Upheaval October 24, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Life.add a comment
Right now, my life is undergoing a fairly large upheaval. Well, several large upheavals. Each one would probably require its own individual blog post. In fact, each one would need its own website. Life outside the bubble of college is quite different to the micro-climate within it. I pierced the bubble back in June of this year, it collapsed and rained down around me in glittering rainbow shards, leaving me standing, blinking, open to the sky. Rather than being encased in the bubble, now I have to blow them for myself…
My Trip To Africa: Day Five – Fantasy Football, Gorillas and Goats October 21, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Africa, Alfajiri, Art, Barry McStay, Belgians, Bukavu, Burundi, Cat, Catholic University, Children, Coca Cola, Dancing, Democratic Republic of Congo, Ek'Abana, Football, Fou-Fou, Fr. Michael Sheil, Games, Goat, Gorilla, Hotel Saint Jean, La Macarena, La Marché, Lake Kivu, Mkesha, Moses, Orphanage, Richard McElwee, Rwanda, Soldiers, Tim McNamara, Wedding
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- Mocki and Tim are suited and booted for their day of hard graft on our second day in Ek’Abana.
Breakfast today was less substantial than yesterday: the omlette was gone, leaving us with just rolls, some rotten butter and the traditional piss-poor tea. We again met Conny for the taxi to Ek’Abana and walked up the muddy track – Mocki by our sides this time, having been shoved into off-road mode. The cries of mzungu continued to follow us, especially from children and some women, but with what seems to be a sense of affectionate curiosity rather than malice.
Today we swapped jobs, with Tim delegated to the hard labour, mopping the library, washing its windows and, bizarrely, brushing the ceiling, and Mocki taking on my task of making today’s gourmet meal – a gruel called mkesha or fou-fou which we would eat with our bare hands, using it to wipe up haricot beans. Richard and I had the more relaxing task or joining the children in class. The class again began with dancing and drumming with some of the girls in a line doing coordinated moves. So, after some photo-taking – which the kids remained fascinated by, running riot with my camera – I hopped up and danced with them at some pushing from Aganze. I drafted in Richard for moral support and we were, as seems the case with any mzungu participation, smiled at and appreciated despite our inherent inability to look even half as fluid or rhythmic as the hordes of tiny dancers around us.
Richard and two of the Ek'Abana children talking down the back of the classroom. Old habits die hard...
We sat down and class began which entailed reading and discussing a chapter from the Bible. Despite the conversation being in Swahili, I managed to pick up from the one French Bible which we were given that the section in question was that of Moses’ abandonment and adoption. We weren’t able to find out exactly how deeply this was discussed as the unfamiliar open sounds of Swahili passed across the long table, whether the comparison with the children’s situation was made. The poignancy was not lost on Richard and me though as we looked around at each little Moses. The grimness of their position is certainly not glossed over though, to judge by the poems they then recited – in French: “Merci”, which thanks God for their meagre gifts and preemptively thanks those who help the street child, and a second, whose name escapes me, which calls for the “droits des enfants” to be protected.
Sometimes there aren't the words to express the joy contained in a child's smile.
We drifted outside for dancing but today it was “modern” dance as opposed to traditional African and the children seemed a little less at home and enthusiastic about it all. However, Richard’s and my contribution to “La Macarena” was such that they replayed it so we could teach them and correct a couple of “mistakes” they were making! It’s nice to know that there is such a worldwide language as “Shit Novelty Dance”. Mostly though, we sat with the kids who weren’t dancing, chatting, taking photos, cuddling like there was no tomorrow.
I worried a lot less about total accurary with my French today too – tenses, genders etc. -, instead focusing on communicating sufficiently with the kids. The gateway to this is clearly kucheza, a lovely word which approximates to the Irish word craic: Fun and games, but also meaning dancing. I supplied no mean amount of piggy-backs, played football on a concrete alley at the top of the complex and then an amazingly simple game involving passing small pebbles around in a circle to a rhyme, basically ad infinitum or until someone messes up the rhythm: “On continue jusqu’a on a fatigué” – we keep going until we’re tired! The tactile familiarity and the sheer love of play and laughter among the children was completely infectious and we found ourselves become just as playful as they were!
Action photography, courtesy of Mocki, of me being schooled by Aganze in the art of Alley Football.
Lunch was lovingly prepared by Mocki and Anwarita although I struggled to finish the massive brick of fou-fou which was dumped into my bowl after I had stupidly said “Oh, that’s nice” on tasting a little. I did force it all down as we sat for a largely silent meal – it seems that eating is more important than chatting for those few minutes. After the meal, half the children came out the back of the kitchen to help with the washing-up before they all donned colourful knitted woollen vests. In this heat?! The Irish male melts at any temperature above 30 degrees and reserves the wearing of wool for the deep midwinter or “wolf in sheep’s clothing” parties. Apparently, these were the jerseys for the afternoon football game and had, for the most part, been made by the older children.
We climbed up the hill in a long line to La Marché, a dirt pitch, uneven and dusty, among some rundown buildings which turned out to be the fully operational accommodation of the Catholic University – you would never have known it to look at the fallen masonry, the caved-in roofs and the doors hanging off. The sun was searing and the dust was eye-scratching but we played football. And what a wonderfully exhausting experience. Tim and I were on one team with Richard and the Congolese students on the other.
With no distinguishing jerseys but the multitude of vests, picking out team-mates was a bit difficult and led to some slack passing by the Irish imports in the initial stages. The initial stages also revealed two other things: first, that Irish twentysomethings of university education will still laugh childishly upon being told a faintly rude-sounding foreign word like the French for dust, “poussiere”; and second, the basic tactic of these dusty football games is all run after the ball until the end of the game. One of the older girls issued me with a stern tactical instruction: ”We have no defence, just attack”. Again, the profundity of that statement struck me when I thought of these children fighting back against the apparent hopelessness of their situations. Ek’Abana prepares these children to counter-attack against the society which has shunned them.
Richard taking it all a little too seriously.
I opened the scoring, nodding in at the far post off a cross from Tim to wild celebrations and unbridalled felicitations from my team-mates, the congratulations continuing long into the second half! We were all pretty wiped out by half-time, however, and took a more passive role in the second period, retiring to the shade on many occasions.
Mocki was already sweating with the heat despite the shady spot he was occupying, but the Congolese students then insisted on dragging us on a “2 or 3 minute walk” – that is to say, a 20 minute trek farther up the mountain over muddy and rocky paths to a hut where their organisation (Collectif Des Jeunes Unis Pour Le Developpement) was based. Now, by this stage we were all knackered and not really in the mood for unscheduled promotional trips. The walk itself involved being constantly asked whether we could see the lake / school / mountains – sightseeing, Congolese style! Or perhaps they were worried about our eyesight…?
The "Gorilla Gang" - we pushed through the tiredness barrier to see this masterpiece.
We reached a clear area above the treeline which was lined with more huts and we came to one which was the base of CJUD, bedecked with some small pieces of art and one big gorilla. This sculpture and the other works were apparently carved by an artist friend of the students and were for sale in order to raise funds. We looked politely but were by now quite tired and a little unsure of why we had been taken on this little impromptu trip – we weren’t about to buy a gorilla statue, tempting though the offer was. We were especially concerned for Mocki who, despite his puerile mind at times, was that bit more advanced in age than the rest and rocky mountain paths in African heat are not the natural habitat of the more mature.
It was during this trip that the Congolese habit of hand-holding was sprung on us. It is not unusual for males to hold each other’s hands while strolling (or trekking up rocky paths, in our case) but we weren’t aware of that and were a bit surprised as hands snaked down our arms. Bruno was especially keen to hang onto Mocki, presumably for fear he might fall, which gave Richard, Tim and me much cause for laughter as we shoved our hands into our pockets and left Mocki to be aided on his way.
The lake-front garden at Hotel Saint Jean, Bukavu
While the other three piled into one taxi with Conny, I was nabbed and bundled into another with little explanation. Assuming we were returning to Alfajiri, I was confused when we turned down a different route and pulled up outside what seemed to be a half-built condominium. I feared there would be more gorilla-themed art for sale inside and asked “Where are the others? I thought we were going to Alfajiri?” I was told we were going for a drink. I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying “Here?!” as I surveyed the scaffolding and plastic.
We walked down steps at the side of the building and I was amazed to discover that the bottom half of the hotel, for that is what it was, was complete and a wedding reception was in full swing, while outside it was an extraordinary lake-front terrace and garden. This was the Hotel Saint Jean, on the very shore of Lake Kivu. Gazing across the Lake we could see the far shore and Rwanda. At times of war, one can see puffs of smoke rising from those shores, so we were told. As we sat at the mercy of the midges – who were, as usual, especially keen on my particular brand of hair – a team of fishing boats pushed off from the pier beside the hotel in some sort of triple boat combination and set out in search of the evening meal for the wedding guests.
Fishing boats set out onto Lake Kivu as evening draws in.
Then again, the evening meal appeared to be walking its way into the reception. An inquisitive goat trailing its tether behind it wandered past our table and into the hotel – presumably to offer its services as a nanny to the future children of the marriage. I apologise for that bad joke but we later saw that goat, or its twin, lying in two pieces on a chopping block outside the kitchen as we left, so a bit of humour is the only way to take ones mind off that sight. The drinks we had were pleasant – more Coke for me, as the sugar levels were sapping – and we attracted the attention of a young boy from the wedding party in the grubbiest, most food covered suit imaginable. He offered us biscuits and chips and a stream of “Mzungu!” as we enjoyed the evening air.
We walked back to the street to look for taxis. Richard and Bruno strolled ahead in what seemed a very intense conversation while Tim and I were barracked by some very scowly soldiers with very hurty guns for deciding to walk around a barrier on the left side rather than the right. Men with guns trying to intimidate the mzungus was the general consensus but we did as we were told rather than risk ending up with the goat. Eventually back at Alfajiri, a shower was a great relief and we sat down to dinner of beef with more bananas, beans and, sweet Jesus, more fou-fou. This became a ball to be thrown about after Mocki went to bed and, despite being smashed off the wall, it retained its shape and took some paint flakes with it. We went to bed, now sharing our corridor with a group of Belgian former students, one of whom was the spit of Bob Hope who gurningly informed us “I was here fworty fwour years ago-ho-ho”. Another of their group was snoring like a bull elephant as we retired, only matched in volume by the terrifying cat lurking somewhere outside my window and screeching with rage.
Sunset over Lake Kivu as we left the Hotel Saint Jean.
Me-Tube Famous! October 7, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Comedy, Life, Travel.Tags: CheekTV, Cheeky, Gary Caplehorne, London, Paris, Purple Puppet, Youtube
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So, I have reached London after my trip to Paris, and have had the pleasure of making a video with a PROPER Youtube star, Gary Caplehorne of CheekTV and his purple puppet (not a euphemism), Cheeky - www.youtube.com/cheektv . Gary and Cheeky have also just been nominated for a Youtube Award by www.youtube.com/daveyboyz so do vote for them! And enjoy the video, I certainly enjoyed making it.
Sea The Stars: The Greatest October 5, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Other Sports.Tags: 2000 Guineas, Aiden O'Brien, Alandi, Ballydoyle, Champion Stakes, Christophe Soumillon, Christopher Tsui, Derby, Eclipse, Epsom, Group One, Horse Racing, John Clarke, John McStay, John Oxx, Juddmonte, Longchamp, Mick Kinane, Mohammad Ali, Nashwan, Newmarket, Paris, Prix Cadran, Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, Racing Post, Rock Of Gibraltar, Roger Federer, Sea The Stars, Stacelita, Tiger Woods, Usain Bolt
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Mick Kinane and Sea The Stars are welcomed into the winner's enclosure.
What a day. What a horse.
Sometimes there aren’t enough words to explain the impossible. Sometimes there aren’t enough rounds of applause, enough cheers, enough smiles to express the brilliant. Sometimes there isn’t a way of comparing sporting achievements fairly and accurately.
Well, to hell with it. Who needs comparisons when you have witnessed the incomparable?
The multiple variations on the word “stars” and its accompanying clichés and adages have been practically exhausted by every sports page, every tabloid headline writer, every racing commentator, over the last six months. Six months which changed the history of horse-racing; six months which saw flat racing transformed from the sober, aging brother of the two strands of the sport into a brimming cauldron of passion, desire, belief; six months which forged a legend.
It was my unique pleasure today to be present at Longchamp race-track on the edge of Paris, where I witnessed Sea The Stars seal the the crowning moment in a career of crowning moments. His victory in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe was what almost every Irish and British supporter of horseracing wanted to see, what many of those French racegoers at the track today NEEDED to see.
Sea The Stars does need to be seen to be believed. The parade ring at Longchamp is quite small as it is, but it was packed with owners and onlookers, while the amphitheatre around it was seething with craning bodies. Everyone, even his rivals, wanted to see Sea The Stars, to take a photo, to see this Irish wonder-horse who has laid waste to a landscape of Group Ones. The pointing, the whispering: “That’s him. – He’s the greatest horse ever. – And there’s Mick Kinane. – 50, you know. – 50?! – What a fine animal”.
When he crossed the line after the most nerve-wracking of contests, my heart almost burst out of my chest and my brother, father and I dissolved into a teary celebratory clamber of a hug. The French couple beside me went from bemused to understanding, reaching over to shake my hand and congratulate us: This was history being written with a full stop. This was something we will never see again.
For anyone who doesn’t know, let me try explain what this horse has achieved. Described by his trainer as “a machine”, he is unbeaten in 7 starts dating back into last year. He began the year by winning the 2000 Guineas at Newmarket. He has won the Epsom Derby, a career in itself for many horses – that double hadn’t been accomplished since Nashwan two decades ago. He has defeated many horses who are recognised as world-class, who would, in any other year, be lauded as heroes themselves in sealing the Eclipse, the Juddmonte and the Champion Stakes. He has won a Group One race in EVERY month this year since May. Today’s win made it 6 Group Ones in 6 months.
Many horses win Group Ones. A few have won a comparable amount to Sea The Stars. Rock Of Gibraltar won 7, in fact, over the course of two seasons. But no horse has ever won the Guineas-Derby-Arc trio. No horse has won so many great races over so many distances (from a mile to a mile and a half – Rock Of Gibraltar was a pure miler). And no horse has EVER, nor will they again, win SIX IN SIX STARTS IN SIX MONTHS. That is like winning all four of tennis or golf’s majors and two more. That is winning 6 FA Cup Finals. That is 6 Olympic Gold medals. That is 6 All-Ireland championships. 6 Oscars. 6 Nobel Prizes. 6 terms in the White House. Sea The Stars has ripped common sense and wisdom to shreds. If there is to be an end to history, a moment after which such moments may never be again, that was today for flat-racing.
That’s not all though. For my family, it is particularly emotional to see the success and the deserved praise for John Oxx, the trainer of Sea The Stars. John is as quiet and unassuming a man as you could ever meet. He is regularly described as professorial by proud adjective-wielders in The Racing Post. He will come home from a successful days racing and will be dozing on the sofa with a half-finished glass of wine beside him while his many friends will be reliving the day’s events around him.
Irish fans travelled in large numbers to witness the moment a legend was sealed.
Irish and indeed, European racing as a whole, has been dominated in recent years by the powerhouse that is Ballydoyle and Aiden O’Brien. It was in danger of stagnating if no one came to challenge that dominance – like the Tiger effect on the US PGA tour. Then, two years ago, John Oxx was trusted by a young man named Christopher Tsui to train this horse, a gift from his mother. John honed the animal and placed it in the capable hands of Mick Kinane, at 50 years of age, a veteran jockey with a magical ability and understanding of horses.
Bingo. With that, racing had its own holy trinity, a tripartite alliance which has had everything thrown at it by Ballydoyle, by Godolphin, by anyone who is anyone. But it has survived, and indeed, rebutted every challenge. John, his wife Caitríona and children, Aoife, Deirdre and Kevin, have been wonderful friends to us. Tsui’s advisor in all these matters, John Clarke, is my brother’s godfather and his son, Jonathan is Killian’s best friend. The three families, Oxx, Clarke and McStay, with their three Johns, have been inseparable since I’ve been on this earth. Today was a small celebration of that, as much as a massive celebration of the magical Sea The Stars.
He didn’t have it easy today. He took a couple of furlongs to settle and Mick Kinane had to drop him back into the field. As they made the long bend at the far end of the track, it seemed that the wheels were falling off the wagon. Ballydoyle’s pacemakers were streaking ahead, while Sea The Stars was boxed in amongst the pack. Into the straight. Still no gap. Please. Please. It has to come.
It came. Barely. A chink of an escape came on the inside of the field along the running rail, one which might close as quickly as it had opened. But that split second was all it took. Kinane and his mount saw the light and charged straight at it. Within a couple hundred yards, he had seized the lead and, with another furlong and a half to go, it was happening. The field pushed on, but Sea The Stars held them at arm’s length and took the winning post to cheers and rapture unlike any other.
The same French punters who had mocked and whistled at Kinane and Sea The Stars as he left the parade ring – they had their hopes pinned on Christophe Soumillon and his wonder-filly Stacelita – rose and acclaimed the confirmed hero as he returned. The tricolour flapping in the wind about the jockey was green, white and gold, not red, white and blue. The McStays marched straight into the ring past security with the air of winners – feeling like winners too – to share the moment. To be in the midst of a reception like that was special. The tears were as copious as the cheers.
All the while, Sea The Stars breather deeply, drank from his bucket and looked about with those knowing eyes as if to say “What? I told you so. You didn’t think I’d lose, did you?” He is Ali. He is Federer. He is Woods. He is Bolt. He is the greatest ever. Ask anyone. If they weren’t sure before today, they will be now. Best ever? Well, there’s no way of comparing…but who needs comparisons.
Sea The Stars: Nothing compares to you.
- The Oxx team and friends pose for the clamouring photographers with the champion.
PS: I make no apologies for the shaky photos – it was a day for shaky hands! And, as a footnote, John and Mick teamed up to win the Prix Cadran – beating another great champion, Yeats - with Alandi later this evening to cap a wonderful day in the Parisien sun.
PPS: All Sea The Stars’ Group One wins are on Youtube – the Arc is below.
Meat Sung! September 26, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Uncategorized.add a comment
Homemade meat sung!
- Posted using MobyPicture.com
A Betrayal Of Penguins August 26, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Uncategorized.Tags: A Betrayal Of Penguins, Comedy, Edinburgh, Fringe Festival, Improv She Wrote, John Gallagher, Matthew Smyth, Sweet Heart, The List, Three Weeks, Trinity College Dublin
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While in Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival over the weekend, I had the joy of seeing two good friends of mine, John Gallagher and Matthew Smyth, performing their comedy show, “A Betrayal Of Penguins” at The Sweet Heart. Having performed with the guys in “Improv, She Wrote”, the Trinity College Dublin improv troupe which we established this year, I have some experience first-hand of how downright funny they are. They invariably double-team beautifully in improv games together and it was only natural that they would bring those same talents along with their obvious chemistry to the Fringe. The show is very funny, mixing their own individual stand-up routines with sketches, improvisation and scripted double-acting. If you want other people’s opinions, try The List and Three Weeks, two respected Festival guides who each bestowed 4-star reviews on the guys. While there, I also took the liberty of filming some of the promo work on the Royal Mile and the show itself on Sunday 23rd of August. This Youtube video is the result. Enjoy, and look out for “A Betrayal Of Penguins” in the future – they’re certainly not endangered.
Sorry… August 24, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Life.Tags: Africa, Edinburgh, Sorry, Usain Bolt
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I’m very bad at updating, especially when I promise an update! The latest Africa post took a LONG time to write, mainly due to its massive word count and me being in Edinburgh for the last 5 days. It’s up now though and I’ll try be better in future. I had a great time in Edinburgh, and will have a post about that, and another about the wonderous Usain Bolt but they may take time while I work on the Africa ones. Anyway, just so you all know I’m alive, thinking hard and very sorry!
My Trip To Africa: Day 4 – The Children’s Place August 24, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Africa, Alfajiri, Barry McStay, Barry's Tea, Bukavu, Burundi, Customs, Democratic Republic of Congo, Ek'Abana, Fish, Fr. Michael Sheil, French, Lake Kivu, Louis Gallet, Lourdes, Love, Marcellin Seruhungo, Market, Mosquitos, Natalina, Orphanage, Poverty, Richard McElwee, Swahili, Tim McNamara
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View Of Alfajiri School, Bukavu, Democratic Republic Of Congo, which was our home for five days.
The mosquitoes attacked at about 2:30am and, after an unsuccessful chase around the bedroom trying to squash the ringleader, I gave up and returned to bed, pulling the blanket over my head. This, I discovered, was both impractibly hot and totally ineffective at drowning out that irritating air-raid-siren-up-two-octaves whine of the annoying little prickers. Eventually I stuck my iPod in, turned the volume up full blast and basically laid back, closed my eyes and prepared to be sucked dry. In a bad way.
We were up at about 7am to discover the water system was non-operational, making me extra-glad of showering last night, even if it had been a case of hopping in and out very fast of a spray of water colder than a penguin giving you the cold shoulder. We made our way into the refectory where breakfast consisted on an omlette – one between four -, bread and some more of that awful tea. It’s a cliché but it’s true: We Irish really do miss good old Barry’s Tea when we go abroad.
Marcellin Seruhungo came to meet us and escort us to our destination today. Marcellin was a staff member of Alfajiri – although his exact role was never made clear to me – in his late 30s who had suffered serious injury to one of his legs as a youth. As a result, that leg was now considerably shorter than the other and he walked with the aid of crutches. Despite this, he was a very cheerful, welcoming guy who was determined that we would be as comfortable as possible during our stay.
A roundabout in Bukavu. The taxi dropped us off on the other side of this before we walked to Ek'Abana that first morning. Notice the ramshackle buildings and the mass of dust.
We made our way down the avenue of the school, past the bumpy patch of ground where a crowd of massive teenagers were playing a vigorous and dusty game of football. The spectators’ heads all turned in a bizarre Mexican wave effect as we passed, resplendant in our very conspicuous white polo shirts to match our very conspicuous white skin. Three or four younger children ran to shake our hands and we gladly bid them “Bonjour”, happy to be made so welcome, before the follow-up of “Donne-moi de l’argent” followed. Genuinely, we hadn’t brought money with us as we would be in the orphanage all day, but turning them away made me feel very uncomfortable, knowing that in reality I was in a position to give money to those who would need it more than me while also knowing that blatant charity is not the way forward and one simply couldn’t accede to every request for money over the time we would be spending in the region. Again, it brought home the scale of the divide between “us and them”.
At the gates of the school, Conny met us and we hailed two taxis which would take us through the streets of Bukavu. The city was more run-down than Bujumbura, the roads were worse and the noise was twice as loud. Bukavu is the only city I’ve been to where buildings are made entirely of scaffolding and orange plastic, and where the main roundabout is literally just a massive circular patch of clay populated by pedestrians and taxis. Tim, Richard, Conny and I got out of our cab, while Mocki and Marcellin continued past us in theirs, leaving us to walk. To our right was Lake Kivu, to our left the foothills of the mountains which enclose the city and both sides of the road were lined with vendors on benches and pushing carts, displaying their wares. Bright slips of freshly-caught fish glinted in the sun like silver bullets beside trays of brown eggs, wooden hutches packed with squawking chickens, sheafs of grass and clusters of bamboo, all accompanied by the shouts of the huge crowds of buyers and sellers and the blaring of some massive speakers perched outside a hut on the ridge above us.
We walked about 300 yards, meeting Jonny and Janvier along the way, two more of the students of Alfajiri who would be joining us on our experiment, and we took a turn to the left off the tarmac road and began to climb along a dirt track up the side of the mountain. The houses here were slightly better than the huts we had driven past entering Bukavu the night before, many of them made of brick and with small gardens full of inquisitive children crying “muzungu” and stern-faced mothers hanging multi-coloured washing to dry in the already-hot sun.
The Entrance To Ek'Abana, "The Children's Place", the orphanage in Bukavu.
The steep track eventually led us to a large, metal gate with a brightly coloured mural on the wall beside it. This was Ek’Abana. Mocki and Marcellin’s taxi had, miraculously, made it up the slopes and they met us there. It was a bit like being let into a secret society’s compound as we knocked, a little flap opened and an eye peered out before the gates opened. Inside we found a beautifully manicured patch of grass surrounded by beds of roses and cleanly swept paths winding down amongst the buildings – the offices, classrooms, bedrooms, wood-shed, kitchen, laundrey room and so on. We would later discover that beyond the big classroom we were first led into were a “grande salle”, or hall, and library, as well as worksheds, rabbits’ hutches and the Lourdes grotto where the thrice-daily prayers were held.
As we walked across the yard towards the classroom, we could hear singing, clapping and drumming. In we walked, led up to the front of the room by Natalina, the former nun who had established Ek’Abana in 2001, and all eyes turned to us. There are enchanting qualities to children, somehow moreso with these children: their enthusiasm as they danced and sang before class, their spirit of community as they clapped along and taught each other steps, their eager and loving welcome for us, the glinting of their wide, shining eyes in shining, dark skin, all capped by their startling, face-encompassing smiles. All of this is made the more poignant by their horrible histories, pasts which they are trying to rectify, in the truest sense of that word: to make right.
Natalina, the founder of Ek'Abana, addresses the children before introducing us to them. Not a sign of nerves on us, eh?!
We had been joined by Patricia, Sylvie and Bruno, the last of the Congolese students, so Natalina said a couple of words and had us introduce ourselves, in French with our Irish accents which induced a couple of giggles. Then we were allocated different areas we would be working in for the day: Mocki and Tim with Sylvie and Patricia in the classroom, Richard, Janvier and Jonny cleaning and decorating the hall for the festival the kids would be having this Sunday, Bruno sorting and folding the endless bags of laundry and I was nabbed by two of the older girls and brought into the kitchen the meet Anwarita, the cook.
Now, my Swahili isn’t that hot and my French was about as rusty as a fish’s bicycle but Anwarita broke through the language barrier (and my convolutions) and we got on fantastically well. First things first, into a very unfetching and uncomfortably insulated work-jacket and straight down to work once I had figured out what the word “torsionner” meant (to wipe, if you’re interested). Every inch of the store-room and kitchen, every table, bench, shelf and corner was swept, washed down and left gleaming, like my forehead by the end of it. Anwarita was amused when I told her than we had machines to do a lot of our daily chores for us in Ireland but was also impressed by my refusal to let her help and the fact I finished the work without dying. Well, being here for only a couple of days, we had no choice but to give our utmost.
The massive pot on the stove bubbling with a stew of maize, onion and tomato, Anwarita and I sat crosslegged in the shade outside and began sifting through the rice for bugs. While doing this simple, pleasing task, we were able to talk at length about her job and her life. She couldn’t believe I was 24, one year YOUNGER than her – she had assumed I was closer to 30, a qualified teacher perhaps, with the means to be travelling at this stage of my life. It was the first time I’d been assumed to be older than I am in a long time!
Richard models the rather fetching work-jacket on the stage of the hall at Ek'Abana. Jonny is in the background, pretending not to know him.
It turned out that Anwarita was recently married only six months previously. Her husband had known her for six months before proposing by presenting a dowry to her parents, and she had to endure a further six months before the wedding could take place. Naturally, she was amazed to hear that Tim and Marianne had been going out for three years with no sign of a wedding – then again, as she said, he’s only 22, but I, at an ancient 24, had better hurry up! She was further interested to hear that sometimes ladies propose to men in Ireland, and that people could say “I love you” in public whereas she was restricted to saying it to her husband within the four walls of her house. The cultural divide even stretches to affairs of love, and our relative freedom in our relationships, who we choose and what we choose to do with them is in stark contrast to the strictures imposed on Anwarita and her compatriots.
Anwarita explained that she would bring four of the girls to work with her in the kitchen for a month, thus giving them a chance to learn how to make each of the dishes she cooked on a weekly rota. Similarly the children would be taught how to knit and sew, wash and mend clothes, care for the rabbits or carry out daily chores: Nothing is done for them, but they do everything for each other. They grow to enjoy and respect work, learning important skills mixed with fun. From the moment they get up at 5:30am to their 9pm bedtime at night, the kids help with the upkeep of the compound, run their prayer sessions and attend classes in Bible studies, speech and drama, computers song and dance.
Mama Josephine came to introduce herself. She’s an imposing lady who points her finger, pokes you in the chest and doesn’t allow you to interrupt. Though in her mid-fifties, she remains full of the energy of the kids she cares for (on top of her own brood of six and her brother’s eight), recognising each of their pieces of clothing as we sorted them into drawers. She forcefully told me how the philosophy behind Ek’Abana is to restore the children to their famille propre, to mediate between the children and the families who abandoned them. Many of the children had been accused of sorcery by their parents, or viewed as bad omens following the death of a sibling, or simply dumped as economic burdens – tragic and incredible situations unthinkable in our own country. Ek’Abana seeks to educate the parents, to dispel superstition and to arm the children with life skills and a sense of responsibility. If, by the age of eighteen, the child has not been restored to its family, he or she will hopefully be able to strike out for him/herself. In eight years, over 500 children have passed through Ek’Abana’s gates – that is probably less than the total number of homeless people in all of Ireland.
Mama Josephine (on the left) and Anwarita (second from right) show me how to mend clothes. On my knee is Linda and the girl to Anwarita's right is Fatu.
Anwarita kept a close guard of baby Fatu, 18 months old and the youngest of the Ek’Abana children. She explained that her father was a soldier who had mistreated her and was now in jail. Her mother had abandoned both Fatu and her sister, leaving them in the care of Ek’Abana, unable to care for them sufficiently. I would later be shown a gazebo just inside the gates of Ek’Abana by two of the children who explained that it was called “La place de Rebeque”, Rebecca’s place, and was dedicated to Fatu’s sister. There was hanging in the gazebo a large photo of the child, weepy eyed, already in the throes of the sickness which would overwhelm her several months after she had been left in Ek’Abana. Fatu was adored by the other children and adults alike, but was terrified of the strangers with white skin and would run to Anwarita any time I passed near her.
Tim can barely contain his smiles as he joins in the dance circle at Ek'Abana. Beside Tim is Janvier.
Mama Jo led me by the hand on a tour before bringing me to join Mocki and Tim with the rest of the children for dancing in the yard. On practically every documentary and film about Africa, you see these circles of dancing, smiling, laughing children, all extraordinarily gifted in movement, immersing themselves in the distinctive and enlivening rhythms and melodies of their culture. To actually experience it is totally different, totally unique. It makes one so ashamed of our self-consciousness, embarassed by our own relative lack of talent and freedom, and amazed by the surrounding energy. It went on for over an hour non-stop and was one of the most joyful things I’ve ever witnessed as we were hugged, little hands clasped ours or dragged us forward to dance - Tim and I could not stop smiling, and Mocki was danced out by the end of it. The dancing and singing was nominally led by a couple of the adults, but in reality flowed as different children initiated new movements or verses. A couple of games were played which involed sending someone away and then hiding a pen on someone in the circle for them to find based on warmer/colder hints from the rest of the circle, or leaving a collection of items in the middle (bottles, coats etc.) which were then removed one by one by someone attempting not to touch the designated “bomb” – if they did, the cirlced “boomed!”.
Ndome and Aganze giving me a ground tour of the Ek'Abana complex. Their only requirement was that I provide many piggy-backs.
Two boys, Aganze and Ndome (excuse me if the spellings are wrong, guys!) were two who took a particular shine to me and sat either side of me, cuddling up close and taking a strong interest in my ample, pale arm-hairs. No, not armchairs. I had left my ample, pale armchairs at home. With only three boys in Ek’Abana, it seemed as though the influx of three young males and another male (sorry Mocki…) struck a chord with them. That or our weird hair and skin colour was enough encouragement to stick to me like a limpet.
The boys whisked me off on my second tour of the complex, showing special affection for the grotto and for the appropriately cute rabbits in cages on the level below it. The two boys, with equally heartbreaking lives of their own, explained to me the story of Rebecca in the gazebo. It would break your heart yet gladden it too to see the kindness being shown to these poor children and one cannot help but want to contribute to that kindness. They were, like most of the children over here, fascinated by photos and made me take a shot of them on my phone, gave their approval of the picture and were overjoyed when I made it my phone’s background. They dug into my pocket a couple of times during the day to check they were still in pride of place.
A view from above the grotto during prayers before lunch. The devotion to Our Lady was so strong and seems remarkable for such unfortunate children.
After a touching and devoted prayer service of about 5 minutes at the grotto, where the children offered intentions and reflections of their own, we served the grub up to the kids in their classroom cum refectory: Tim, Richard and the others brought out the maize stew and rice, a bland offering which was nevertheless eaten with relish (although, without any ACTUAL relish) and I ladled out water into plastic beakers (and far more of it onto the floor beneath the beakers). We were uncomplaining about the food that we don’t have to eat every day and I was touched to see Aganze had saved me a seat when I went to sit down, but everyone else sat at a table that had been kept empty for us – a poor idea really and Tim remarked later that we should have been spread among the kids.
Janvier keeps a close watch on Tim as he displays his scrubbing abilities after lunch in Ek'Abana.
After lunch, a big clean-up ensued at the taps and sinks outside the kitchen. Tim and Richard left serious DNA evidence in losing skin from their fingers helping to scrub clean the dishcloths while Sylvie, Jonny and I washed up all the dishes, glasses and cutlery, passing them to Mocki and a troupe of the kids to dry. The Congolese didn’t seem quite as happy as we did to be mucking in with these tasks, perhaps due to the fact that these daily, menial chores, without the aid of dishwashers and washing machines, are not such unique experiences for them.
After the big clean-up, the kids returned to class, which were loose discussion groups and it was not unusual to come across one or two playing together outside. We were brought into the office and given a talk about the centre by a man whose name escapes me entirely and during which I was dropping off to sleep thanks to my sleepless night and the long day of work and heat. He began all his answers to the endless, slightly irritating questions from the Congolese with “Okay,…” and Janvier instantly gained the nickname “Translator” (with emphasis on the OR) as he mumbled, hemmed and hawed for our benefit. We were treated to another tour of the place (my third of the day) and the children emerged from their classes as we were about to leave. Tim, Richard and I were cajoled into more piggy-backs, escorted by our hands to the gate and made promise we would be back the following day as the kids waved goodbye.
Looking over the huts of Bukavu below the Ek'Abana complex.
We made our way down the steep and dirty hill to the road and found a couple of taxis to take us back to Alfajiri. I shared a car with Patricia, Sylvie, Jonny and Janvier and they kindly stopped and bought me a bottle of water, having noticed how tired I had seemed. My Irishness was clearly showing. Marcellin met us on our arrival and offered to take us to the cinema. Our excitement dampened somewhat when we discovered the cinema was simply a lecture hall in Alfajiri and the film seemed to be some sort of documentary about agriculture in rapid French – a step too far for us at this stage of the day. Instead, we all sat and had a brief reflection on the day’s experience, which seemed rather more gloomy than enthusiastic. Our need for rest and the Congolese students slight reticence to discuss things very frankly with us at this stage made for a less than beneficial chat.
The dancing of the children before class is joyful, free and a sharing of their talents and happiness.
Mocki, Tim, Rich and I had a far better talk later over dinner of fish, fried banana, potatoes and haricot beans, after a rest and a shower – yes, the water had returned. The community, the enthusiasm and the joy of the Ek’Abana orphans were the three things which struck us all. Their sad histories linger but Ek’Abana helps restore hope for their futures.
A power-cut pre-dinner thankfully disappeared making for a pleasant meal and Mocki amused and entertained us all with some great tales out of school. For some, spending two weeks with a former teacher 50 years your senior would be something to be endured but Mocki gladly regressed to a schoolboy mode (or dragged himself down to his level, as he put it), providing a real sense of togetherness and equality for us all as we chatted and bantered. At the best of times, he is wonderful company; on this great adventure, he was the glue that kept us together. We were visited as we ate by Pére Louis Gallet, a spry 84-year-old priest from Belgian who had been in Alfajiri for 47 years and would be attending the congress in Bujumbura before returning to his country of birth and entering retirement. Not one to be interrupted once he launched into his spiels, he assured me another pleasant nap not just by the content but the length of his stories.
After dinner, I sat waiting for my phone to charge in the one socket we had found – I don’t know why, the mobile was as useless in DRC as it was in Burundi – and continued the chat with Richard and Tim. Perhaps it is a requirement for anyone wishing to be a school captain, but both of them possess some fantastic qualities, assured and reassuring, confident, easy-going and great to spend time with, funny and serious in appropriate measure. The immensity of what we were taking in, the sheer scale of the poverty and inhumanity in which we were immersing ourselves, made me recognise how lucky I am to have been born into the relative comfort of my life, and the whole experience was made a little easier by having three outstanding gentlemen and friends for company.
Mocki, Tim, Richard and I in the quad of Alfajiri. We had a great time and shared many memorable experiences which I'll treasure for many a year - or use for blackmail purposes in the future.
