The two faces of Nairobi

Last week, I spent a couple of days visiting friends in Nairobi. For most expatriates living in East Africa, Nairobi is the ultimate destination when it comes to shopping, eating sushi, sitting in trendy cafes, or watching a movie. It’s also a great base for glamorous week-ends to the Rift Valley or the Swahili coast. For the less lucky, including myself, Nairobi is synonymous of Jomo Kenyatta, a poor fellow I don’t even know yet have come to hate because of the airport that bears his name. The number of times I have paced that doughnut of an airport and sighed while looking at Gin bottles or miniature stone hippos, would justify a blog that would be boring in equal measure. And if you’re sad enough to venture outside the airport, you’ll end up stuck in unbelievable traffic as you try to reach the nearest Nakumatt in a desperate attempt to stock up on cheese and crackers.

All this almost changed last week. My friends have settled in a nice, leafy part of town and after the usual adjustment period, they are genuinely loving it. Climate is great, there are good schools for their kids, there’s a wide range of interesting people to meet and life is simply nicer here than where they’ve come from. I spent most of the week-end sitting in cafes, marvelling at fresh bread and faster internet connection. I was struck by the efficiency of Kenyan businesses and I dreamt of what Burundi could one day become, with the right amount of investment and a change of attitudes.

One very sad episode brought me back to reality. I was told of a European family who were working for a Christian mission just outside Nairobi. One night, somebody broke into their compound probably with the intention of robbing them. They shot the man and left him for dead, after raping his wife in front of their young children. Extreme violence so profoundly shocking, suffering beyond words. I cannot begin to imagine what life will be like for this family from this day on, how their faith will be affected.

This is the other face of Nairobi, a place of inequality where crime is rampant. A golden prison where people live in compounds with double-gated security and very few walk on the street alone. For all the development and technological advances, there is a high price to pay for living there. Too high when paid by those having chosen a simpler lifestyle devoted to serving people. Peace be with them.

Living with guns

(Health warning – you may not understand if you’re American…)

I’m a terrible blogger. One post every 3 months hardly qualifies for an update on our lives in Burundi. The truth is, quite often life seems as boring and predictable in this African country as it would be back home. That is until something reminds you that you live in a different world – one for instance, that is filled with guns.

In Europe, the sight of a police officer openly carrying a gun may make some of us feel uncomfortable. Unless you live in large cities, most people would stop when hearing a police siren. Here on the other hand, guns are part of everyday life. Traffic police and army recruits carry them in broad daylight, and weapons can often be seen hanging casually off people’s shoulders.

As I was walking down the road that goes past the presidential palace one day, I was forced to step aside as a convoy rushed by, taking Burundi’s Number One to his next meeting or football game. Two sets of official pick-ups closely guarded the presidential cavalcade, and for half a second, I found myself faced by 20 guns leveled straight at my head as their owners chatted leisurely, their weapons resting on their laps. A thought went through my mind - what would have happened if one of them, laughing off his colleague’s joke, had pulled the trigger by mistake?

Another day, I was driving through the centre of town when I spotted a man walking towards the Greek Consulate. Dressed in blue overalls, he was ambling slowly across the street. He seemed like a perfectly normal guy except for one thing: he was carrying a pistol in each hand and he was swinging his arms as if he were taking a stroll. Oddly enough, everyone around seemed totally oblivious to him and went about their daily business as if nothing had happened.

Life in Burundi is similar to home in so many respects. People work, struggle, sometimes make good money, fall in love, hate and betray each other. Most days it feels really normal being here and I forget how distorted a society’s norms have become when people are so accustomed to the presence of guns that they accept it without question.

The haunted car

The engine of our car is in the boot. Not that this is the sort of vehicle where the engine is found at the back.
No, no, no.
I mean our boot is full of engine parts, dirty oil, screws and wires. For over the past 8 months, our car has been struck with the most eccentric disease: out in the wilderness of Tanzania and Burundi, it may be Priscilla, Queen of the desert; but on the safe tarmac roads of Bujumbura it has decided to enact a new version of Little Miss Sunshine, the van part. It breaks down on average every 40km, due to some overheating of the engine. At which point you must clean the sparkplugs, let it cool for a bit and then you’re good to go.
For the next 40km that is, until the car breaks down again.

We’ve given it to various garages and changed many parts.
Many being the key word.
Brake pads, suspensions, filter, fuel pump, injectors, capacitor, you name it. No-one knows what the problem is. Mechanics swear the engine is good, just the car is “haunted”. Well, it is certainly haunting my dreams as I really don’t know what to do with it and sometimes catch myself wondering whether it is God’s punishment for having fallen for a 4-wheel drive...

Citizen of nowhere

I've been wanting to publish this story for a while but never got round to it. In memory of our fantastic maid in Sudan. Miss you loads, dear, I pray that wherever you are, God will protect you.

Orange plastic flowers, pots of cheap nail polish, and a broken piece of mirror ornate the shelf of Azeeza’s (not her real name) lodger room. Silently, she reads the newspaper article that reports of the Khartoum government’s expulsion of 1,200 of her compatriots, all sent back to her home country, a country that no longer knows her name. Her crime: loving God a bit too much.

Azeeza was born in 1975 in Eritrea where she was raised in an Orthodox family. At an early age, she moved to Ethiopia with her father before settling back in the Eritrean capital, Asmara, to teach mathematics to junior school students. Life was difficult in those days, but most families managed to make a living, Azeeza remembers: “I was hoping to save money to go to University, but instead I had to support my family”.

At this time, Eritrea was fighting a bloody war with Ethiopia for independence, which it gained in 1993. “I remember voting in favour of our independence”, says Azeeza, “it was the last time I actually voted”. For in 1994, Azeeza’s life took a dramatic turn. She started studying the Bible with a colleague from school and became a Jehovah’s Witness, a decision that would transform her life.

As she refused to serve in the military, she was met by violent opposition from the Eritrean government, who kicked her out of her teaching job as a civil servant and stripped her of her citizenship. “In a few months, I lost my work, and my family rejected me because I could no longer support them, and they hated Jehovah’s Witnesses”, says Azeeza. A rejection that may be explained by the fact that the government would collectively punish the families of devoted believers or army deserters.

Azeeza retreated in her faith community, found a job as a cashier in a small shop and in her spare time would teach Jehovah’s Witnesses children, who were themselves banned from attending public school. “There was real fear among believers at the time”, she explains, “everything had to be done underground, otherwise people would denounce us and we would be imprisoned. We would secretly meet in private homes before sunrise, when most people were asleep”.

The situation became so desperate that in 2005, Azeeza joined the thousands who have fled the country to seek refuge in neighbouring Sudan. After a bus ride to the western town of Tesenay, she walked across the border into Sudan, hiding with a group of people. “I dressed up in traditional clothes so that people wouldn’t notice me. There were spies everywhere, even children, and if they spotted me, I would have been arrested”.

Of the roughly 165,800 Eritrean refugees in Sudan, some 69,400 live in the 12 camps operated by the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) in the east, while another 57,000 live outside the camps. Azeeza recalls the tough living conditions: “After two days of walking, I reached Kassala and walked into a camp. They interviewed me, gave me a refugee ID card, some sorghum, oil, pots and pans and told me to live in a grass hut with some boys and girls. But I had come with no clothes, nothing. There was no door, no privacy, we all ate and slept together. No-one was helping us, and we were left fending for ourselves.”

Despite being prohibited from leaving the camp by the Sudanese authorities, Azeeza went to Khartoum, leaving behind her ID card confiscated by the police. Once in the city, she found work as a house maid and joined the local Jehovah’s Witness community, where she now teaches the Bible. “I am not happy here, life is difficult. I have no papers, no right to work – I am a citizen of nowhere”.

Is she sometimes angry at God for the way her life has turned? “No, I’m not. The Bible says that ‘we will be persecuted for our faith’”, she quotes from the Scriptures. “People misunderstand me, they think I am narrow-minded. But when they see how I live, how I am interested in their lives and how I honour my commitments, they change their mind”. When asked whether she will one day go back to Eritrea, Azeeza’s eyes wander at the window with a sad expression before she sighs and softly replies: “maybe... maybe”.

Azeeza's room in Khartoum, with plastic flowers, nail polish and local basket

Azeeza and I were born the same year, I often think of how our lives have turned out

Burundi votes!

Today marked the beginning of a 4-month election period, during which Burundians will elect their representatives at the municipal, presidential, legislative, senatorial and local levels. I had the chance to be involved in observing the process, so I followed a local NGO as they visited small localities in the rural area of Bujumbura.

The weeks that led to this first round of elections have been marked with a few tensions between members of political parties, sometimes involving intimidation, even violence. Many Burundians have confessed that they feel nervous about the outcome of the vote.

But today, as we went from one village to the next, entering polling stations (often located in schools), greeting staff and observing the process, the atmosphere was rather relaxed. In order to ensure transparency and peace, members of various civil society groups, local NGOs, churches, political parties as well as the international community had been invited to sit in polling stations so that they are satisfied that everything will go according to plan.

women came in force to vote

And generally things went well. Massive numbers of people arrived early in the morning and patiently queued, until they presented their registration card, received the bulletins (between 12-17 depending on the district) for each party and 2 envelopes (one for the party of their choice, the second for the discarded papers), made their choice in the voting booths, and finally dipped their left-hand thumb in an ink bottle as a proof that they had voted.

Meanwhile back in Bujumbura, headquarters of local associations and the Independent Electoral Commission, were receiving regular reports from their observers present in each locality. Obviously, a few irregularities have been noted, such as an insufficient number of bulletins, or political representatives spotted giving a “helping hand” to officials to distribute bulletins, or voting booths out in the open for everyone to see next to a waiting line of people. In one district, one local councillor was caught in the possession of several electoral cards. In another, an old lady was found sneaking out of the voting station with the remaining bulletins. But all in all the day was thankfully peaceful.

Time will tell whether people will respect the outcome of the vote. But as they wait for the results, Burundians hope very much for the continuity of peace and stability in their country.

voting stations opened at 06:00 this morning

officials distribute the bulletins representing each political party

a voting booth - sometimes a bit too transparent?

"your choice in the white envelope, the discarded bulletins in the black one"

the seal of democracy

The Holy Grail of Safari Parks

Round 2 of visitors. This time it is my parents who made the amazing 26h journey from Europe to Bujumbura. Since it was their first time in sub-Saharan Africa, we decided to give them a little adventure and drive to Tanzania to see some wild life.

Although we were not convinced that taking our pumpkin would be such a good idea – see previous posts for reasons why – we decided against hiring a local vehicle and set off south after much prayers and preparations.

After almost 7 hours of tarmac roads with lots of potholes, we stopped in Kigoma, across the Tanzanian border to overnight at Jacobsen’s beach, probably Tanzania’s best kept secret. Sadly our first puncture meant that we had to repair a tyre and we got there too late to fully enjoy the sunset over Lake Tanganyika and the simple but lovely facilities.

We left early the next morning, and after 10 very long hours on dirt roads across stunning sceneries (and a 2nd puncture/repair session), we reached the gates of Katavi National Park. Katavi is the 3rd largest game reserve in Tanzania, yet claims to have the highest density of wild life in any park of Africa. With less than 1,200 visitors a year, it is also one of the least visited, giving you a taste of what Africa must have been like 50 years ago, which earned it the nickname of "the Holy Grail" of safari parks.

Problem is that Katavi is a dry-season park. Given that we were visiting at the end of the rainy season, tall grass and ample amounts of water meant that animals were scattered across the very large park and therefore a bit difficult to spot. But what you manage to see is truly amazing because it is just you and the game in a vast plain.

The fun bit is that you are allowed to drive yourself in the park, which makes for memorable experiences when your guide tells you to cross over a pool of water where a family of 25 hippos is resting less than 10 meters away, or when the track you’re following takes you insanely close to a herd of 200+ buffalos looking like they’re about to charge your car. We did see an incredible amount of giraffes, impalas, bucks of all sorts and colourful birds. Sadly no big cats or dogs, although we were guaranteed that we’d get great sighting had we only come in the dry season.

"dont' worry", said our guide, "they're just teasing you - you can safely drive nearby..."

The 200+ buffalos we disturbed during their morning stroll. Not a happy sight.

A giraffe summit

As we drove home, the last bit between Kigoma and the Burundi border proved to be epic. We opted for a shortcut which we were told the Chinese were about to finish building. Unfortunately torrential rains poured for 3 hours the morning we left, soaking the thick layer of dirt the Chinese had laid just days before. The 15km up to the border turned into a vast lethal mud swamp, through which it was only possible to manoeuvre by driving in 1st gear, with the car swaying dangerously by 180 degrees each side. Never in my life have I been driving in such tough conditions. At one point, the car fell into a ditch and it took 2 hours and locals with their hoes to get us out of it. Needless to say we provided a much-welcomed attraction to the nearby villagers who cheered and clapped as the car was finally extracted.

Five hundred kilometres later, another 2 punctures and a renewed trust in our amazing car we reached the safe grounds of Bujumbura, tired but crowned with an Indiana Jones aura, and with a few more stories to tell than we’d have ever bargained for...

the pumpkin is safely back home

New career as a tourist guide

Recently we’ve been quite busy entertaining visitors. In Sudan, except for our parents who braved the heat, no-one ever came to visit us. Yet ever since we’ve moved to Burundi, tens of people have lined up to come and stay at our little palace. What they don’t realise is that there isn’t much to do in Burundi. Honest. Now, I have to concede - there IS a nice beach, green hills and the Congo mountains, grilled fish and tasty meat brochettes, and mango/pineapple smoothies. But drive a few miles outside Bujumbura and that’s it, you’ve seen most of this beautiful (yet very small) country.

So it was an extremely pleasant surprise when our friend M announced that he and his 3 kids would be coming all the way from Khartoum to stay with us over the Easter week-end. Despite some major glitches along the way including DHL, laborious visa processes and the loss of yellow fever certificates, they all made it safely and we had a wonderful time. We went to the “Musee Vivant”, a small and dingy local zoo where the star attraction is the feeding of live hamsters to sleepy crocodiles, leopard or great python. We were slightly worried that M’s kids (all aged under 6) would find the experience traumatizing but instead they seemed to take great pleasure in cheering for the poor thing to “Run!Run!Run!” before it was finally snapped by a mighty pair of jaws. Other highlights included touching chameleons or snakes and letting them crawl around your neck, which the kids – adults less so – absolutely loved.

R and her new friend

E and her new friend

About 90 minutes south of Bujumbura, a new resort has opened on the shores of Lake Tanganika. With little huts on the beach, a tennis court and a volley net, Blue Bay is the perfect place to relax away from town at the week-end. We drove there for an afternoon and ate pizzas and swam in warm (and crocodile infested?) waters. Finally Easter Sunday was spent relaxing in our garden with a couple of friends, and playing croquet.

G helping with a game of croquet, in his own way

One day after M and the kids had returned to Khartoum, my good friend L visited from Kinshasa. Determined to relax from the chaos of Congo, she came armed with books, nail polish, cute dresses and one word: “hippos!” So I took her to the Rusizi reserve, the closest wildlife park to Bujumbura where hippos, crocs, antelopes and birds abound. One memorable moment was when L – who had never seen hippos until then –asked the guide if he couldn’t lure them to the shore (where we stood with an armed guard) so that she could approach them and get a better shot. Luckily she didn’t get his reply in French, nor saw the smile on his face.

All in all it’s been a very nice few weeks and given a few more visitors, we could well become the next official tourist guides of Burundi.

The Rusizi channel, with the Congo mountains in the background

Come to mama L...