kenyans speak their tribe language and good English as well, but not that much of Swahili, like Tanzanians do. This implies part of their identity comes from their tribal origins, and not very much from their country-Kenya.


We hear lots of news about conflicts between ethnicities in Kenya now and then. 5 years ago in 2008 there was a conflict concerning the election campaign, of which 2 candidates were from 2 major tribes in Kenya, Luo and Kikuyu. This conflict has been spread out and ended up killing the thousands of people from the ethnicity which opposing candidate belonged to.

The following election in 2013 has been done peacefully and things about the ethnic conflict seemed like slowing down. But there was still smoldering feeling of bitterness even after the Supreme court declared it fair that one candidate won 50.07%.

I noticed how much influence the politics has on their identity, when I went over to the suburban town of Machakos, 2 hours drive from Nairobi and majority of this town is Akamba tribe, who has round little face, amiable characters and uptempo music with peculiar rhythm. They say this town is a town of Akamba tribe. Even outside Machakos they say the same thing. When I talked to a taxi driver in Nairobi telling him that I just visited Machakos a week before, he turned out to be a Akamba tribe and said, ’Machakos is a nice town as it is a town of Akamba tribe.’
This peaceful middle-sided town was getting noisier that time, to prepare for the coming election campaign. Politics here is all about ethnicity, and ethnicity is the origin of Kenyans’ identity.
                                                                                                            

(girls,' I know who I am')


Getting back to Nairobi, there are two contrastive shanty towns that I’ve visited; Kibera slum and Koch slum.

Kibera slum. Located in a bit west but in the center of Nairobi, is the biggest slum in Kenya, second biggest in Africa, with a million habitants living inside. I went there with a tour, paying 16 USD and wondering if this was a zoo visit. Can their normal lives be an exhibition itself?.
There are little blocks which differentiate the group who live in the same area, and these areas have names. The tour guide was from a certain block, and he warned us before coming in, ‘Kibera slum in general is not safe. As long as you guys stick to me you are safe, but only in this area. Because they know me and do not give my foreign friends any harm. I cannot guarantee your safety outside.’
Kibera slum was the slum just as you imagine as ‘shanty towns’. Pavement torn off-or still under construction, dusty area with smell of excreta, garbage found everywhere. Kids run around, women work, men never work. Very much crowded. Staring at foreigners with cameras and trying to tell them this is not a circus here.
When you ask them where they are from, their answers would not be ‘Kibera’. They would answer with the area code of Kibela, or they would even answer with their ethnic origin. I heard that the mobility in this slum is quite high. People come, live temporarily, and go. No wonder they do not identify themselves as Kibera people. No wonder people kill the next door in the next block, even in the same slum area. They are separated in the name of the area name or origin name. They solely kill somebody from different species.

(Kibera from above)


Koch slum-its official name is Korogocho, is located in the east side of Nairobi, slightly smaller than Kibera, 4th largest slum in Nairobi. I was lucky to meet up with my old friend for the first time in 2 years in Nairobi. She started up the music label which release some talented young artists in Nairobi, and during my stay in Nairobi there was a Christmas live held by this music label, and held in Koch.

Driving through the middle of the slum heading for the live show, Koch slum seemed at first just like the other shanty areas like Kibela. Roads were narrow and dirty, noisy and overpopulated. Blocks that separate was invisible that time, but I guessed there were. Women baked corns on the street and this smell of baking made me hungry.

The live show was really cool. Much more stylish than I had expected. It was held in the church hall, open air. They played hip-hop, rap and pop for 3-4 hours on end. They sang and danced, involving everybody at the hall. Audience was so charged up. So was I. It was such an exciting moment. Time flied.

It was only in the after party when I knew that those artists who played that day were all from Koch. My friend, a music label owner said that Koch is full of enthusiasm with talent. This was the place she came for the master thesis and since then she has been chasing the opportunity with Koch youngsters.
‘Why was it Koch?’ I pitched her a question which she must have been pitched thousands of time.
‘It was Koch from my first sight.’ She answered. ‘There was a sense of thirsting for music here, and more importantly, a sense of unity to heap up the town with their voice, rhythm and music.’
It might be the identification, I felt. In Koch slum, people live longer for a few generations. This is not a temporary area of living. They take root up here and as a ‘Koch citizen’, they try to sing and live.


(sing and dance in Koch)



Co-existence, I felt. Or compartmentalization. It means to live side by side with somebody different. It already implies the difference of identities of the ones who live together. Lions and a hippo. Luo tribe and Kikuyu tribe.

But the scope of this somebody can either stretch or shrink. Very easily. Depending on their identity. Either animals or humans.

(Masai, let's go)


2013年12月1日日曜日

Africa No.2 - Marine life / Djibouti


Women, market, heat and humidity. Spice smell. Muslim city. Yes they are all nice in here. 

(hangout, city center)


But Djibouti is all about surveying the good-looking soldiers worldwide.

That’s the pre-information I got from one of my friends. She lived for two years in Ethiopia, a landlocked country, starving for the sight of macho bodies and fresh healthy blood. Poor girl.
Being such a small country facing to the ocean, as the base country to fight with the modern pirates around Somalia, Djibouti gathers military bases, not just navy base, arms and soldiers from lots of country. And money as well. There are the military bases of the France, US, Spain, Italy, Germany, and surprisingly, the base of the Japan Self-Defense Force, which is the only base outside Japan.
Djibouti also makes a big amount of money by doing the intermediate trade for long years to feed the big population of Ethiopia and others. Location counts a lot. No wonder Djibouti has been survived with the 3% food self-sufficiency out of cultivable land of 0.5% of the whole country.

(revenue, outbound aircraft)

When you go to the sole five-star hotel in Djibouti, you can see many soldiers hanging out around the lobbies, restaurants, bars, and most importantly, around the pool side. It was for sure the sight to be seen. Their robust hairy chest, biceps muscle of their arms, shapely waists and firm butts, all bronzed in the sun. Just to imagine these figures are fighting with the pirates makes me salivate. Such a fun place, Djibouti.


The other thing to be enjoyed was food, especially marine food, which I had been away from for a few months of staying in Ethiopia. There was a Sushi restaurant in the middle of the Djibouti city with fresh fish and proper miso soup. These all came from adjacent sea through Gulf of Aden.

(snooze, Monday market)


Gulf of Aden was not just a simple gulf but the beautiful sea which leaves tiny salt lakes behind. Lake Assal, was the name of this haunting death lake with 34.8% salt density, which is higher than Dead Sea. To notice, this lake had lowest altitude in Africa as well.
A visit there right before sunset was as scary as a visit to a haunted house, in the sense you encounter some deaths of former ocean. The grand splendid ocean with many adventurous pirates in the old days turned into the petite boring salt crystals, which you can hardly recognize that it used to be ocean. They were simply left out.
Salt crystals which stitch the edge of salt lake was totally and translucent pallor. Just as a face of ghost. It made me hard to stand in the lakeside for a long time, not just because of the itch caused by the long-term exposure to the high dense salt, but because of the fear to realize that something was missing there. The lake itself knew that they have been died already, and still struggling to face their past. This came as a mirror to me myself, which was the most horrible thing.

(salt lake, death of the sea)


Well, Gulf Aden deprived Lake Assal of their lives, but it gives life to something else; many marine lives are being fed in the protection of this Gulf. A whale shark is one of them. Being the largest known extant fish species, they were the most peaceful sea life I’ve ever seen. They don’t care if we human beings swim insistently around them. For them, we are just as the same as little red crabs, crawling around the sea surface and nipping the nipples of American soldiers with hard core tattoos.
Seemed to me like they were even smiling to see us minor creatures keeping shuffling around them. They looked like the creatures so called grandpas, for their thick skins and warm hearts.


(whale shark, the largest)


To conclude all of my experience in Djibouti for 5 days; Djibouti is all about ocean, from which all of us came out.


(la mer, the origin)