Kampala, Uganda: Sunday, 1st March to Wednesday, 4th March 2009>
Before you get to Lake Victoria, the distinct bank of clouds lining land’s end warns you that you’re about to encounter ‘weather’. The jet moves from equatorial summer to rainforest-rain in a matter of seconds and suddenly starts to dip and drop. But as quickly as it started, it ends. Then it starts briefly again. And so on, for the 600 plus kilometers from Nairobi, across the greatest lake, to Kampala. The seatbelt bell goes ‘ping’ and ‘pong’ as the plane encounters repeated patches of equatorial squall.
Flying across Lake Victoria, I was awed by the sheer size and volume. It is HUGE and even from the plane – at 32 000 feet - one has some difficulty seeing the one end from the other! What are obviously large fishing vessels appear as pinpricks.
A massive murky grey-green lakescape below. Polluted to hell I hear, replete with festering water-hyacinth.
Descending to ‘lake-level’, about to land at Entebbe was very beautiful though. With a little
skrik (fright), it reminded me of landing at JFK, with the water’s edge just shy of the runway’s end. Except that here it’s the equatorial jungle and not a concrete jungle that borders on the runway. Again, as with Dar es Salaam, the tall palms are everywhere, but the vegetation is a lot more dense, and obviously wetter.
Our Boeing 737-300 had landed next to a very long, bright-white plane with the letters UN painted in sans-serif blue on the side. There were lots of people on the runway as we entered the airport building and I stopped to see Ban Ki-Moon come down the stairs with his entourage (fresh from a trip to Rwanda and moving on to Tanzania), being greeted by senior officials of the Ugandan government. Security seemed quite lax.
The sign at Entebbe airport says “Welcome to the Pearl of Africa”, the moniker given to Uganda by Winston Churchill. Entebbe used to be the capitol city of Uganda and remains the home of President Museveni, with State House (recently renovated and painted) sitting white-and-brightly proud on the hill as you leave the small, beautiful ‘town’ of Entebbe .
It is 42 kms from Entebbe to Kampala and you travel down a well tarred road running past hundreds of little stalls (many of them MTN “Yello” and many of them Zain mauve), with what seem like thousands of Indian and Chinese motorcycles plying the road in both directions. I was to find that the motorcycle, or “bora-bora”, is the favoured form of transport for those wanting to get from one end of Kampala to the other - through increasingly congested streets.
Traffic on the streets of Kampala is
nearing what one has to endure in Nairobi. But unlike in Nairobi, the matatus here (what Ugandans call ‘tatus’) are very well behaved. They are uniformly painted white, with blue chevrons around the midline, and are markedly more roadworthy than those in Nairobi. And, what’s more, you don’t get threatened with a view of the vanishing road when you pull out alongside them. They actually pull to the side and let you pass! Vehicles are right-hand drive as in Nairobi and South Africa.
As you near Kampala you see the first of the high-rise buildings, between two hills. With the country having experienced between 6% and 7% growth, year-on-year, for the last ten years, many of the buildings are quite new and often feature striking modern architecture. My cab driver, a Muslim in a predominantly Christian (and strongly Catholic) country, tells me it is a city built on seven hills. Jaime says Kampala should be twin to Lisbon, the original City of Seven Hills. Both cities are surely beautiful.
Driving in a regulation-white heavy Toyota sedan, we approached Kampala quite fast. As we caught sight of the two most prominent hills of the city, I could see outlines of modern buildings through a thick haze. The cab driver remarked casually that it was raining in the city but by the time we got there, just a few minutes later, the rain had already stopped! It had obviously been a torrent because the roads were absolutely flooded (as in 8 inches of water)! I was surprised to see that everyone had been caught a little unawares.
I asked about the rainy season (on the Equator you don’t ask about winter or summer, you just ask whether there is one or two rainy seasons) and the driver simply said,
“It’s changed! It’s changed!”
By February, Kampala is usually entering its driest spell. But these days it rains throughout the “dry season” and there’s something of a drought through the “rainy season”. This is just one of the problems that the local farmers face in the absence of accurate equipment with which to predict weather! They have been planting at the wrong time. Be that as it may, their crops of coffee and (to a lesser extent) tea have not suffered substantially and Uganda remains responsible for a substantial drop in Kenya’s international coffee business. Uganda prides itself on a strong dark coffee that I suspect is often used as filler for more ‘refined’ brands and blends.
Still in the taxi, I ask the driver the inevitable question about personal safety in Kampala. He tells me that you can walk anywhere in Kampala, any time of night or day, and you will be safe. It didn’t take long for this to be demonstrated as I watched the entire day-shift of the Imperial Royale’s waitresses start their walk home from the hotel in the dark. And after going to the nearby Garden City Mall twice (to get a replacement SIM for the iPhone I had stolen in Nairobi on Saturday) I had still not seen a single policeman! In Uganda, law and order is very much in evidence, without the intrusion of a machine-gun-toting force (more on this subject much later). Quite literally, the only policemen and women I saw in Kampala were those directing traffic!
The hotel was ultra-modern and very competent in its delivery of ‘conference facilities’. The trade mission of which I was part contained a good measure of heavyweight German industrialists looking for investments in East Africa. Their reception was likewise ‘heavyweight’ on both days, with EU representatives, ministers, investment boards and industrialists sharing lengthy round table discussions.
After some introductory presentations from the World Bank and IMF, I had the honour of meeting grandson-of-Jah, Tigist/Michael Selassie, who, while working for the World Bank in Uganda, still considers Ethiopia to be very much his home. Michael is big, and certainly ‘regal’, but he looks far less like his diminutive Ethiopian grandfather than one would expect! He’s more like a big Kenyan Luo than anyone I have seen from Ethiopia. He is TALL and carries nothing of the accent one usually hears among Ethiopians. By contrast, his colleague, also from Ethiopia, is heavily accented with the “ghghghghgh’s” and slightly Italianesque sounds that characterize the Ethiopian accent.
Sessions, more sessions, and questions and answers ensued in each day’s programme. Much of the content was not of great benefit to me in terms of me seeking existing companies to work with. However, through some fancy footwork with local commerce bodies, I managed to meet the right businesspeople and will soon be able to reach most of the organizations that are doing either social or market research in Uganda.
After Monday’s sessions, and after a cocktail party held in our honor at the EU residence, I went to check out the local club scene in Kampala (what did you think I would do?). Being Monday night, most of the clubs were closed. But on Kampala Road I saw a place that was very much open, with large, big-ass four-wheel-drive vehicles lining the street and parked on the island that divides the two sides of the road.
The club, The High Table, was full to the brim with a lot of ‘hip-and-happening’ youths, wearing the perfunctory hip-hop pants, baseball-styled caps and large baggy shirts bearing various rap and hip-hop legends, slogans and phrases. At around 10pm, the DJ stopped doing his thing and in the silence, from the veranda, I could see something of a gathering forming inside.
What I didn’t know was that this was ‘Performance Night’ and I was about to have the honour of seeing all the most popular Ugandan rap, hip-hop and dancehall performers in full swing (in a protracted three hour session!). My conversation-mate got me to come inside and led me to the edge of the dancefloor / stage area, whereupon we were both brought seats, in a VIP kinda way. I was a little embarrassed being the only white cat in the place and being treated so ‘exceptionally’.
Anyway, the performance started, and for the next hour those artists considered ‘stars’ in Uganda were pointed out to me as they performed. The rap, hip-hop, and dancehall crew all performed to back-tracks in various stages of completion. Some of crew mimed their songs, while others sang the vocal lines without their own backing. There were quite a few (Tanzanian) Bongo Flava songs in the mix but the lyrics were done largely in Buganda (the local lingo). Many of the artists were surprisingly good. But I must say that I still think Swahili is far better suited to rap and hip-hop – even dancehall. In Uganda, Swahili is only really spoken in the east, where the country meets Kenya. While there was a smattering of Swahili in the lyrics on Monday night, these lyrics seemed mainly to be in ‘lip service’ to the (Tanzanian) rhythmic and melodic origins of many of the songs.
Being the only mzungu in attendance at The High Table, I quickly struck up conversation with many of the locals, all very interested in where I was from and what I was doing there. The vibe was generally very ‘cool’ with something of an American-flavoured male fashion show parading before me. There are obviously some serious fashion shops in Kampala that have cornered the couture culture of these youths, but the ‘moves’ and general behaviour of the youngsters were really quite conservative.
Notably, there were few couples dancing together at the club. The scene reminded me of the dancehall sessions I used to attend in Gugulethu, Cape Town, where the Rasta sistas and the bruthas would dance in two distinct groups. Then, as now … there, as here … I guess it is largely an African ‘cultural’ thing that endures. But the whole picture was surprisingly conservative relative to what I am used to seeing in Nairobi. Thankfully, the night was entirely free of the usual attempts at hitting on me (sexually and financially) that I usually experience in Nairobi.
The apparent moral rectitude of the country – and Kampala in particular - is different from Nairobi to the point that Brenda proclaims:
“You can’t even tell the shermutos (prostitutes) from the clubbers in Kampala!”Whoever I spoke to, whenever I mentioned I was from South Africa, there was huge interest. But when I added that I was based in Nairobi, I would get a slightly disdainful look. The view that Kampala youths have of Kenya, and Nairobi specifically, is rather dim. I gather from my conversations with many that Kenya is perceived to lack a degree of moral and ethical backbone. This view, if I am to judge from what I saw of Kampala, is probably justified…
Ugandans are proud of the lack of crime in Kampala, and the essential honesty of their brothers. For example, each time I called a cab from the hotel reception, I asked the reception staff what I should expect to pay for the trip. I rode in numerous cabs and not once was I asked to pay any more than that which was quoted! (The Ugandan Shilling is such that you are quoted large numbers like 10 000 or 20 000 for a trip – so I suppose it IS easier to arrive at fare-equity/parity, but still). Contrast this to Nairobi where the cab drivers will make a particular effort to get (ridiculously) more from mzungu passengers - all of whom are initially seen to be tourists and primed for ‘the take’!
Despite the huge currency numbers one is dealing in, the cost of using meter-taxis in Uganda is cheap enough to warrant one not buying a car! And the traffic jams – bad, but not as bad as Nairobi – is another motivation to keep you from having a car of your own. You can at least do some work in a cab.
On the streets of Kampala, there are thousands of Indian- (mainly) and Chinese-manufactured motorcycles that act as taxis to the working public. They take the public of Kampala home, weaving efficiently through the traffic. One regularly sees women being carried side-saddle, with neither driver nor passenger wearing a helmet. The 'bora-boras' are not regulated at all. But the motorbike has obviously evolved into a relatively safe and effective means of getting Kampala’s working public home. I didn’t see any accidents and the bikes do not ride at all fast.
Early Monday evening we attended a cocktail party in our honour at the home of the European Union’s Head of Delegation to Uganda, at 7 Hill Lane, on the Kololo hill. Kololo is home to Kampala’s grand Embassy residences. The properties are huge. By contrast to others, the EU residence is quite plain (50’s architecture), but is similarly large. With a large grassed ‘patio’ area, elevated forty feet or so above the already elevated Hill Lane on which it stands, the property looks onto one of Kampala’s seven main hills in the middle distance. The environment is really very beautiful - and this beauty is repeated all across the hilly surrounds of Kampala!
The roads are very good in the city, the downtown markets are obviously thriving, the streets are congested, the clothes cost about half of what they do in Nairobi, the infrastructure and architecture are both highly modern and seemingly effective, and the Ugandan people have a sweet semi-Colonial sing-song when speaking English.
And whereas it requires numerous licenses to open a business in Kenya, in Uganda it essentially requires none! One of my 'conversants' at the club told me that you simply open the business by moving in to your premises. Somewhere along the line, a license is legally obtained. Small businesses are not required to pay tax for seven whole years! And this, folks, must have a LOT to do with the fantastic economic growth that Uganda has witnessed over the last decade! As is the African style, the ‘dual-economy’ thrives in Uganda. Here, the rich are getting richer but the poor seem to be doing OK, actually.
Business is booming in Kampala’s mainstream consumer market. Long deco-style balconies festoon the air above the pavement and there is no shortage of thriving businesses serving the needs of Kampala’s public.
And, very fortunately, as one of my fellow missionaries commented:
“You can only starve in Uganda if you’re allergic to bananas”. They are everywhere.
I took a cab 15 kms, from Kampala to the edge of the Lake. The wind was strong and gusty. There were defunct barges rotting in the water and small fishing boats plying the water’s edge. Things were predictably slow. Everyone was just hanging out. Men were fixing fishing nets and chatting while their women were looking at an usual catch from the last trip on the water ...
Interestingly, there are a lot of Ugandans who share surnames and skin tones with the Luo who live across the lake in Kenya. For example, Brenda shares her surname with one of the senior members of the Ugandan Investment Authority! (and they share their considerable height too). The similarity, and the sharing of names, evidently stems from cross-border travel in pre-Colonial times, many, many years ago. But the ‘exotic’, Nilotic eyes of the Luo are less in evidence here (but there are Nilotic people in Uganda).
The more diversity I experience in these parts of the world, the more I sense that cultural differences are contained more in the eyes than anywhere else. The soul of a people is in their eyes. So what would this blog be if I didn’t comment on the Ugandan women? And their eyes.
The first point to make is that the Ugandan people, generally, are a lot heavier than Kenyans. Their legs are bigger, but among women certainly, their hands are often similarly small. As I have hinted above, the defining feature of Ugandan women lies in their eyes. Ugandan women’s eyes tend to be much larger, rounder, and are slightly ‘protruding’ and heavy-lidded in many instances. The ‘look’ is unusual and not immediately as attractive (to me, at least) as the centuries of cross-African-Arabia that characterizes many Kenyan women.
Can I risk saying that the Ugandan ‘look’ grew on me quite quickly, however. Many of the women in Uganda are distinctly ‘big-boned’, and large breasted, in an attractive, African way! Frankie is a Ugandan woman who was home for a short visit from the UK, where she works as a high-care nurse. She’s a bit derisive of Uganda’s post-Colonial, Catholic conservatism and had a laugh at the stares we got as we danced.
Driving out to Entebbe again, after conferencing for three days in Kampala, it was again raining, but lightly this time. Everyone in Entebbe was still going about his or her business, riding up and down on 125cc Bajaj motorcycles. It started to rain quite hard as we boarded our plane.
Kigali, Rwanda: Wednesday, 4th March to Saturday, 7th March 2009
The flight from Kampala to Kigali normally takes 50 minutes or so, unless you are flying in a LITTLE jet with two Rolls Royce engines both the size of those found on a BIG jet! In this case the flight takes 25 minutes! And what a rush it was flying in the manner of the rich and famous!
I have always enjoyed flying in jet aircraft, but I doubt I will get another ride like this anytime soon. The plane had been brought on board because there were only 28 of us on the flight to Kigali, and even with the anticipated high speed, this plane was going to cost Rwandair a fraction of what a 737 would. Gleaming in the rain on the runway, the plane reminded me of a huge phallus with enlarged testicles.
Just being aboard this luxury strato-cruiseliner was thrilling enough but as you’d know it’s the take off that really does it for jet-freaks like me. The pilot had not even lined the phallus up with the lines on the runway before he was giving it his all to achieve eventual escape velocity. Yipppeeee!
Turning directly onto runway 2, the engines were already full thrust and the pilot let the brakes go as we straightened out … Sucked into your seat, the planes nose flips up and the city shrinks quickly below. Wooosh!
What a flight it was: clear skies, no turbulence, and a view of the jungle that stretched to the horizon… All this, plus a pilot who obviously enjoyed the maneuverability and sheer tempo of his zippy charge. I’ll leave out the thrilling detail but for the landing at Kigali:
The pilot put the jet into a steep right turn that sucked you into your seat so you couldn’t sit upright. I could see the runway clearly, looking down to my right. He then seemed to slur, or ‘twist’, the plane onto the runway and came in at a speed I have encountered only once before (excruciatingly, when I was an unwilling participant in an ‘auto-pilot’ test, aboard a brand new airbus A320, landing at Cape Town International in ‘96).
But even at the speed we were going, the touchdown was ‘padded’ and the reverse thrust of the engines was another rush, again. Eish.
Kigali airport is small, neat, and impeccably clean. The staff manning their points at customs and immigration are efficient and friendly. Signage is in French and Rwandese with little English in sight.
As our pilot came past, after we had checked through immigration, I thanked him for an immensely enjoyable experience on his plane. He smiled warmly, and said in an incredibly slow, thick French-African accent:
“When there are no police around, I like to drive a leeeetle dangereuse”, laughing heartily.
I laughed too, thinking that there might be some weird compensation thing going on between his slow verbal drawl and the sheer gusto of his flight…
We bussed to the five-star Serena Hotel, in sparkling Kigali (by now in darkness).
Rwanda has done everything it can possibly do to make this country something of an African paragon of honesty and good governance. Its President, Paul Kagame, is about as ‘hands-on’, and reputably ‘clean’, as one can get. Recently, as part of the widespread attempt to clean up the inner city, he took his own vehicle and drove himself around town to locate the centres of noise and disturbance that inner city dwellers had recently complained about. After locating the problem places, he went at 2am to wake both his Chief of Police, as well as his Minister of Justice. He brought them to his home and proceeded to question them as to what was to be done. I presume they had a plan because within two days the problem spots were gone!
Similarly there has been a drive to remove from the inner city slum dwellings that were perceived to be scarring Kigali’s main hill. There are huge tracts of neatly fenced prime land that have been cleared of their shanty dwellers. Cleared, yes, but not before their residents had been extensively polled as to where they would like to be settled. The clearing of shanty towns then went ahead without incident as the people moved willingly to better places of residence. The result of such an approach is that there is no sign of poverty or urban decay in the city. There are no beggars and there’s absolutely no crime to speak of.
Paul Kagame also went recently on a trip to the rural areas, across what is Africa’s most densely populated country – between 9 and 11 million people spread over a jungle smaller than Swaziland. He met the rank and file of Rwanda in one-on-one meetings with anyone who wanted to have a say. One old lady evidently spoke to him about the problems she was having with the local chief and that this had been a problem for her for many years. She had been promised various concessions and none of these had materialized. Evidently, right there and then, the chief was called to respond directly to the woman’s issues, in the company of the president. The chief evidently had nothing to say and by Presidential Decree was unceremoniously removed from his post there and then to thunderous applause.
There is a ban on bicycles in Kigali city, not because they are not wanted per se, but because the government wants to avoid any problems stemming from bicycles being used as taxis. Rather, Kigali has a well regulated ‘bora-bora’ business where motorbike riders are equipped with helmets for themselves and their passengers and they wear colour coded jackets with their ‘zone’ emblazoned on the front and back. There are thousands of these ‘bora-boras’, driving well, and in disciplined fashion, all over the city (driving on the Franco-right-hand-side). You cannot take a street photograph without getting at least one of the ‘bora-boras’ in the picture. You are also not allowed to walk barefoot in town. This I believe is to discourage recent Rwandan immigrants to Kigali from buying a few beers rather than a pair of shoes when they come to town!
Having met a few of Rwanda’s government ministers I am amazed at how young and progressive they are. Clearly a bright bunch of guys, they are strongly and ardently in support of their leader’s straight and direct legislative line. Yet despite the slightly propagandistic stance of the ministers and their deputies about the modern appeal of Kigali as a business hub, I am told there are serious problems with the bureaucracy and that new business start-ups battle to overcome the inertia that besets the civil service. Business takes a lot longer to establish in Rwanda than is claimed, perhaps. And someone I met at our sponsored supper, who heads an agency in Rwanda, is a lot less optimistic about things turning out as everyone hopes …
Rwanda’s stated objective is to make the country an African I.T. hub. I wasn’t able to get a strong justification for this end from anyone I spoke to, and I certainly had enough problems with the hotel Internet service for this objective to seem slightly whimsical right now. But perhaps if the Rwandans achieve their aim of putting a laptop into every schoolchild’s hands, we may yet see something noteworthy coming from Rwanda in the African-IT rush. The influence of French culture in Rwandan society is certainly evident and I would venture to say that the Rwandese will have gained certain intellectual benefits from the prior use of the tongue (the official language is now English of course).
There certainly is a clear and present ‘class’ to the more affluent Rwandese I saw at the hotel. I did not see many Rwandese of this ilk and I have a feeling that the affluent stick to themselves and don’t flash their wealth around town much. But evidence of wealth there is. Lots of Mercedes. And Kigali is expensive, even compared to Nairobi.
I initially thought there was something of a gentle-ness among the Rwandan people. I guessed it could only have something to do with the Hutu-Tutsi genocide of 1994. I reflected on the fact that while I was standing in a long queue, getting ready to vote for freedom, people were being mercilessly butchered by their own compatriots in this small jungle nation.
And it took me another two full days to ponder if the Rwandan people might not be suffering from a post-traumatic stress disorder (of the ‘societal’ kind) …
On Friday I took my perfunctory ‘walkabout’ and rode around town on the back of a Rwandan ‘bora-bora’ We passed the high bridge from which Tutsi parents were forced by their Hutu fellows to drop their infant children into the water below … I didn’t take a photo. I passed “Hotel Rwanda” on the hill, nondescript and unidentified for its place in the nation’s recent history.
What is it with us humans that we can turn on our fellow nationals with rampant, unfettered violence? On a somewhat smaller scale, but potentially the same, the same happened in Kenya just over a year ago. It happened,
kabisa (thoroughly), in Rwanda 15 years ago. And the scars of Rwanda are evident in the people. If there is a
gentleness among the people, it can only be for fear of starting something like that again but, if truth be told, it looks to me like the people are suffering the effects of
shock. I had a drink with a Rwandan woman at the Kigali Serena on Tuesday night. She lost
every single member of her family in the genocide. She says she was lucky. Then, after a few seconds, she says maybe she wasn’t so lucky for the pain and hardship she went through afterwards.
Then she adds, looking at the ground, with the shimmer of a tear in her eye:
“I still have dreams about my baby … ”If not just the shock of experiencing genocide, what of the survivor-guilt that many Rwandese must surely carry?
Ernest, a Rwandan in Rwanda - but only as part of the German mission – and now resident in Hamburg, tells me that if I were to ask around about the entire destruction of families, just among those who work at the hotel, I would go into shock myself!
But somehow, I wasn’t really shocked.
I am not going to repeat the atrocities that Ernest told me about. While he talked, an image of Marlon Brando came to me, from Apocalypse Now, saying:
“The Horror … The Horror”
There is no ready smiling in Rwanda. Don’t get me wrong, the Rwandese are friendly, but there is some ‘juice’ missing behind the smile. I have already waxed lyrical about the ‘vibe’ of the Kenyan people, but this type of ‘vibe’ is entirely absent here in Kigali. When I checked out the hotel I flirted with the receptionist who was fixedly working at her monitor. At the end of my obviously-flirtatious promise to come back to fetch her, I got a wan smile. And Christine told me, in absolute earnest:
“If you ever come back to Rwanda I will be here and waiting for you”Ernest surprised me with the revelation that the Hutu/Tutsi thing was not based on a history of tribal roots at all, but one of class structures only. Hutus and Tutsis are
not members of different tribes, or language or religious groups! There are no differences in language or culture between the so-called Tutsis and the Hutus. Rather, the classification of Tutsi means “high class” and nothing else. In 1959 or so (why then, I don’t know), if you owned 10 or more cattle you were classified “Tutsi” and automatically became a member of the ruling class. If you owned fewer cows than that, you were a Hutu.
This situation persisted peacefully for some time until the Tutsis started taking the class thing a little too far. They started to create their own schools, hospitals and other institutions, all of which were closed to anyone but their own (and with the usual, inevitable social problems that followed). Eventually the more “oppressed” class, the Hutus, got a bit pissed off and a few among them started agitating for change. The rest, as they say, was hysteria …
Ernest shakes his head and says, wisely:
“In Africa it doesn’t take much to start a fire ... The spark that ignites may be small, but the fire rages quickly.” We spoke quite a bit about factors that might impede the realization of Rwanda’s goals.
(An article I read in the weekly East African newspaper said that Tutsis and Hutus were peacefully living side-by-side in the ‘new’ Rwanda. Now I can see how this can be.)
I guess my impressions of Kigali, at least, are somehow encapsulated in what I didn’t see, rather than what I did see.
The one thing you don’t see is the city’s main graveyard …
With the headstone-uniformity that one would expect from a war - or perhaps, genocide - it stretches over an area that is far larger than a football field! My ‘bora-bora’ driver couldn’t tell me what was being planned for the graveyard but plans are obviously afoot to remove the memory! The sight of it was frankly chilling, especially because it lies behind a shiny metal fascia of galvanized corrugate, shielding it from view.
I found the holocaust memorial more moving than I care to talk about.
If we ignore the potential effects of a post traumatic ‘problem’ among the people and pretend it’s not there … The potential for overregulation of Rwandan society is obvious. Thus far it is unfolding as a relatively benign means of social control - in what may well be classed as a ‘benign dictatorship’.
My worry is that this control may ultimately lead to the society never being able to experience a positive outflow of energy – an energy that may heal - an outflow that the society seems to sorely need. There seem to be very deep scars that the people carry. The scars I talk of are evidenced in the complete lack of “joie de vivre”. To me at least, it looks as if there’s something bubbling underneath and something that political measures should not really seek to control.
The Rwandese are certainly friendly, but to this I cannot add the usual rejoinder of ‘warm’. The only time I saw real laughter - ‘from the heart’ - was among young taxi drivers only (who would have been just too young to remember). At the hotel I heard only quiet conversation and wooden postures.
The Rwandese certainly cannot be blamed for their state of mind and the stress of their past is clearly somewhere there, beneath the cloak of relative material comfort and amidst the strident attempts to instill a ‘super-normality’ on the whole society. But really how normal can a society be where entire families have been wiped out in a matter of days and months, by people who were erstwhile friends and neighbours…?
Kenya, there’s a lesson for you in Rwanda ...
We flew out of Kigali International Airport in a brand new Kenya Airways Boeing 737-800 replete with TV screens and Pixar-like animations of emergency flight instructions (in Swahili and English). Once we had crossed the lake, we flew directly over the extremely dry Tanzanian part of the Maasai Mara, as we headed directly to Nairobi, Kenya.
We landed at Kenyatta Airport and I was smiling, happy to be back on Kenyan soil.
Kuwa na amani (peace be with you), everyone.
B-)
While I was out …On Wednesday, while in Rwanda, two Kenyan activists were assassinated in broad daylight, shot through the window of the car they were sharing on the trip back to the office. A bystander, and eyewitness to the scene, was shot through the leg. He was the only person who might positively identify the uniformed men who wielded the weapons. He was taken by the police to a ‘nearby hospital’. I haven’t heard any news of the witness since then.
The dual assassination led to student riots on Thursday, through the streets of Nairobi.
One of the students got shot dead. The riot was quelled with tear gas and a few live rounds. From the next day, through Sunday, police in Land Rovers were stationed at the single exit that marks the main street of student residences in the city. The vice-chancellors of both Kenyatta and Moi universities threatened students with expulsion if they continued to riot. Prime Minister Raila Odinga was later played widely on radio with an announcement – addressed to both the students and vice-chancellors - to the effect that
"nothing of the sort" would happen. Silence from the Kibaki camp.
Is there just
a glimmer of recognition from government that the Kenyan people – most notably the youth - are very deeply unhappy and frustrated?
Strategically, if you recognize the anger and frustration of the youth, it’s useful to let them blow off a little steam every now and then. Let them make just enough noise to keeps them quiet. Is this what happened? Was this the idea?
But let’s backtrack just a little, to the reason for the assassination …
The killing of the activists had something to do with their providing evidence to Prof Philip Alston, the EU’s Special Investigator who visited Kenya week before last. His mission was to investigate – among other things – the ‘extra-judicial killing’ of members of the ‘Mungiki’ gang … And the slain activists had been talking to him about these killings.
Background: Like there’s this ‘gang’ in Kenya – what Brenda calls ‘a sect’ – called the Mungiki. Their precise origin is not known but they rose during the Moi era. They are not to be confused with the Mau-Mau. The Mau were freedom fighters and heroes of the Kenyan people for their role in Kenyan liberation. By contrast, the Mungiki are just a sect of bloodthirsty (quite literally, I have heard) thugs who are behind the more rampant aspects of crime in Kenya. They have also been suspected of working for the Kenyan government during ‘special operations’ (like last year’s stolen-election-insurrection) and senior Mungiki leaders are even rumoured to work in government itself.
When the ‘post-election violence’ erupted in Kenya last year, Mungiki were charged with the task of identifying the regime’s opponents … a regime that was very intent on holding on to power, and still is. Mungiki inquisitors painted crosses on the gates of the primary suspects while Mungiki foot soldiers came round later and beat or killed occupants of the branded households. A black cross or a red one.
(Brenda’s family home was branded with a red cross, as opposed to the black one on most fences. But the family – nay, the whole of Ngong Town – was saved by the Maasai, within whose territory Ngong lies. In this case, the Maasai told the Mungiki in no uncertain terms that this was Maasai land, to the effect that ‘those who live on this land are guests of the Maasai. If you have a problem with a guest, you have a problem with the Maasai') ... Ahem ...
Needless to say, the Mungiki declined to take the matter any further and Ngong was spared the attentions of the Mungiki. But they’re around and enjoy quite mythical status in Nairobi. Mungiki members are believed to pay 1 Shilling a day into the Mungiki ‘state coffers’. Authoritative word says Mungiki has 2 million members. You do the math ...
Mungiki
do act as guns for hire – armed, aiding and abetting anyone – but they are, on the whole, a self-serving bunch of gangsters who sometimes wear khaki shorts, animal hide and Bata Safari Boots. They wear scarves with Kenya colours but for the fact that the white stripe is removed. They are seldom seen in public, ‘dressed’. This, because the police have an open license to shoot Mungiki on sight.
A month or two ago (before I really knew who they were), we saw them walking downtown, fully dressed and looking the picture of scrawny wickedness. I only noticed them in the rearview mirror, and this only after Brenda and Erica had almost jumped under the dashboard and back seat respectively, exclaiming:
“Heh-Heyyyeeee, …. Mungiki … kabi-sssssss-aaaaaaa!” (Mungiki … fu-llll-yyyy)
Mungiki are often replete with dreadlocks, which maybe answers my query (in an earlier blog) about reasons for the youth not wearing dreads in Kenya. It probably also accounts for some local confusion between Mungiki and Mau-Mau - who also wore locks. In this society you don’t want to wear locks for fear of being seen as Mungiki ...! You could get easily shot if somehow you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any combination thereof.
My biggest shock, as I became aware of Kenyan
realpolitik – and which I haven’t really blogged before – is the lack of rule-of-law. I have skirted around the issue in these blogs but it really is the
cornerstone of oppression in Kenya society. When you can get easily shot, under any pretext, you are not about to stand up too quickly. When I see the ‘Mungiki pretext’ as an excuse for state-sponsired murder, I get an entirely different - and far more harsh - view than that I held before. It’s a scenario all-too-familiar to South Africans. But the so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’ are much easier to commit here because of the clear and present danger posed by Mungiki.
When I first arrived in Kenya, there were daily reports of these so-called ‘extra-judicial killings’. There is less news of it now but time was, very recently, when every day there would be a report of “police gunning down suspected thugs”. I asked about it of someone whose views I respect. I was shocked and dismayed at the ‘suspected’ part of what I was hearing. All she could add, with a resigned shrug, was the fact that “you’re not sure which ones are the thugs”. Today, I think I’m beginning to understand what she meant and this is why it has taken me so long to deal with it in words.
In a recent chat I had with a guest speaker at the East Africa Association – a serious government opponent, and author of a tome on Kenyan corruption - I reflected on the role of the youth in the SA revolution and asked him about ‘youth-initiatives’ in Kenya. He said there were many, growing in number and size. I said I hadn’t heard of many – almost any – but then I’m not ‘on the ground’ in the Kenyan underground. He said we should talk further. There was a crowd around. I got his mobile number but we have yet to speak since I returned from Rwanda. And there is little chance he didn’t speak with Alston as well …
Meantime, Prime Minister Raila Odinga, basically the only opposition-member in Kibaki’s ruling regime, is a lone voice in a barren wilderness of public dissent. Go Raila!, but ultimately I fear for your life (although many are saying you have been co-opted,
kabisa).
If given the chance, all I would ask Kenyans, of each and every description – in ‘opposition’, in government, in the police and at the heart of civil society itself – is the following:
Is this the Kenya you want for your children? Are corruption and oppression, and lessons on how to thieve from your brothers and sisters the values you want to instill in your children? Answer this question, Kenya, and you may have a basis for unifying
all sides against the issues you face…
RejoinderAmidst all of this I want to finally, finally attest to the indomitable spirit of the Kenyan people…
There are up to ten million people in Kenya’s northern regions that are facing the prospect of starvation. This, as a result of drought plus government ineptitude and corruption (there was a recent – as yet unresolved - ‘maize scandal’ involving multi-millions).
Since yesterday 6am, till today 6am there has been a charity drive to collect food for starving Kenyans. I was at the Uchumi supermarket at Sarit Centre yesterday evening and couldn’t believe the trolley loads of maize-meal that were being bought by individuals and being taken directly to the collection point. I was a bit
skaam (embarassed) with my five kilos of maize-meal. I added the
unga (maize flour) to the one-or-two-hundred trolleys of food already standing there! And while some were buying food to donate (and many of those at the supermarket were there for that reason only), other Kenyans were taking the trouble to go out and donate money to a fund through Safaricom’s mPesa (money-transfer) service. By midnight, Kshs2.5 million had already been raised and over three hundred metric tons of food has been collected!
South Africa, if only you were as warm-hearted and giving as the Kenya people!
Again I have to say, despite the troubles the Kenyan people face, they have a spirit of love and forgiveness that is HUGE. I care what happens among these lovely people but I worry
(kabisa) about what’s happening in that country I call home.
Peace and love,
B-)
It is among the non-Bantu people in this region that the differences are easy to see. The non-Bantu people are mainly ‘Nilotic’ in origin and in Kenya, first up are the Luo people who live (traditionally) on the ‘lake side’. They typically have the fabled ‘eyes of Cleopatra’. In Uganda, just the ‘other side’ of the lake, there are also Luo people. Initially this was surprising to me – and it was explained to me by reference to ‘travel’ - until I realized that the borders between the countries were drawn up by (largely ignorant) Colonists who saw nothing of the ethnic unity that existed across their imposed territoriality. The Luo of Kenya share exactly the same origins as the Luo of Uganda, the only difference today being that they have both undergone genetic changes as a result of their enforced association with other peoples (principally via the limitations imposed by the exigencies of cross-border travel). And in both countries, Luo surnames most often start with the letter “O”.
