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.
My Trip To Africa: Day 4 – The Children’s Place August 24, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Barry McStay, Africa, Burundi, Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo, Richard McElwee, Tim McNamara, Fr. Michael Sheil, Alfajiri, Ek'Abana, Natalina, Mosquitos, Barry's Tea, Marcellin Seruhungo, Lake Kivu, Orphanage, Market, Poverty, Fish, Lourdes, Swahili, French, Love, Customs, Louis Gallet
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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.
My Trip To Africa: Day 3 – Over The Hills And Far Away August 7, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Africa, AIDS, Alfajiri, Banana, Barack Obama, Barry McStay, Bujumbura, Bukavu, Burundi, Ceprodilic, Coca Cola, Dalkey, Democratic Republic of Congo, Dublin, Fr. Michael Sheil, Fresian, Kamanyolo, Kyle XY, Lake Tanganyika, Lantebe, London, Milltown, Mobutu, Mosquito, Muzungu, Nelly, Nelson Mandela, New York, Ngomo, Papaya, Peacekeeping, Photography, Richard McElwee, Ruzizi River, Rwanda, Tim McNamara, UN, Uvira
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- Me, Richard and Tim at breakfast in Lodge Ceprodilic. Note the banana stew not being eaten.
Sleep barely came in the bed / cage in my room in Ceprodilic (which turns out to be a Protestant guesthouse, leading to jokes with Mocki about “sleeping with the enemy”), and I was wide awake sometime before 6am thanks to the multitude of other guests who seemed to spill out into the corridor at the first crack of sunlight. These, we would later find, were many of the other youth delegates to the congress and most of them, apparently, already knew who Tim was. Personable and tall chap like he is, Tim has a great way of making friends mainly thanks to his ability to see them from considerable distances away.
We officially were meeting for breakfast at 8.30am so I had a shockingly cold shower to pass the time – the first of many on this trip, for sure. My eye was caught by the sign on the wall of the room with the rules of the lodge, including the following two gems:
Rule 2: When it is a couple (MAN AND WOMAN) which introduces itself on the reception, the two persons have to show the extract paper of marriage in case they both have to stay in the same room or sleep in the same room.
Rule 10: It is strictly defended to bring firing weapons or small weapons in the surroundings of the Guest-House.
Aside from the definite “no gayness” rule and the tenderly mangled English, I was delighted to see the notion that STAYING in the rooms of the lodge was not always equated to SLEEPING – a fact to which we were all prepared to attest.
Me, Conny, Richard and Tim walking through Bujumbura
Now, stew for breakfast isn’t the norm with us in Ireland but we were served up a banana stew in Ceprodilic – which tasted more potato-ey than banana-ey -, papaya – which tasted more Calvita-ey than papaya-ey -, and bread – which tasted of bread. We also were treated to the strongest tea I’ve ever tasted, with Tim adding Creamer (powdered milk) but the rest of us opting to take it black. The welcomes came thick and fast, mostly directed at Mr. Popular Tim, with the biggest of all coming from Conny, a Congolese student of Alfajiri School in Bukavu, our destination today. Conny had been assigned to keep an eye on us apparently, and accompanied us on a walk into the busy, pot-holed streets of Bujumbura.
In the daylight of the morning, we were able to witness Burundi and Africa leapt to life before our eyes. The initial impact was on the senses: The sights, sounds and smells just swirl around you in one big, overwhelming mass. The first thing we saw as we walked out the gate of Ceprodilic was a woman carrying two live chickens by their legs and a man walking by with three large matresses on his back. The streets were lined with tumbledown stone buildings and crammed with cracked-up old cars, overloaded bicycles and wailing vendors. And beggars, many of them children.
Now, Tim had warned us that we would be addressed as “muzungu” for most of our stay – that basically means “White Guy” and isn’t meant to be offensive, merely to point out the obvious difference between us and practically everyone else in the country. Once we got used to the idea of people waving and shouting at us all the time, turning to watch us walk down the street, and some approaching us to ask for money / food / clothes, the name muzungu became quite endearing. In Ireland’s multicultural society, we’ve only just gotten used to the sight of skin-tones beyond our own pasty magnolia, so we had to accept that we were the splotches on a very different cultural palette.
Mocki attempts to direct a traffic-jam at rush hour in Bujumbura. Yes, that's a crossroads with no traffic lights in a capital city.
Aside from the cries of “MUZUNGU!” and calls of the merchants, the overriding noise was car horns. With no road markings, no traffic lights, no discernible rules of the road apart from keep the car moving and speed up when approaching another car, driving in Africa is perilous and beeping the horn is considered an essential communication device. The horn conveys every possible message: “Hello; You’re in my way; I’m passing you; I’ve passed you; Want to pass me?; Do you want a lift?; I’m full; Thanks for taking the lift; I have a car”.Coca-Cola, of course, lurked in branded stands on the street, side by side with the ragged-clothed poor. We instantly had to readjust our sensitivity levels as we walked along busy streets dotted with hunched shadows in doorways, barefoot invalids hobbling on knotted sticks and tired-looking folk carrying unfeasible burdens on their bending backs. It’s hard, coming from the comfort and relative prosperity of an economically-secure Western nation (our recession is nothing, Ireland), to reposition your outlook and realise that the expectations about the standard of living are so vastly different to your own. We had a lot of realisations ahead of us.
We exchanged some of the dollars we had brought with us for Burundian francs and bought supplies for the drive to DRC – a promised 7 hours -, stocking up on water, biscuits, nuts and pastries. The strict departure time of 10am had been and gone so we sat around trying unsuccessfully to get our phones to accept a Burundian sim card, finding Tim’s was the only one which worked. The other youth alumni departed for various venues in Bujumbura and to Rwanda until at last, at midday, our taxis arrived and we were the final ones to depart on our adventure.
Conny, Me, Richard, Tim and Providence in Uvira at the bus depot.
The two bangers flew in a helter-skelter, no-prisoners fashion towards the border with DRC – I had instinctively reached for the inevitably absent seatbelt in the car I shared with Tim and Conny. Richard, Mocki and Providence, another Congolese, were behind us in the second car as we passed through a series of villages on the outskirts of Bujumbura. To our left was the vast Lake Tanganyika, three times the size of Ireland, and on our right were rice paddies and banana groves.
The houses we passed were mostly made of mud and straw, clustered together with people outside them moulding bricks, chopping bananas, herding goats or drying sheaves of grass in the sun. This was a scene from a different age. Bright eyes in the dark faces swung around from bicycles, overcrowded trucks, shady trees, and we recognised the word “muzungu” being passed around like a wildfire Chinese whisper. We were exposed, totally alien to this world, blatantly different. It felt odd, but a smile and a wave to the children who stared at us through the glass was met with a beaming response and an even bigger wave. Acceptance is only a smile away, it seems.
We got to the border, about 20 minutes outside of Bujumbura, and passed all the rigorous passport-checking and intense staring by the guards. An opportunistic local grabbed my suitcase and, rather than steal it, carried it across the bridge into no-man’s-land for me, dropped it and turned around asking for money. I had only just become familiar with Burundian money and grabbed the first note I found (they don’t do coins) – 100 francs. About 7 cents. He looked at me as though I had ROBBED him and I felt like an idiot as I ducked into the minibus which was waiting to take us for a bumpy ride across a portentously dreadful dirt road to the Congolese customs. There, we were treated like some sort of royalty – apparently, Providence knew someone who was in charge, or something, thus ensuring we wouldn’t have to pay for our entry visa. Ah, a little mild corruption to ease our passage. As we were waiting, Provi was ticked off in French by an officer (who didn’t realise we had a bit of French) for letting us linger in the not-overly-hot sun, which would obviously burn us to crispy Irish bacon, as he ushered us underneath a palm tree.
- Uvira, the first town we reached in Democratic Republic of Congo.
Richard takes a nap on the road between Uvira and Bukavu. This was on the smooth, open road - sleep wouldn't be an option on the "road" through the mountains!
Some children approached us as we stood around at the bus depot waiting for the driver to finish his business there and asked for some of the biscuits we’d brought with us in return for big smiles and loud cries of ”Merci” and “Asante“, the Swahili for thank you. This would happen in Kamanyola, Ngoma and into the next few days. We’re such obvious Westerners and we would be pleaded with and emotionally blackmailed into giving. And God, how you want to give and give and give. The comparitively primitive and simple world we had entered makes Dublin, London, New York seem violently crass and selfish; it made me feel embarassed for concerns about iPods, phones, cameras etc. – they are items some of the people who inhabited the grass huts along the road out of Uvira may have never seen, and have little use for anyway.
We travelled through some wide open countryside along a good road, passing through a couple of towns with the same human hustle of Uvira. It seemed that there were three businesses of which most towns had a plethora: A “salon de beauté et de coiffure”, telephone stores (which were to be found in even the remotest mountain hamlets) and, ominously, pharmacies. Three hours into the journey, we reached Kamanyola, where there is a large monument to a battle fought by the then-aspiring President Mobutu in the 1960s, and were stopped at the toll plaza, such as it was – a wooden barrier outside a hut. There, more biscuits were dispensed – two entire packets – and my school graduation ring attracted some attention. One young girl said that if I gave it to her, we’d be married. My reluctance to part with it led to the follow-up question, was I a “celibateur”?!
- The Ruzizi River from the Ngomo mountain toll road in Democratic Republic Of Congo.
We left the toll barrier behind and began to climb into the mountains of Ngomo which skirts the border with Rwanda, visible just across the Ruzizi River below us. The road changed from tarmac to a rocky dirt track and would remain so for the following four hours – Providence dubbed it the “Empire Of The Dust” and could well have added bumps to that imperial realm. We travelled along the dustiest, bumpiest, most precarious road along cliff edges above the valley with its river, banana and palm trees and it was hard to believe how many tiny villages (of four or five houses) and people we came across just when you thought you were in the most deserted place on the planet. Around each heart-thumping corner was another stunning view and the camera was in overdrive, as it was when we reached a small stand selling bananas, where some more children were fascinated and delighted to see the “muzungus“.
- Children by a stall selling bananas in the Ngomo Mountains, DRC. Their fascination with cameras is matched by our own fascination with the simple life they lead – our presence among almost seemed an intrusion.
Well, I think there is a wonder in this underrun with a desire to share these experiences and a desire to do something about it all. The rural life we saw was stunningly uncluttered but also teaches you to want better for those who live it and DEMANDS better of yourself – not monetarily, but personally, spiritually even. Make your luck and luxury something you respect, not expect, and seize your chance to teach others the same. The photos aren’t to display museum pieces, but to inspire a sense of appreciation and imperative. We were in the birthplace of man, the heart not of darkness but of life, where there is a genius in each handmade house and item of clothing, where work is not a chore, where food and drink are truly precious and appreciated. This is not deepest and darkest, but highest and brightest Africa.
We continued along these winding roads at about 3 miles an hour, our arses taking a seriously saddle-sore pounding and my window-seat nearest the cliff’s edge providing me with an uncomfortable but irresistable view. Richard admitted that, in light of this journey, he could never again complain about having to trek across Dublin from Milltown to Dalkey to collect his girlfriend. We eventually reached Businga – the highest point of the mountains and a less up-and-down region – as dusk approached, the setting sunlight glinting on the open rock faces of some of the mountains and catching the blazing line of a forest fire in the distance.
We were held up by a herd of massively-horned cattle complete with a “muzungu” of their own, an interloping Fresian, at which Richard inexplicably and disturbingly shouted “Give us some of your milk!” In the dark, we began the descent into Lantebe, an outer area of Bukavu and home to a horrific hospital for victims of sexual abuse and rape during the war. It loomed on our right, barely visible, just a huge shadow in the shadows, a sickening reminder of mankind’s abilities – or disabilities, perhaps – for harm.
- The sun begins to dip behind the mountains in Ngomo as two men sit on a rock by the edge of a cliff.
The huts which lined the edge of the road now were lit by candles or, for the lucky vendors with access to electricity, by multicoloured Christmas fairy lights, uncongruous and tacky and obviously THE thing to have if you want your business to appear swanky. 30 people crowded around one window watching a television. Gradually, there were more and more pedestrians, more and more huts, more light and it became more scary.
My dormitory room in Alfajiri School, Bukavu, DRC.
My Trip To Africa: Day 2 – The Lost Day August 7, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: 17 Again, Africa, Air France, Animals, Axis Of Evil, Barack Obama, Barry McStay, Breakfast, Burundi, Charles De Gaulle, Coca Cola, Democrat, Democratic Republic of Congo, Fear Of Heights, Fr. Michael Sheil, Hotel Campanile, iPod, Ireland, Jesuit, Kenya Airways, Kenyatta, Maltesers, Minesweeper, Mount Etna, Nairobi, Pain Au Chocolat, Paris, Richard McElwee, River Nile, Roissy En France, Safari, Sahara Desert, Serengeti National Park, Sicily, Tim McNamara, Twix, USA, Zambia
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Getting up at 7am is something I have not done regularly since I left boarding school 5 long years ago, but here we were, dragging ourselves out of an admittedly peaceful Franco-somnia at that very hour. We also discovered, to my irritation, that the clock on Richard’s phone is four minutes faster than that on mine; thus, I was not best pleased when I was robbed of four minutes of sleep by that cock. I mean the rooster on his alarm, not Richard. He’s a Dick, not a cock.
Anyway, showered, shaved and all that, we made our way down to breakfast which we were pleased to find continued in the same vastly-overstocked vein in which last night’s dinner left off. Aware of the fact that our stay in Africa might not include regular buffet meals and 3 course dinners, I decided to ingest enough food to keep me going for the full two weeks, packing away cereal, brioche, croissant and pain au chocolat. Bread with chocolate. In Ireland, it’s Nutella on Brennan’s. In France, it’s a heart attack wrapped in cholesterol. And not the nice cholesterol, but that BAD cholesterol we’re always being warned about. It’s part of the Axis Of Evil, apparently.
That shuttle bus which we had failed to find yesterday brought us to Terminal 2F and we hit a bit of a jackpot when our obviously poor French accents betrayed our Anglophonic ways: The check-in lady said “Oh good, we need English speakers to sit at the emergency exits as the crew will be speaking English”. Sometimes the language of our colonial oppressor can be useful, it seems. The Holy Grails of long-haul flights, the emergency exit seats, and all the treasured legroom they purvey were ours.
Then again, we nearly didn’t make it onto the bloody plane as Richard’s iPod caused a security scare – I definitely saw a Gendarme fingering his Colt, and I don’t mean in a good way. Apparently, the little leather pouch it was being carried in looked suspiciously like a nuclear warhead, something along those lines. So, Richard was in the position of “that guy”, who holds up the entire workings of aviation because they’ve forgotten to take their gun or their knitting needle or their exploding water out of their hand-luggage. Actually, “that guy” is usually ahead of me in airport queues anyway, only this time I knew the bastard. Which made it far funnier.
Richard and I pretending to be brushing up on our notes on the aeroplane. Richard managed to leave the reading material - all our information on the congress - on the plane. Thanks Dick.
As three males waiting for a flight, we naturally assumed we had approximately seventeen hours before there was any need for us to board, and so sat about drinking expensive Coke – at the price CdeG charged for the stuff, you’d really expect it to contain genuine, unadulterated nose candy like in the good old days. Mocki wandered off to get the papers for the flight and, to our great amazement, Final Boarding was called at 10.15am. We bustled through the strangely deserted gate, expecting to be the last ones onto the flight and to be glared at by the rest of the passengers for delaying affairs. Nope. The queue was all the way down the metal corridor to the plane itself. Our final boarding meant, of course, that the plane wouldn’t be leaving for another hour as we discovered.
When we did take off, I was a fairly jittery boy, I won’t lie. The first half hour or so, as the plane climbed into the atmosphere, I was extremely nervous, gripping the arm-rests and staring anywhere but out the window. As I have gotten older, I’ve become less and less carefree about air travel. As a child I would gladly run up and down the aisle, press my face against the window and insist on flying the damn thing myself. But now, I have to keep reminding myself of the statistical safety of travelling by plane – despite Richard reminding me of the tragic Air France crash only a few weeks ago. Apparently, I’m also getting more racist as I get older as part of my mind was refusing to believe that Kenya Airways could possibly get my to my destination without crashing at least four times.
The Sahara Desert viewed from 33,000 feet.
As it happens, the flight was extremely comfortable. I had chanced into the seat with the malfunctioning screen so I had to settle for watching Richard’s screen without the sound – which doubtless improved “17 Again”. I listened to my iPod and counted the number of toilet trips by the short, stout lady with a moustache resembling a rotting gherkin perched above her extensive lips. As another method of passing the time, I began staring at the stunning scenery below us. I had never been to Africa and so the sight of Mount Etna as we banked over Sicily, the stark beauty of the Sahara Desert, the neverending journey of the Nile, all familiar to me in name and picture but never seen through with my own eyes, gripped my attention, my crippling fear of heights temporarily crutched.
It was also Richard’s first trip to Africa, so we were equally unclued in. His major concern was finding a safari park – this desire only heightened at the sight of a sign for “Serengeti National Park” on the in-flight map display – and so his nose was pressed to the glass in the hope of spying an elephant savaging a lion, or perhaps a herd of monkeys sweeping across the plains. Unfortunately, as we swept into Nairobi, night had fallen and there wasn’t even a glow-in-the-dark zebra to be seen.
“If you knew Robi like I Nairobi” – say it in a caricatured Aussie accent and it kind of works. Anyway, Kenyatta Airport, Nairobi, was a bit chaotic when we arrived shortly after 8pm, with the transfer desk besieged by a battalion of us travellers, baying for boarding passes. There were two men manning the desk (but no woman womanning it), one of whom was staring intently at his computer screen and not taking any custom – presumably finishing an especially tough game of Minesweeper – and his colleague, whose badge informed us that his name was Sam. Now Sam didn’t strike me as the most urgent of souls, taking phonecall after doubtless vital phonecall, wagging his finger at us and occasionally mouthing “Wait please”, as if we weren’t waiting, but making off with purloined passes. “TIA” as Mocki reminded us: This Is Africa. African’s relaxed relationship with the passing hours would later be explained to us in Burundi: “In Europe, you have watches; in Africa, we have time”. Well, Sam didn’t need a watch. A calendar may have been more useful to him.
The River Nile winding its way below our plane.
We got our passes eventually and found a café area serving, glory be, more Coke, Twix bars and some delicious spiced meat samousas - a delicacy familiar to me from my favourite restaurant, Pier One in Vilamoura, Portugal, now sadly no longer under the old ownership (a big shout out to Helder and Paula!). Richard declined and settled for what turned out to be quite a nice meat pie instead while Mocki nibbled some biscuity thing – we decided against splashing out $10 on a bag of Maltesers which we had noticed in one of the shops. At 19 degrees outside, we had really arrived and were slowly melting into our shoes when the flight was called at about 11pm. As we were doing so, I discovered that Meteor’s roaming options don’t extend to Kenya and thus I had wasted €50 stocking up my phone’s credit before I left. There goes my emergency phonecall option.
I sat beside a soft-spoken, drawly American nurse – Texan, in fact - in her middle age called Lauren on the flight to Bujumbura. She was very engaging as she talked about her work in helping organise the record-keeping systems of various African countries. Mercifully, she was also a Democrat and thus susceptible to my Obama-loving words and we had a heated agreement about universal healthcare, that bugbear of Fascist-fearing conservatives in the States right now. But that’s another story, another blog. I’m sure I was rambly, given the tiredness now creeping over me, but the hour long flight passed swiftly and pleasantly.
We touched down on Burundian soil and boy, you could have stuffed the air into your shirt it was so thick with humidity, even at 12:30pm. The airport was in the shape of three large traditional domed huts and we were met in the arrival area by John-Paul, a Jesuit scholastic who guided us through the visa process and dropped the bombshell that we would be journeying to the Democratic Republic of Congo tomorrow morning. We had been under the impression we’d be staying in Burundi for our “experiments” but, to be honest, we were too tired to argue.
The guys with the guns let us through customs, our bags emerged unscathed from the bowels of the airport and there, in the main foyer, was Tim, complete with hand-made shorts purchased in Zambia and beaming from ear to ear. He was delighted to see us, although it seemed that he knew everyone here already, had visited all the places worth visiting in Bujumbura and was completely up to speed with our plans. The driving – slightly hair-raising -, the power-cut in the Lodge Ceprodilic where John-Paul took us, the lack of air-conditioning and hot water, the porous mosquito nets – all this TIA at once was a culture shock for Richard and I, but Tim found it all quite amusing having had seven weeks of this in Zambia!
My room in Lodge Ceprodilic, Bujumbura, 1.30am on 16th July. It is mid-power cut and thus lit by the LED torch on the table and the light of the flash.
And so, not really sure of where I was, covered in sweat and cowering in a net, I made my entry into the journal by the light of a powerful LED torch. Beads of perspiration coated the page and, as we were all in separate rooms on different floors, I didn’t even have the comfort of shared discomfort! I simply had to give up and try to find sleep in the hazy, heavy air, hoping that all the gaps would be filled in tomorrow. Assuming I hadn’t dissolved by then.
My Trip To Africa, July 2009: Day 1 – We’ll Always Have Roissy August 6, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Aircoach, Barry McStay, Bastille Day, Bujumbura, Burundi, Charles De Gaulle, Clongowes Wood College, Coke, Donnybrook, Dublin, Fr. Michael Sheil, Hotel Campanile, Ireland, Jesuit World Union, Kenya, Malarone, Milltown, Nairobi, Napier, New Zealand, Paris, Parking Meters, Pope John Paul II, Real Madrid, Richard McElwee, Roissy En France, Ronaldo, Shamrock Rovers, St. Patrick's Day, Tim McNamara, Zambia
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Hotel Campanile Roissy En France
Myself and Richard began our trip in Dublin on the 14th of July, from where we were to travel to Paris and meet up with Mocki before flying on to Nairobi, Kenya, and then to Bujumbura, Burundi, where Tim would join us having made his own way from Zambia. Those 7am starts to a two-day journey are always a killer, but we were lucky enough to have Richard’s sister, Roz, as chauffeur (or chauffeuse?) for the morning – at least as far as the AirCoach bus-stop in Donnybrook, a full 2 minute drive from our houses in Milltown. Still, we’d get plenty of walking with suitcases in tow done by the end of this saga so be thankful for small mercies.
Both our suitcases were a couple of kilos overweight, but thankfully the automatic check-in machines Aer Lingus have introduced have no way of slapping an excess baggage fee on us so, happy days. The extra weight was, no doubt, down to the 15 large and extra-large t-shirts which each of us were carrying. These polos were very kindly printed up and donated by a parent of current Clongowes students with the words “Clongowes Wood College, Ireland – Aeterna Non Caduca“ on the breast, and “7th Congress World Union Jesuit Alumni/ae – Burundi 2009” on the back. Unfortunately, the lady in question may have misheard the size of the party (4) and gave us 40 of the things, all in L and XL – and even Tim, the lanky feck, struggled to fill out a large. Thus, with Tim already in Africa and Mocki in France with his allocation of ten, Richard and I were left to carry the rest.
[By the way, for those who got the Latin motto of the school - go you, well done, it's not an easy one. For those who didn't, it roughly translates as "Eternal things, not passing things". That is, focus on the enduring aspects of life and do not become fixated on the transient. So, money may come and go, but we will always have bankers to despise - whether they deserve it or not. Or, perhaps a better example would be the whole money-happiness dialectic. Yeah, that's probably what the motto is REALLY about.]
The newspapers on the morning we left were full of the build-up to the David v Goliath clash between Shamrock Rovers and the Ronaldo-full Real Madrid. His £80million transfer fee was wholly merited, wasn’t it? Eh? Let’s ask the people of Burundi, shall we? Oh, don’t get me started on football and Real Madrid and The Big Strop himself.
On to Paris, and we were happy to see that Aer Lingus resisted the urge to send our luggage to Dubrovnik as it emerged onto the carousel. I laid down the first bit of French of the expedition when I approached the tourist information desk for – get this – information about where to find the courtesy buses to the airport hotels. The lady behind the desk saw right through me, however, and replied in English: “Door 32 sir, just over to your right”. We stood about outside that door for about 10 minutes, not really sure if it WAS the right place, during which time Richard recognised someone – because the Irish are EVERYWHERE!
Hotel Room, Hotel Campanile Roissy En France, complete with Richard on Facebook
We eventually decided that we were safer getting a taxi and were soon whisked away – about 5 minutes away – to the Hotel Campanile in Roissy En France. Turning on the tv in our reasonably comfortable double room, the Irish omnipresence further evidenced itself with the film “Inside I’m Dancing” playing in badly-dubbed French. The village of Roissy En France itself turned out to be one of the most depressing places I’ve ever visited, ranking up there alongside Napier on the North Island of New Zealand. Oh, don’t get me started on Napier. Oh, I could tell you stories about Napier. But you’d probably die of boredom halfway through the third sentence.
Yeah, so, Roissy had the look of once being a nice little village but with the expansion of Charles De Gaulle Airport, it has become ringed with hotels – name a cheap hostely, you’ll find it in Roissy – and the population of the area are either guests or employees of the hotel. Or the dangerous-looking homeless guy who approached us in the road asking for Euros or iPods. Apart from that, the whole place seeemd hopelessly deserted. On Bastille Day. Shouldn’t it have been like every small Irish town on St. Patrick’s Day – parades, heavy drinking, unfeasibly large hats? Apparently not. It was all terribly “28 Days Later”.
Main Street, Roissy En France at "Rush Hour", including elaborate parking meters.
My eye was caught by two things: The elaborate Mairie – town hall – which served as another illustration that, wherever you are across the planet, the politicians always have a nice gaff first and foremost; and the parking meters, one to every parking space, which flash as your time expired. How useful – a traffic management scheme to inform the presumably-absent driver of the precarious nature of their vehicle’s position. It’s a bit like having an alarm that goes off to tell you that your house has BEEN robbed. And, of course, these parking meters are doubly redundant given the fact that THERE ARE NO PEOPLE IN ROISSY!
We returned to the hotel after our bit of reconaissance and met up with Mocki in the lobby, having just arrived by train from Normandy. We took a second walk in and out of Roissy to confirm our suspicions that yes, there are no restaurants open on France’s national “feck off” day…sorry, holiday. The same beggar collared our dog-collared friend for a few cents and we recognised the same uriney smell which pervades the hotel foyer also hanging over the rest of the town. So, we resigned ourselves to basic hotel fare and were pleasantly surprised to discover a 3 course buffet meal at €24, including countless varieties of raw and roast vegetables, three different hot-plates, a baker’s million of breadrolls and all the chocolate mousse you can imagine. Yes, you heard me: ALL of it.
Mocki was in fine form, full of reminscences which were to become a theme of this trip. He recalled another journey to a religious festival of sorts: With some of the students of 5th year in Clongowes to attend Pope John Paul’s Youth Mass on his visit to Ireland in 1979, and the sermon he delivered the following Sunday in Clongowes. Rather than prepare a speech of ten or fifteen minutes which would go in one ear and out the other, he asked the boys to sing “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands” (as had been sung at JP2’s mass), beginning with the older years, working his way down the school until the whole church was in full voice. Now that would be a memorable sermon in anyone’s book. As we perched by the hotel bar – Richard on beer, Mocki with a whiskey and me sugar-buzzing on my third Coke of the night -, the dominant feeling was that this was set to be a fairly memorable trip too. We began our course of Malarone tonight too and Richard and I sent a final pair of emails to our families – we didn’t know when we might next have access to Internet. Another 7am start loomed. Tomorrow, on to Africa.
My Trip To Africa, July 2009 – Part 1: Where, Why, Who… August 5, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Africa, Travel.Tags: Africa, Barry McStay, Burundi, Clongowes Wood College, Democratic Republic of Congo, Dublin, Fr. Michael Sheil, Great Lakes Region, Ignatian Spirituality, Jesuit, Longwood, Mountmellick, Richard McElwee, Rwanda, Tim McNamara, Trinity College Dublin, University College Dublin, World Union, Zambia
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Sunset On Lake Kivu, Democratic Republic Of Congo
So, as promised, here begins the tale of my travels in Africa this summer, such as they were. Hopefully this journal will be entertaining, interesting and perhaps encouraging for all who read it to get involved in some small project in the massive project which is that of helping Africa reach its full potential and helping the African people who still suffer with a whole swathe of social ills to reach a rightful quality of life approaching that which we take for granted, without losing those characteristics they hold so dearly and which we have already let slip by. Long sentence just there, but it was a long two weeks.
Let me begin at the beginning, and introduce the whole project. Back in February 2009, I and several other former students of Clongowes Wood College received a letter from Fr. Michael Sheil – Mocki to all who know him – asking us to join him at the Jesuit World Union Congress. This Congress was due to take place in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, between the 23rd and 27th of July, and was open to all alumni/ae of Jesuit educational institutions worldwide. So the World Union, essentially, is a big past pupils’ union and at this congress, its 7th, it was decided to hold a series of “experiments” involving younger Jesuit alumni which would consist of experiences at local projects in Burundi, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic Of Congo. These three countries combine to make the most troubled area within the Great Lakes Region of Africa, with wars and natural disasters either only recently passed or ongoing.
That word “experiments” is an important one within Ignatian spirituality (St. Ignatius Loyola was the founder of the Jesuits and author of “The Spiritual Exercises). Here, I’m lifting a quote from magis.ignatian.eu:
“An Ignatian experiment is a combination of a common project and spiritual exercises in a group – living community, sharing life and faith and growing together in the friendship with Jesus Christ. Experimentation has a central importance in Ignatian spirituality. By a spiritual experiment I put myself consciously in a unusual situation. My reactions to this situation will not be accidental. On the contrary, they tell me much about myself and my relationship with God. The participants in an Ignatian experiment will not only experience extraordinary things in an extraordinary group. They will be able to evaluate their shared experiences in an Ignatian fashion.”
Now, whether you’re a believer or not, whether you were Jesuit-educated or not, this concept of deliberate immersion in a strange situation and reflection upon ones reactions and experiences is a fascinating one. Writing this blog helps accomplish that for me, as did talking each night with the others on the trip about the day gone by. Interrogating the whole project led all of us to want to spread the message about what we had seen and heard, and to encourage others to follow in our wake.
Mocki, Richard, Me and Tim in Bujumbura
Anyway, who were “we”? Well, apart from yours truly – Old Clongownian of 2004, recently graduated from Trinity College Dublin with a degree in English and History -, two others agreed to join Mocki on this trip into the unknown.
Richard McElwee from Mountmellick, Co. Laois finished in Clongowes in 2005 having been School Captain, has a degree in English and History also (but from University College Dublin, not TCD) and has just completed a Masters in Internation Relations. His parents and brothers run pharmacies in his home-town, he lives just down the road from me in Milltown, Dublin 6, is a keen Gaelic footballer – missing many training sessions during this trip – and also left behind his girlfriend of three months, the lovely Emma, preferring to spend his summer with 3 other guys, one a priest.
Tim McNamara left Clongowes in 2006 (my younger brother’s year, incidentally) having also been school captain (yes, I keep illustrious company). He is from Longwood, Co. Meath and will be entering his final year of a degree in physiotherapy in UCD this autumn. He lives in Blackrock when in Dublin and, like Richard, decided to leave Marianne, his girlfriend of 3 years, in Ireland while he swanned about Africa for a bit. His dad is a doctor and his mum is a qualified nurse and psychologist, hence the medical route Tim himself is taking, and he joined us in Burundi having spent 7 weeks in Livingstone, Zambia, working in hospitals there with 7 of his classmates. He would, inevitably, be known as “the tall one” on this trip given Richard’s and my vertical incapacity.
Mocki is a legend in Clongowes, having spent the best part of the last 30 years there. Himself an OC (of 1855 or 1955, no one is really sure), he was Higer Line Prefect – basically, head of boarding and discipline – for two nine year periods, finishing the second of those in 2004 – clearly my year there finished him off. Since then he has been Rector of the school and is now operating as the kindly old grandfather figure to the youngsters of 1st and 2nd Year in the role of Spiritual Father. Oh, if only they knew…
You’ve met the team, you know the context, now all that remains is to get on that plane and whisk you away to Africa. Stay tuned for Part 2, coming tomorrow.
Where The Heck Am I…? July 21, 2009
Posted by bazmcstay in Life, Travel.Tags: Africa, Bujumbura, Bukavu, Burundi, Congo, DRC
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Well, I’ve just arrived back in Bujumbura, Burundi, after 4 days in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo. That was a difficult place, dirty, poverty-stricken and makes Buj look like heaven. I’ve been taking photos, working on a travel diary and promise I’ll do a day-by-day, blow-by-blow account here when I get home and have time to properly write things out. For now, I’m still alive, things are going well but can’t wait to get home too. Visit my Youtube channel – bazmcstay - for the pre-Africa packing video. All the best for now and Amani (Peace).
