All posts by Claire

About Claire

Wandering (and wondering) development professional and aspiring aid worker. Contact me on anticipationofwonder[at]gmail[dot]com

Kisenyi, part 2

Adventures, drc, Travelling in Africa, ,

We returned to Kisenyi in the last few days of December. This time we were travelling in style – a friend from Bunia who had inadvertently become our guide drove us through in his car. It was definitely a more comfortable than 45km on a cheap Chinese (Indian?) motorbike. We stopped once, along the way, at an accident scene – a large, yellow truck had fallen off the side of the mountain. As one of our group remarked, it was probably a good thing we didn’t see this on our way in. To be fair, the condition of the roads and the vehicles in the eastern DRC is such that accidents are probably not that unusual. Luckily no-one was hurt and, once the photographers were done, we headed on.

The eastern DRC is beautiful and this ride was one of my favourite of the trip. The area around Bunia is cattle country, with rolling hills and wide grassy plains. Travelling to Kisenyi, you drop sharply down the hillside towards the lake. We had driven out of a storm and the storm light turned the hills emerald green. In the distance, running almost parallel to the road, was a series of electricity pylons. Wires hung down forlornly and nothing connects them anymore, but they are a reminder that this place, this area, is not one of perpetual darkness and despair and hint that this most recent turmoil might be an exception rather than the rule.

Towards Kisenyi, we saw more of the long-horned cows so typical of the area. Months later, I would hear from a colleague the ongoing struggle they have to convince people in east and central Africa to give up their long-horned cows in favour of breeds with better milk and meat production. Those horns certainly are striking.

In Kisenyi, the friend we had driven down with took us back to the little guest-house where we’d stayed which, it turned out, was owned by his sister’s daughter. We left our bags and then headed off to his resort, which, it turned out, is quite a lot like something out of a movie set. We chatted and wrote and relaxed and some of the group did a few interviews before the friend who had driven us down returned to Bunia. Fisherman in boats came and went along the shore. A perfect setting for our last afternoon in the Congo.

We stayed at the resort for dinner. It was more expensive than some of the other places we’d been, but it was pretty good and the sheer joy of fish and chips with cold Primus under a lapa by the lake, while evening fell on Kisenyi was precious.

As we were getting ready to leave, like a final gift after a day of wonderful sights, fireflies appeared. I grew up reading about fireflies in books from other countries. I know we have glow-worms in South Africa but I’d never seen anything like this. I sat on the swing in the warm evening and watch a magical lights show – masses of flickering, pulsing flashes of light against the dark trees and the dark lake and the endless, star-washed sky.

The drums woke us again the next morning, although they were less dramatic and we dozed for longer before getting up. We breakfasted at the guesthouse: boiled eggs, soft rusks and (sadly not very good) coffee.

Less than an hour later, we were back at the dock searching for a boat to carry us back across the lake. This time, we were not taking the fast ferry, so the options were many. The first boat we found was full of empty beer bottles being transported back to Uganda. Shortly afterwards, however, we found a passenger boat. Before we knew it, someone had found the lost members of our group, everyone had climbed aboard and paid and we were pushing off and leaving behind the village of Kisenyi.

We returned to Kisenyi in the last few days of December. This time we were travelling in style – a friend from Bunia who had inadvertently become our guide drove us through in his car. It was definitely a more comfortable than 45km on a cheap chinese motorbike. We stopped once, along the way, at an accident scene – a large, yellow truck had fallen off the side of the mountain. As one of our group remarked, it was probably a good thing we didn’t see this on our way in. To be fair, the condition of the roads and the vehicles in the eastern DRC is such that accidents are probably not that unusual. Luckily no-one was hurt and, once the photographers were done, we headed on.

The eastern DRC is beautiful and this ride was one of my favourite of the trip. The area around Bunia is cattle country, with rolling hills and wide grassy plains. Travelling to Kisenyi, you drop sharply down the hillside towards the lake. We had driven out of a storm and the storm light turned the hills emerald green. In the distance, running almost parallel to the road, was a series of electricity pylons. Wires hung down forlornly and nothing connects them anymore, but they are a reminder that this place, this area, is not one of perpetual darkness and dispair and hint that this most recent turmoil might be an exception rather than the rule.

Towards Kisenyi, we saw more of the long-horned cows so typical of the area. Months later, I would hear from a colleague the ongoing struggle they have to convince people in east and central Africa to give up their long-horned cows in favour of breeds with better milk and meat production. Those horns certainly are striking.

In Kisenyi, the friend we had driven down with took us back to the little guest-house where we’d stayed which, it turned out, was owned by his sister’s daughter. We left our bags and then headed off to his resort, which, it turned out, is quite a lot like something out of a movie set. We chatted and wrote and relaxed and some of the group did a few interviews before the friend who had driven us down returned to Bunia. Fisherman in boats came and went along the shore. A perfect setting for our last afternoon in the Congo.

We stayed at the resort for dinner. It was more expensive than some of the other places we’d been, but it was pretty good and the sheer joy of fish and chips with cold Primus under a lapa by the lake, while evening fell on Kisenyi was precious.

As we were getting ready to leave, like a final gift after a day of wonderful sights, fireflies appeared. I grew up reading about fireflies in books from other countries. I know we have glow-worms in South Africa but I’d never seen anything like this. I sat on the swing in the warm evening and watch a magical lights show – masses of flickering, pulsing flashes of light against the dark trees and the dark lake and the endless, star-washed sky.

The drums woke us a

We returned to Kisenyi in the last few days of December. This time we were travelling in style – a friend from Bunia who had inadvertently become our guide drove us through in his car. It was definitely a more comfortable than 45km on a cheap chinese motorbike. We stopped once, along the way, at an accident scene – a large, yellow truck had fallen off the side of the mountain. As one of our group remarked, it was probably a good thing we didn’t see this on our way in. To be fair, the condition of the roads and the vehicles in the eastern DRC is such that accidents are probably not that unusual. Luckily no-one was hurt and, once the photographers were done, we headed on.

The eastern DRC is beautiful and this ride was one of my favourite of the trip. The area around Bunia is cattle country, with rolling hills and wide grassy plains. Travelling to Kisenyi, you drop sharply down the hillside towards the lake. We had driven out of a storm and the storm light turned the hills emerald green. In the distance, running almost parallel to the road, was a series of electricity pylons. Wires hung down forlornly and nothing connects them anymore, but they are a reminder that this place, this area, is not one of perpetual darkness and dispair and hint that this most recent turmoil might be an exception rather than the rule.

Towards Kisenyi, we saw more of the long-horned cows so typical of the area. Months later, I would hear from a colleague the ongoing struggle they have to convince people in east and central Africa to give up their long-horned cows in favour of breeds with better milk and meat production. Those horns certainly are striking.

In Kisenyi, the friend we had driven down with took us back to the little guest-house where we’d stayed which, it turned out, was owned by his sister’s daughter. We left our bags and then headed off to his resort, which, it turned out, is quite a lot like something out of a movie set. We chatted and wrote and relaxed and some of the group did a few interviews before the friend who had driven us down returned to Bunia. Fisherman in boats came and went along the shore. A perfect setting for our last afternoon in the Congo.

We stayed at the resort for dinner. It was more expensive than some of the other places we’d been, but it was pretty good and the sheer joy of fish and chips with cold Primus under a lapa by the lake, while evening fell on Kisenyi was precious.

As we were getting ready to leave, like a final gift after a day of wonderful sights, fireflies appeared. I grew up reading about fireflies in books from other countries. I know we have glow-worms in South Africa but I’d never seen anything like this. I sat on the swing in the warm evening and watch a magical lights show – masses of flickering, pulsing flashes of light against the dark trees and the dark lake and the endless, star-washed sky.

The drums woke us again the next morning, although they were less dramatic and we dozed for longer before getting up. We breakfasted at the guesthouse: boiled eggs, soft rusks and (sadly not very good) coffee.

Less than an hour later, we were back at the dock searching for a boat to carry us back across the lake. This time, we were not taking the fast ferry, so the options were many. The first boat we found was one full of empty beer bottles being trasported back to Uganda. Shortly afterwards, however, we found a passenger boat. Before we knew it, someone had found the lost members of our group, everyone had climbed aboard and paid and we were pushing off and leaving behind the village of Kisenyi.

gain the next morning, although they were less dramatic and we dozed for longer before getting up. We breakfasted at the guesthouse: boiled eggs, soft rusks and (sadly not very good) coffee.

Less than an hour later, we were back at the dock searching for a boat to carry us back across the lake. This time, we were not taking the fast ferry, so the options were many. The first boat we found was one full of empty beer bottles being trasported back to Uganda. Shortly afterwards, however, we found a passenger boat. Before we knew it, someone had found the lost members of our group, everyone had climbed aboard and paid and we were pushing off and leaving behind the village of Kisenyi.

Kisenyi, part 1

Adventures, drc, Travelling in Africa, ,

On the eastern shore of Lake Albert is a small town called Kisenyi. To get there, we took a car from Fort Portal around the winding foothills of the Rwenzori and then, unexpectedly and for free, through a game reserve of long, dry-white grass, antelope, guinea fowl and thorn trees.

We reached the grubby port town of Ntoroko around mid-morning and headed off to find immigration and the ferry. Someone gave the immigration official a call and he came and stamped us out of the country. We were told we had to take the fast ferry, so we dutifully climbed on board and waited five hours for the boat to fill up.

It was a beautiful, hot, summer’s day with the water sparkling into the distance. Nearby, a moving line of men and women loaded all manner of supplies onto what looked like an over-sized wooden row-boat. Three small boys splashed and laughed and did back-flips in the water near the shore.

Towards late afternoon, we set off across the lake. Lake Albert is beautiful. A wide expanse of silvery water, with the occasional clump of greenery. In the distance, the silver water met the light blue sky, the horizon invisible. Fishing boats dotted the lake, dark against the shining water. Wooden boats, poled slowly across the water or still as a fisherman threw out his net. Some of the boats had what looked like shade-cloth structures in the middle, looking in silhouette strangely Japanese. People waved as we passed. Birds took off from tree trunks and glided away. The light was perfect on that first trip over the lake and the photographers among us virtually vibrated with frustration as we tossed around whether to risk what we’d heard was Congolese officials’ vehement dislike for people with cameras.

In the distance, the shadow of a mountain began to grow. As we got closer we saw what looked like a coastal resort or a fishing village. Cream and blue houses nestled in the green with towering hills beyond. We landed at a dock where many people were gathered below the rusted corpse of an ancient metal crane.

As we stepped off the boat, a border police-man took our passports and led us to the small, white and blue house that served as the immigration office. The office was simple and clean and the immigration official was relatively pleasant and polite. Before long, we were stamped into the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

The original plan was to head straight for Bunia but it was getting dark and there was uncertainty about being able to find transport. I’m so glad we stayed. Not that we had anywhere to stay, but small towns are small towns, especially when you’re friendly, and the border police-man who had shown us to immigration quickly jumped in to help and hustle two of our group off to inspect the potential accommodations. The rest of us lazed in the late afternoon sun and watched the cows grazing and looked out at the lake. People wandered by and greeted these strangers before moving on.

We stayed that night at a very basic little guest-house, the name of which I never did figure out. The rooms were sparsely furnished but everything was clean and actually quite comfortable and there were mosquito net on the beds. We got three rooms at $10 per room, which would turn out to be one of the best prices of the trip, and for one of the nicest places.

I was tired, that first evening, and stressed because I wanted to contact home and let them know I was okay. I couldn’t sms because the text message services had been suspended after the DRC elections and roaming charges on MTN in a non-MTN country would be extortionate. Sorting out sim-cards helped, as did a good bucket-shower and good dinner. Dinner was great, actually. Ugandan food didn’t thrill me, but it wasn’t until that first meal in Kisenyi that I realised what I had been missing. The Ugandan food was bland. It wasn’t bad or offensive; it just didn’t taste of much. That dinner in Kisenyi was delicious: spicy cabbage and beef with plantain that wasn’t mashed and rice.

After dinner, I phoned home and felt much better. The phone reception in Kisenyi was great – possibly because the place we were staying was just near the cellphone tower. By 8 o’clock, I was climbing into bed and turning off the light in the room – which for some reason had a red light-bulb – and falling asleep to the gentle sounds of a lakeside town on a warm summer evening.

At 5:30am we were woken by the sound of drums. Loud and actually pretty good, they welcomed us to the day with intricate, delicate rhythms. We eventually figured it must be a church service. It was definitely unexpected but not unpleasant. It was early, however. I tried to drift back to sleep but the morning had started and the ducks and chickens and motorbikes were all adding their voices to the dawn. Slowly, the sunrise turned the world beyond the bamboo fence a gentle orange. Inside the room, tree-dappled light fell onto the white mosquito net. It was peaceful. The drumming had stopped and I could hear birds chirping and some sweeping in the yard.

Eventually, we were all up and about. We headed to the centre of town and ate a good, if slow, breakfast before getting onto the back of boda-bodas and driving off to Bunia. It would be nearly ten days before we returned to Kiseyi, ten days in which we saw so much and travelled so much. Kisenyi was as much of a joy on the return journey as it had been on the way out.

Gulu

Adventures, Travelling in Africa, Uganda,

I don’t know what I expected. Something different. Something less ordinary.

Two of us sat, on a Wednesday night, and watched people cautiously, nervously moving up and down the road in the flickering light of a garbage fire. An hour earlier we had been sitting on the flat rooftop of a run-down hotel, watching the world fade to night as the bats flew over, waves and waves of dark outlines against the sunset sky.

But nothing is as one-dimensional as it sounds. We watched that fire from just outside the Chinese-owned supermarket that sold cold sodas and packets of biscuits and chewing gum and sweets. A few doors up the road was Coffee Hut, where foreigners gathered for chocolate milkshakes, proper coffee and wireless internet. Not too far away was the bus park and the Tropikana Inn, where we stayed.

The Tropikana Inn. Our rooms, our suite really, was on the second floor. Four en-suite single rooms off a large, tiled lounge area. From the lounge, a door led out onto the balcony that ran the length of our apartment and looked out across the road over a row of shops and a pool-bar and on the other side to an open courtyard where they fetched water and did the laundry. There was no running but otherwise it was clean and comfortable. With doilies. So many crocheted doilies. In the evenings, we watched as people sat outside the bar across the road at little tables drinking beer and played pool at the outside pool-table. The beer adverts on the pool table weren’t the same as at home but they were very similar. There was a table on that balcony, where we sat most evenings, writing, journaling.

Gulu never turned into a place of deep conversations long into the night. I guess partly because we were tired. It was hot. And muddy. I still have orange dusk on some of my clothes – I think it’ll never come out. During the day, we visited various groups and places and people. We watched a group of local dancers. They were good but they expected to be paid for the privilege of watching them, which left a bitter taste in my mouth. I enjoy traditional dancing (in small doses) and I’ve seen a lot over the years, but I object to being expected to give people money, being expected to pay not because they assume I think they are amazing but because they assume that I am from another country and therefore should feel sorry for them.

Another day we visited farmers. Jimmy. A young farmers who cares for his cow with his wife and their three children. He was busy putting in a biogas unit when we visited. The biogas unit will produce electricity from the cow manure so that they don’t have to use wood to heat and light the house, which will be particularly good for his daughter who suffers from asthma. Their little homestead is surrounded by shoulder-high millet and other green, growing things. They grow to eat, though, and buy in to feed the cow.

Later that day we visit a diary. And then walk to the bank. Another day we visit a clinic that also runs a women’s microfinance project. One afternoon we were at a home for disabled children, chatting to the guy running the place, when a crazy man whisked us off in his white landcruiser to visit a farm he was running to supply the home with food. It was one of the craziest, and one of the most interesting, bits of visiting Gulu. This man has been there for years and years and knows the history from the inside. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think like a settler, but he is a less distracted by the recent past than some. He tells us how his rice crops were ruined by the elephants. How, when the war came people stopped paying attention to the game reserves so the population of wildlife grew too fast and now elephants rampage through farmland destroying crops all over the place. He fed us freshly picked groundnuts, straight from the ground. He showed us their beehives and brick-making and how cassava grows. He drove like a maniac. Sitting in the back of the landcruiser, bumping and bouncing along awful farm-roads while someone explained the name of a river in the local language.

The next day we travel out to meet with someone who works with the diocese here. The church is different to an aid agency because it stays. He talks intelligently, coherently, about what has happened here over the last decade, about the war and the refugee camps and the reconstruction. He is concerned about the impact it will have on the local economy when the NGOs pull out. One morning we went past a place where the Japanese foreign aid agency is helping people grow rice. They’re all here. We play a game of NGO-spotting, trying to write down all the names of the many, many NGOs that work here. We spot the Invisible Children sign, months before the disastrous #Kony2012 debacle. Some of the signs are old, in disrepair, as NGOs begin to pack up and leave. It is 5 years since the war ended. Near the market at the bottom of town is bright new shiny Uchumi supermarket.

In between all this is orange dust and hot summer sun, chapati for breakfast and innumerable bottles of water. We eat plantain and millet and I have stew while the others eat beans. I try to find food that is a little more familiar or a little bit tasty. The whole town seems to have run out of Stoney. We find a Lebanese Restaurant called Cedars and that awful Will Young song follows us around. In the evenings we drink beer – Nile and Club – and hope for rain to wash out the music from the bar across the road that gets louder and louder through the evening.

We left on the early post-bus. We had been looking into the option of travelling straight from Gulu to the DRC border but eventually decided was that meeting up in Kampala would reduce the chances of missing each other and/or the bus at a strange random crossroads in the north. So we woke at 5 and by 5:30 set off down the sleepy morning roads of Gulu.