Half Birthday Delights

I consider half birthdays to be a very important occasion. No longer 22 but not quite 23, half birthdays provide an opportunity to reflect on the last 6 months of my life and set goals for the next 6 to come. I'm tempted to break out into Brittney Spears' "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman." Please tell me I'm not the only one who feels this way.

Every year, something memorable happens on my half birthday. In 2008, at the tender age of 20 and a half, I was unexpectedly dumped and spent the day with friends, drowning my sorrows in chardonnay and lamenting the fact that no one loved me. I still get a good laugh out of that one. In 2009, I arrived in Mexico on April 24 for a 5 week Latin American Civilization course - the very day the Globe and Mail ran a front page spread on the explosion of H1N1 in Mexico. Classes were cancelled, restaurants shut their doors and I suddenly knew how Dustin Hoffman felt in Outbreak when the Motaba virus put the city on lock down.

So here I am. It's April 24th and I find myself back in Kampala, my new favourite city. I spent a solid 3 hours at Cafe Javas taking in the energy of this vibrant city to recover from yesterday's rough ride from Kigali. The ride started off enjoyable enough. I sat next to a British girl living in Kigali, who provided insight into ex-pat life in this quiet city. Things turned sour when the roads deteriorated and the rain came down. My window was sealed just tight enough to prevent any airflow, but not quite tight enough to keep the floods from pouring in all over me. The worst part was that I was the only one with a defective window, and everyone around me kept looking at me and apologizing. Surprisingly, even with their concern I managed to get soaking wet.

Later, after being savagely ripped off at the border currency exchange and being too confused to notice until I was well in to Uganda, the only thing to turn my frown upside down was the immigration officer's decision to give me an extra two days on my visa - "in case you get a cold," he said. I couldn't help but smile at that justification. At one point I actually started to laugh at my own misfortune. While eating dinner - a dried bun I found at the bottom of my purse - I asked myself: "Chloe, is this really what you pictured when you imagined your exotic escape to Africa?" And as the sawdust accumulated in my mouth each time my jaw closed in on the bread, I realised that yes. Yes it was. And I had a good laugh at my own expense as the rain poured down on me.

Considering yesterday's rough journey, I couldn't ask for a better way to spend my half birthday! I love Kampala. I'm going to take a walk through town, spend the afternoon enjoying an iced spiced coffee at 1000 Cups Coffee House where I often run in to fellow travellers. As far as half birthdays go, this one is unfolding quite nicely.

Kigali Memorials, Renewed Impressions and Jelly Shoe Tears

Even though Kigali wasn't exactly what I had hoped it would be, I'm glad I went. I know Rwanda has much more to offer than what I found in the capital city, but I'm reaching the end of my funds and gorilla tracking will have to wait. I've decided to appreciate this city for what it is. It's clean, organized, safe. I even walked the 10 minute distance from my hotel to Bourbon Cafe last night. Anywhere else that would be considered ballsy - if not suicidal. But in Kigali, I get few hassles. And with the amount of heavily armed police patrolling the streets who don't have the same corrupt reputation as others in East Africa, I was in good hands. Rwanda is making a clear effort to change their image, and it really shows.
Kigali isn't hiding the fact that just over a decade ago a genocide was sweeping Rwanda. They're dedicated to educating locals and visitors alike on the realities of their history to ensure that it never happens again. The Kigali Memorial Center has three moving exhibits which are emotional, uncensored and honest. The first exhibit provides a timeline of Rwanda's history -from colonisation to genocide to the aftermath. The exhibit provides photos, interviews and historical facts to show that the genocide wasn't a spontaneous event, but the result of over a century of tension. The second exhibit is a collection of photos of children who were killed along with a description - their name, age, favourite food, favourite song, best friends names and last words. The last exhibit detailed genocides around the world from the last century - in Cambodia, Armenia and the Holocaust, among others. It shows that all of us are capable of destruction. The genocide in Rwanda wasn't simply Rwandans killing Rwandans, but people killing people. It is a harsh reminder of what human beings are cabable of.

Sites where mass acts of genocide were carried out have been turned into memorials as well. I went to a church in Ntarama, about 30 km outside of Kigali where in 1995, 5000 people were murdered. Bones of the victims line the shelves at the church entrance, their skulls exposed to show how each person was killed. Their clothing decorates the church walls and the few possessions they brought are gathered in a corner next to their coffins - glasses, tea thermoses, BIC pens, jelly shoes.

Jelly shoes. That's what made it real for me. I relate bones to natural history museums and ancient civilizations; coffins to unidentifiable people who have passed away. But jelly shoes relate to my childhood. I was 8 years old in 1995. I was playing tag at the Ecole Tuxedo Park playground, running as fast as my jelly shoes would allow as I desperately tried to escape the person who was "it." At the same time, there was a girl my age wearing the same jelly shoes, running to escape something much more fatal, where hiding and cries of "TO" would not save her. It wasn't the stories or the skulls that brought tears to my eyes. It was the jelly shoes.

Kigali is dedicated to preserving the stories of the victims; dedicated to ensuring that, through education, the promise of "never again" will be respected. You can't turn a corner in Kigali without seeing a "never again" billboard or T-shirt. So even though my 2 nights in Kigali brought a bit of frustration, I left with a great deal of respect for a city that, despite its gruesome past, is making a huge step towards change.

Overland to Kigali

Traveling overland to Rwanda is not for the weak. You will be lied to, ripped off, made to wait hours in a dusty taxi park for your matatu to fill up. Your emotional state will change by the minute - frustration over the inefficiency of the matatu system, anger at the fact that you paid double the price paid by the local next to you, anxiousness as you wait for the matatu to depart, relief when you hear the engine roar and severe disappointment when you realize that the driver just wanted to see if it worked. The only reason I even agreed to get in the van was to escape the perv hovering over me in the taxi park saying "Under 18 and just my size. I'm taking you home." I quickly jumped in and hid under my backpack, right after vomiting in my mouth.

The transfers I had to make between Mbarara, Uganda to Kigali, Rwanda where quite confusing, and the only reason I arrived in one piece is thanks to Julie, an American who joined our matatu halfway through the ride. It seems that whenever I get scared of being alone on this overwhelming continent, the heavens open up and send me a fellow traveler to instill some confidence in me. It happened in Koh Phangan, Thailand when, after being chased and yelled at by a crazy woman on a motor bike, I met a Canadian couple who invited me to stay with them. It happened again in Mbita, Kenya when I met Denea the very day I was going to buy my bus ticket out and run away from Rusinga Island. Thank goodness the angels were looking down on me yesterday! Julie's bravery astounds me. She is about my size, but much softer spoken, and she has a fearlessness that I can only wish to embody one day. She has been trekking in the DRC, barely escaped with her life after a mugging in Burundi, and the only thing that seems to upset her is drunk men sitting too close to her on the bus. Without her, I likely would be curled up in a ball somewhere on the border.

My hunt for a guesthouse at 9 pm was another challenge. I haven't had a proper job since July of 2009, so I'm on a tight budget. My first stop was at Auberge La Caverne, whose prices were twice what was quoted in Lonely Planet. Convinced I would find a better deal, I had my taxi driver take me to Hotel Gloria in the center of town. Maybe I mumbled. Or maybe I wasn't assertive enough when I pointed to it's name and location on my map. Or maybe he is just completely incompetent, because he took me to Hotel Gorilla - the most expensive hotel in town. Seriously, taxi man. Do you really think I would pass up a hotel only slightly out of my price range for a room that costs $300 a night?? AND IS IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE?? I don't normally yell at people unless I know their love for me is unconditional, but after 12 hours of matatu travel, and with my blood sugar at a dangerous low, I lost it. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE WE ARE?? I cried. I had him take me back to Auberge La Caverne where I settled in to a double room with a porch. It's a little more than I need, but it's good value. It comes with breakfast, an en-suite bathroom, the occasional spurt of hot water, and there wasn't a single cockroach in my mozzie net last night. I'm living large, my friends!

As I write this, I am sitting at the Bourbon Coffee Shop in central Kigali - the only place in town that hasn't exported all of the good beans to wealthier parts of the world. This is just what I needed to recover from last night's charades and to come to grips with this unfamiliar city. I don't plan to stay in town long - I miss Uganda, and to be honest, the prices here are a bit too European for me. Seriously, if I wanted to sit on a terrace and pay too much for a coffee, I would have stayed in France. Hopefully my cynicism subsides before I leave this city. I'd kind of like to leave with a good taste in my mouth.

Top 10: Speaking Kenyan

After 5 weeks in Kenya, I have learned to speak a new language. It's not Kiswahili, and it's not Dholuo. It's simply another way of speaking English. Learning it wasn't so much a matter of interest, but more a matter of survival. Here are my top 10 favourite Kenyans expressions I have picked up. If you can remember these, you too will be able to speak with the locals when you find yourself in Kenya.

1. In order to have a proper Kenyan conversation, the most important thing you can do is to state the obvious. This minimizes awkward pauses and gives the listener deep insight into the details of your life. "I am awake" or "I am standing right here" serve as good examples.

2. Responding to "hello" with "I'm fine." Apparently in Kiswahili and Dholuo, hello encompasses hello, how are you, and I am fine.

3. Putting just before every command. "Just rest," or the one I hate most "just eat bread." It's meant to be polite, as in "this is all I'm asking you to do," but more often than not it comes out sounding like an order.

4. Using too many words in one sentence. "That's too many much expensive," for example. Wow. That's too many much words.

5. Saying it's ok to everything. Me: "I'm going to my room." Mama: "It's ok." Does that mean it's okay, you don't have to? Or it's ok, I approve? It leaves me confused every time.

6. I'm coming - I'm coming back later.

7. I'm moving - I'm leaving.

8. Just a minute - Come here

9. Yes - The answer to every question one doesn't know the answer to. It is employed at all times, no matter how much confusion it will cause.

10. When there is an awkward pause in a conversation you are having with someone you've just met, the common thing to say would be "Are you married?" "Are you looking for a partner?" or "Take me to Canada."



Bonus phrase! My personal favourite: Do you have an FM radio. It means exactly what you'd think, I'm just amazed at how often people ask me that. That's all for today. I hope this lesson has been fruitful and educating.

Tales from Rusinga all the way to Kampala

Goodbye Kenya... for now, at least. I have started a new chapter in my East Africa tour. I am taking a two week break from Kenya to do a bit of exploring in Uganda. I made a commitment to 4 weeks with the Friends of Rusinga feeding program, just in time for me to tag along with some Peace Corps friends on their trip to Uganda. Living with the Tito family gave me an insight into Kenyan village life - the good, the bad, the confusing. I learned so much about Kenyan culture, history, Luo beliefs and traditions. Not only did my Luo neighbours share their culture with me, I also learned about my own culture by teaching it to them. I played my first game of American football in Kenya, and also realized how ridiculous the Easter egg hunt is when I tried to explain it to the locals.

Although I had an amazing time in Kenya, I was ready for a change of scenery. My last week was emotional and frustrating. I've been very frustrated with the realities of life on Rusinga Island - teachers not showing up to school, poverty, children starving, entire age demographics disappearing with AIDS. Asking questions about these problems only brought answers that fueled my frustrations. Questions about why teachers are allowed to be absent from school without notice for days and suffer no repercussions; why men have multiple wives and several children when they can barely feed themselves; why cattle are left free to devour people's crops when that food could be used to feed children instead. Spending every day with children who are affected by these issues only made my frustration grow. My last day in Rusinga was the most emotional of them all. During a party I threw for the children, Durance, one of the older boys asked me never to forget them no matter how far I live, or how long until my next visit. I was on the brink of tears as he reminded me of the reason why those 30 children went to Ezekiel's place every day for lunch.

Between my last days on the island and crossing into Uganda, I took a few days to travel around the West and clear my mind - to Kericho, Bomet and Singorwet for tea shambas (farms), then back to Kisumu for some Western comforts and a good meal that didn't involve ugali. Speaking of ugali, I never did go into detail about how much I hate this East African staple. Ugali is one of those dishes that has no flavour of its own. It is made of maize flour and water and cooked to a dough-like consistency. Ugali is eaten with your hands, rolled in to a ball and dipped in sauce. It has almost no nutritional value, and it's only purpose is to absorb the sauce and make you feel full. Unfortunately, it fails to do both. It usually just takes on the flavour of the pot it was cooked in and leaves you feeling queasy. People keep asking me back home "Chloe, how is your stomach dealing with the African cuisine? Have you been getting well acquainted with those long-drop toilets? Are you going to come back looking like Kate Moss?" Sorry to disappoint, but considering that ugali just sits in the stomach like a rock, it's scientifically impossible for it to turn to diarrhea. But I digress. My frustrations were eased thanks to my friend Sonja's family's hospitality in Singorwet. A plate of her mama's home-cooked chapati and beans and home slaughtered goat stew definitely instilled in me a more positive outlook on life.

My entrance into Uganda was very encouraging. Paved roads? Traffic lanes? Had I entered a new planet? No, I had simply crossed the border into Uganda. My frustrations in Kenya magnified my inspiration by this country. Surely this order on the road means progress for the country as a whole. But before I ventured deep into Uganda, 19 of my closest (only) friends and I set of for Jinja for some extreme adventures on the Nile. I spent the next 2 days listening to my heart beat faster than one would consider safe, riding rapids, paddling as hard as my little arms could. To top it all off, I followed a stranger 44 meters up a flight of stairs and allowed him to wrap my legs in a towel an some rope, and I actually followed his instructions when he said "3-2-1 jump!" The cord pulled, but not before I plunged head first and waist deep into the Nile. I have lived to tell a death-defying tale.

And now I am in Kampala, Uganda's capital city. This city is like a combination of my favourite cities. It has the backpacker friendliness of Bangkok, the public transport of Kathmandu, Sao-Paulo's sidewalks and Guanajuato's callejones. It is friendly, dynamic, with the perfect balance between the comforts of home and the allure of the unknown. If this isn't love, I don't know what is. I've spent time with old friends, made some new ones, danced my heart out and filled my tummy with more pizza and iced coffee than I am comfortable admitting. My parents keep asking my when I am coming home to graduate from university, and if I spend too much time here I may be tempted to change my answer to... never. My Peace Corps Kenya group has gone back home, but they have left me in the care of Peace Corps Uganda. I'll spend another day as a lone wolf exploring this city on my own before meeting up with them and heading West. I'm looking forward to some time alone with my thoughts, as my journal has suffered some serious neglect. I will remedy this situation immediately. More stories to come soon!