As I am waiting to get out of the three-week-post-international-flight-quarantine and return to the gorillas, but as I have been missing the forest all too much, today I went for a routine patrol with the anti-poaching team. The ulterior motive: interview David, the guy in charge, for a piece through which I will … give him up for adoption (little does he know that he’ll be adopted online many times this year, by some very rich Americans – some new concept our Atlanta bureau has, whereby we don’t only give gorillas, but also trackers for hefty adoptions)…
Anyhow, I am glad to report that I had a FANTASTIC day today – not only was it shiny and warm, and the forest majestic, but I actually survived the first hike in 2 months quite gloriously. On top of that, David was a great guide: he was stopping a lot along the way and explaining so much about the vegetation zones, the animal trails (other than gorilla trails), and also about the huge conflict they have with the local population (right now, many enter the forest to collect honey, and I was explained in detail how this is done as well). At the end of the day, I emerged quite knowledgeable – I now know to differentiate the dung of two antelope sub-species. WOW.
The only downside – we didn’t actually find any snares (I know, it sounds awful to call this ‘downside’, when it is actually fantastic to have a clean forest, but for my photo collection I was certainly missing something). David helped again – he called the anti-poaching team to actually set up a snare for me – and then destroy it, of course!
Next week, if all goes well, I’ll join them on a different kind of mission – the shock patrol, where they go all the way to the Ugandan or Congolese borders, with very definite targets in mind (on one of these days, they can find dozens of snares)…It is certainly a heck of a job – and I was thinking, again, how much we would need this kind of discipline and monitoring of wildlife and habitat in Romania as well….
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Never-cease-to-amaze-me-Congo
Ever since I set foot in this crazy country last June, I've had such a fascination-rejection relationship with it. Nothing works properly, everyone is incredibly slow and inefficient, there’s some sort of danger at every corner you turn… And yet, somehow, this place is mesmerizing. And just then, when you think you’ve gotten it under your belt, there will be something else to surprise you in completely bizarre ways.
This time it was the new visa regime. Before, you could easily get a $35-7-day-visa at the border, which was perfect for tourists and businesses alike (then, in case you’d stick around, you would get a much more expensive 6-month-visa from the Immigration Directorate in Goma or Kinshasa). Now this is all changed (‘to avoid the bribery at the border,” they say). They created this ‘visa volante’, which costs $250+$35 for 7 days – and which you can’t even get easily anymore (either you apply to the DRC consulate in your own country – which could not have been my case – or you get someone to write a letter for you in Goma, depose it at the Immigration, get the A4 paper approved, take it to the border, get it signed, then get it to you in Rwanda, and then hopefully get you across the border, without being stuck for hours in no man’s land (which, in fact, had just happened to my Dutch colleague last week – 6 hours on the dirt strip between the two countries, because some papers had not been signed properly)).
When I tried to inquire what this was all about, I got Jackson (our PR guy in Goma) to answer brilliantly “C’est un vol organise. Visa VOLante-VOL – c’est tres simple”… So there, after paying this absurd amount, to basically just get my foot across in Goma, we gave my passport and another $470 to a guy named Paul in Immigration for my long-term visa (Paul greeted me like an old friend, as he already ‘knew’ me from my passport pics that had been circulated around…) So there, fantastic working for an NGO (which always complains about money), in a decrepit African country, where the right to enter and do some good costs $270+$35+$470…
At least I was in Goma again! YAY! Curiosity to see our new house/office was eating at me. While I mourned the change of our FABULOUS, but too expensive, lake property, I was excited about this new house – which was pitched to me as this wonder-place, ‘where EVERYTHING works AT ALL TIMES”. (Having water, electricity and internet in Goma, on a constant basis, is truly a matter of dreams). So here we came, on this very rough volcanic-lava road, just behind the Governor’s house, to this two-story, imposing building. My English colleagues Sandy and my new Dutch colleague Luitzen were already here, so it was going to be a fun few days, trying to figure out a work-schedule for our 2011 DRC programs. Instead, our priorities turned out to be quite different, in a house where the never-ending scenario is along these lines: the water goes away, but we have electricity and internet; then electricity is cut off, and the generator cannot be turned on, because we use the same battery for the generator and some car office, and some wise-guy leaves for the night with that car; then electricity comes back, but the internet is hiccupping; then the water also comes back but floods everything downstairs; in the meantime, we have light in the rooms upstairs, but the sockets are not working, and neither is the light in the bathroom; finally we try to start the boiler to heat water, and in the middle of the luke-warm shower the water is cut again. ALL this in a house where “everything is working properly”… And I didn’t even get to mention all other logistics problems (we have several cars and several drivers, but when you need to go somewhere noone is ever ready, while the cars are all unusable for some reason - no fuel, need of washing, need of registering, etc, etc.)
When you finally move, everything turns into a real expedition: even if you have a very precise destination set out in your mind, you will need to incorporate a million other things: dropping off and picking up people everywhere, going to get some receipts for God-knows what in some God-forgotten alley, stopping every 5 minutes to chat with this and that, turning back because someone forgot something or someone is calling for something… So yes, you are always guaranteed to arrive late and be already exhausted, and then sit in another meeting where noone is ready for anything (for example, I was summoned today for 10 a.m., and at 10.30 I am writing this blog, as everyone is just bypassing me completely unfazed and unprepared… At least I had a HOT shower today (miracle!), and the best, juiciest, sweetest pineapple of my life for breakfast, and I am wearing a beautiful green dress to match the sunny day. So, ultimately, I am smiling and being happy for another day of adventure in mad Congo!
This time it was the new visa regime. Before, you could easily get a $35-7-day-visa at the border, which was perfect for tourists and businesses alike (then, in case you’d stick around, you would get a much more expensive 6-month-visa from the Immigration Directorate in Goma or Kinshasa). Now this is all changed (‘to avoid the bribery at the border,” they say). They created this ‘visa volante’, which costs $250+$35 for 7 days – and which you can’t even get easily anymore (either you apply to the DRC consulate in your own country – which could not have been my case – or you get someone to write a letter for you in Goma, depose it at the Immigration, get the A4 paper approved, take it to the border, get it signed, then get it to you in Rwanda, and then hopefully get you across the border, without being stuck for hours in no man’s land (which, in fact, had just happened to my Dutch colleague last week – 6 hours on the dirt strip between the two countries, because some papers had not been signed properly)).
When I tried to inquire what this was all about, I got Jackson (our PR guy in Goma) to answer brilliantly “C’est un vol organise. Visa VOLante-VOL – c’est tres simple”… So there, after paying this absurd amount, to basically just get my foot across in Goma, we gave my passport and another $470 to a guy named Paul in Immigration for my long-term visa (Paul greeted me like an old friend, as he already ‘knew’ me from my passport pics that had been circulated around…) So there, fantastic working for an NGO (which always complains about money), in a decrepit African country, where the right to enter and do some good costs $270+$35+$470…
At least I was in Goma again! YAY! Curiosity to see our new house/office was eating at me. While I mourned the change of our FABULOUS, but too expensive, lake property, I was excited about this new house – which was pitched to me as this wonder-place, ‘where EVERYTHING works AT ALL TIMES”. (Having water, electricity and internet in Goma, on a constant basis, is truly a matter of dreams). So here we came, on this very rough volcanic-lava road, just behind the Governor’s house, to this two-story, imposing building. My English colleagues Sandy and my new Dutch colleague Luitzen were already here, so it was going to be a fun few days, trying to figure out a work-schedule for our 2011 DRC programs. Instead, our priorities turned out to be quite different, in a house where the never-ending scenario is along these lines: the water goes away, but we have electricity and internet; then electricity is cut off, and the generator cannot be turned on, because we use the same battery for the generator and some car office, and some wise-guy leaves for the night with that car; then electricity comes back, but the internet is hiccupping; then the water also comes back but floods everything downstairs; in the meantime, we have light in the rooms upstairs, but the sockets are not working, and neither is the light in the bathroom; finally we try to start the boiler to heat water, and in the middle of the luke-warm shower the water is cut again. ALL this in a house where “everything is working properly”… And I didn’t even get to mention all other logistics problems (we have several cars and several drivers, but when you need to go somewhere noone is ever ready, while the cars are all unusable for some reason - no fuel, need of washing, need of registering, etc, etc.)
When you finally move, everything turns into a real expedition: even if you have a very precise destination set out in your mind, you will need to incorporate a million other things: dropping off and picking up people everywhere, going to get some receipts for God-knows what in some God-forgotten alley, stopping every 5 minutes to chat with this and that, turning back because someone forgot something or someone is calling for something… So yes, you are always guaranteed to arrive late and be already exhausted, and then sit in another meeting where noone is ready for anything (for example, I was summoned today for 10 a.m., and at 10.30 I am writing this blog, as everyone is just bypassing me completely unfazed and unprepared… At least I had a HOT shower today (miracle!), and the best, juiciest, sweetest pineapple of my life for breakfast, and I am wearing a beautiful green dress to match the sunny day. So, ultimately, I am smiling and being happy for another day of adventure in mad Congo!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
WOW Kenya!
My second Africa chapter began last Friday, when, after a strange pneumonia combined with all sorts of weird fainting symptoms, I was finally in a good shape to leave Cluj. Just in time, apparently, as right now I am reading about blizzards and fog that have taken over Romania again, turning everything into chaos.
After a very smooth three flights, on Saturday morning I landed in Nairobi. It would have been a nice week-long vacation, but with my medical condition and last-minute flight postponing, I was going to have just one weekend instead. My friend Beth, with whom I work in Rwanda, was home for the holidays, and she turned into the best guide for my rushed, fantastic 36 hours in Kenya.
Now being Africa-savvy, I realized how completely relaxed I was there, even if Nairobi is far bigger than any other place I had seen on this continent, and even if its reputation is not exactly the best (some call it ‘Nairoberry’, and apparently for a good reason too). The first things I noticed, half-amused, were the green “city-hoppa” buses and the huge predator birds, hanging from trees everywhere on the Mombassa Road (the large avenue that connects the airport to the city). Well, backtracking a bit – I was actually shocked by something: when I had asked Beth to give me her address, so that I can fill it in on my visa request, I was stunned to get a long line of numbers, instead of a street name and house number. Now driving along the large Mombassa Road, I was curious as to why houses were not somehow linked to the name of the street. I was told things were so chaotic in terms of urban planning that no-one could keep track which building is placed on which street or path or plot of land or something, so getting a code is the only way to go (of course, there’s no way you can find such a place by yourself)…
After a quick drive through the city, we actually headed out for the rest of the day, to catch a glimpse of the majestic Rift Valley, the cone-shaped Fly-Over mountain (which I had actually flown over a few hours beforehand), and then to see a natural reserve, Elementaita, renowned for its splendid flamingo colonies. The taxi Beth hired for the day was rather dodgy, but still it kept going boldly on the “highway” – i.e. a two-lane street going all the way to the Ugandan border and then Kampala. I thought I had seen it all in terms of traffic in Africa before, but now, since the road was ‘good’ (i.e. paved), there were other challenges: when you try to overtake, at very high speeds, everyone else does it at the same time, so you have all these cars suddenly jumping from the queue, one in front of the other. The two lane-street instantly turns into a four-five lane (each car finds its own course), and, well, it is quite scary. No wonder accidents are so commonplace (a big and a small bus had collided frightfully just in front of us), but since the flamingos were calling, there was no other way but forward.
Once we left the highway, some guys selling ‘nyama choma’ (roasted meat) sent us looking for flying pigs – i.e. a dirt road, where the only directions were provided by huge stones on the ground. The scenery was surreal (not very different from the stone-desert in Morocco): completely dried up, with huge cactuses with incredible white flowers everywhere, and the lake at the horizon. We drove around for some half an hour, but since it was clear we were completely lost, and Beth was fearing robbery, we turned and took instead the civilized way: paying an entrance fee to a fancy lodge that administers the reserve, getting an imposing Masai guide, and driving on a better-shaped dirt road.
All of a sudden, the colors around me blew up: the deep red of the Masai garment (‘assorted’ with knee-high NBA socks!) and the suave, yet striking pink of the flamingos on the lake (we were lucky to see up close the nicer of the two subspecies, the lesser flamingo, whose pink is way more intense, especially under the wings). In a few minutes, I also received a crash-course on these incredible birds: they fly only at night, up to 500 kms in one stretch; they breed only in Tanzania; their flocks can number up to 1 million individuals; they feed on some algae in the lakes, which eventually gives them the color of the plumage; they are not hunted, as their meat is poisonous.
Mesmerized, but remembering the clock-ticking fast, I had to agree to leave the lake and return to Nairobi. After one police hold-up on the road, a bribe of $15, and a lunch-on-the-go (sausages, fries, and fresh mango-papaya-banana-carrot juice), we finally made it back, right in time for a crazy shopping spree. After the most beautiful African skirt-top duo I got in a store, we headed out to the mind-blowing Masai market, where I had my craves fixated on three kinds of things: bead-embroidered leather shoes (lots of them), bead jewels, and pole-pole T-shirts. (“pole-pole” means ‘slowly-slowly’ and is my favorite expression in Swahili. From the airport in December, I had bough a T-shirt with a tortoise and ‘pole-pole’ for a friend in Cluj, and since then I had been yearning for one myself :-)).
A couple of hours and hundred of dollars later, I could hardly move anymore, and yet I could not stop the bargaining. Shopping addiction it’s called, I believe. I could have spent a week in that market for sure, and still not be satisfied. In fact, once I got home and unpacked, and saw all those beauties in my bags, I knew I had to go back for more, so the next day I quickly returned for more bead work. Luckily I had anticipated all this and left enough space in my bags that were going on my next flight to Kigali.
As if the day had not been already overwhelming, the evening came with the most extravagant culinary experience EVER. The famed restaurant in called ‘Carnivore’ and it borders the Nairobi Natl Park. Traditionally, you could eat here every possible game meat, but since 2004 this has been illegal in Kenya. Not to worry, though, meat lovers! The choice and quantities here are INSANE and everything goes by the rule of the flag. You receive a small ‘carnivore’ flag and you fly it on your table until your own feast is done. The set menu goes for abut $25, which includes soup and desert, while in the middle you have the Beast of a Feast. Or the Feast of a Beast. On your plate, the first thing that appears are bull balls, to prepare your sensitive mouth for what is to follow. Basically by the entrance they have this massive fire place/grill, where they cook everything on very long sticks. Whatever is ready (turkey, crocodile, chicken, ostrich, goat, beef, etc, etc) is taken around the restaurant and shared on everyone’s plates. Then again and again and again and again. The waiters (dressed in traditional animal-skin patterns) just do these rounds the whole night and tempt you with one delicacy after another, until you are DONE. When you feel like you cannot take ostrich meatballs any longer, you let them know by putting the flag down. And maybe calling an ambulance. And starting the meat lent for the next few months…
At that point, after almost two full days of flying and going strong, I was ready to collapse. Luckily my body had cooperated very well, so a good night’s sleep was going to do the trick. The next morning we visited the all-in-one Nairobi Museum (the first museum I ever saw in Africa), and learnt so much about this part of the world: the amazing, unique flora and fauna they have; the mind-blowing discoveries of early hominoid skeletons (the largest, most precious collection in the world); plus a well-crafted presentation about the composition of the Kenyan society (with their fascinating 42 tribes), as well as the history of the common fight for independence of East African countries in the 50s and 60s. Wow. Lots to take in, but so so interesting (really, the first structured, comprehensive institution in East Africa that has given me the bigger picture). Above everything else, though, I found out that I weigh as much as the hideous warthog, on the comparative scale of man-to-Kenyan wildlife. I would have probably preferred to be like a zebra at 120 kilos rather than be forever tied at 60 to the warthog, but what do you do… Eat more meat at Carnivore, probably, and expand accordingly…
The last few hours were out in the wild of the city – a lunch in the National Park, with the same ugly warthogs and hysterical baboons running around. I also immediately bonded with the on-duty Masai dancing group, and I learnt how to jump around and wear beads with dignity and boldness at the same time.
All in all – WOW Kenya!!!
After a very smooth three flights, on Saturday morning I landed in Nairobi. It would have been a nice week-long vacation, but with my medical condition and last-minute flight postponing, I was going to have just one weekend instead. My friend Beth, with whom I work in Rwanda, was home for the holidays, and she turned into the best guide for my rushed, fantastic 36 hours in Kenya.
Now being Africa-savvy, I realized how completely relaxed I was there, even if Nairobi is far bigger than any other place I had seen on this continent, and even if its reputation is not exactly the best (some call it ‘Nairoberry’, and apparently for a good reason too). The first things I noticed, half-amused, were the green “city-hoppa” buses and the huge predator birds, hanging from trees everywhere on the Mombassa Road (the large avenue that connects the airport to the city). Well, backtracking a bit – I was actually shocked by something: when I had asked Beth to give me her address, so that I can fill it in on my visa request, I was stunned to get a long line of numbers, instead of a street name and house number. Now driving along the large Mombassa Road, I was curious as to why houses were not somehow linked to the name of the street. I was told things were so chaotic in terms of urban planning that no-one could keep track which building is placed on which street or path or plot of land or something, so getting a code is the only way to go (of course, there’s no way you can find such a place by yourself)…
After a quick drive through the city, we actually headed out for the rest of the day, to catch a glimpse of the majestic Rift Valley, the cone-shaped Fly-Over mountain (which I had actually flown over a few hours beforehand), and then to see a natural reserve, Elementaita, renowned for its splendid flamingo colonies. The taxi Beth hired for the day was rather dodgy, but still it kept going boldly on the “highway” – i.e. a two-lane street going all the way to the Ugandan border and then Kampala. I thought I had seen it all in terms of traffic in Africa before, but now, since the road was ‘good’ (i.e. paved), there were other challenges: when you try to overtake, at very high speeds, everyone else does it at the same time, so you have all these cars suddenly jumping from the queue, one in front of the other. The two lane-street instantly turns into a four-five lane (each car finds its own course), and, well, it is quite scary. No wonder accidents are so commonplace (a big and a small bus had collided frightfully just in front of us), but since the flamingos were calling, there was no other way but forward.
Once we left the highway, some guys selling ‘nyama choma’ (roasted meat) sent us looking for flying pigs – i.e. a dirt road, where the only directions were provided by huge stones on the ground. The scenery was surreal (not very different from the stone-desert in Morocco): completely dried up, with huge cactuses with incredible white flowers everywhere, and the lake at the horizon. We drove around for some half an hour, but since it was clear we were completely lost, and Beth was fearing robbery, we turned and took instead the civilized way: paying an entrance fee to a fancy lodge that administers the reserve, getting an imposing Masai guide, and driving on a better-shaped dirt road.
All of a sudden, the colors around me blew up: the deep red of the Masai garment (‘assorted’ with knee-high NBA socks!) and the suave, yet striking pink of the flamingos on the lake (we were lucky to see up close the nicer of the two subspecies, the lesser flamingo, whose pink is way more intense, especially under the wings). In a few minutes, I also received a crash-course on these incredible birds: they fly only at night, up to 500 kms in one stretch; they breed only in Tanzania; their flocks can number up to 1 million individuals; they feed on some algae in the lakes, which eventually gives them the color of the plumage; they are not hunted, as their meat is poisonous.
Mesmerized, but remembering the clock-ticking fast, I had to agree to leave the lake and return to Nairobi. After one police hold-up on the road, a bribe of $15, and a lunch-on-the-go (sausages, fries, and fresh mango-papaya-banana-carrot juice), we finally made it back, right in time for a crazy shopping spree. After the most beautiful African skirt-top duo I got in a store, we headed out to the mind-blowing Masai market, where I had my craves fixated on three kinds of things: bead-embroidered leather shoes (lots of them), bead jewels, and pole-pole T-shirts. (“pole-pole” means ‘slowly-slowly’ and is my favorite expression in Swahili. From the airport in December, I had bough a T-shirt with a tortoise and ‘pole-pole’ for a friend in Cluj, and since then I had been yearning for one myself :-)).
A couple of hours and hundred of dollars later, I could hardly move anymore, and yet I could not stop the bargaining. Shopping addiction it’s called, I believe. I could have spent a week in that market for sure, and still not be satisfied. In fact, once I got home and unpacked, and saw all those beauties in my bags, I knew I had to go back for more, so the next day I quickly returned for more bead work. Luckily I had anticipated all this and left enough space in my bags that were going on my next flight to Kigali.
As if the day had not been already overwhelming, the evening came with the most extravagant culinary experience EVER. The famed restaurant in called ‘Carnivore’ and it borders the Nairobi Natl Park. Traditionally, you could eat here every possible game meat, but since 2004 this has been illegal in Kenya. Not to worry, though, meat lovers! The choice and quantities here are INSANE and everything goes by the rule of the flag. You receive a small ‘carnivore’ flag and you fly it on your table until your own feast is done. The set menu goes for abut $25, which includes soup and desert, while in the middle you have the Beast of a Feast. Or the Feast of a Beast. On your plate, the first thing that appears are bull balls, to prepare your sensitive mouth for what is to follow. Basically by the entrance they have this massive fire place/grill, where they cook everything on very long sticks. Whatever is ready (turkey, crocodile, chicken, ostrich, goat, beef, etc, etc) is taken around the restaurant and shared on everyone’s plates. Then again and again and again and again. The waiters (dressed in traditional animal-skin patterns) just do these rounds the whole night and tempt you with one delicacy after another, until you are DONE. When you feel like you cannot take ostrich meatballs any longer, you let them know by putting the flag down. And maybe calling an ambulance. And starting the meat lent for the next few months…
At that point, after almost two full days of flying and going strong, I was ready to collapse. Luckily my body had cooperated very well, so a good night’s sleep was going to do the trick. The next morning we visited the all-in-one Nairobi Museum (the first museum I ever saw in Africa), and learnt so much about this part of the world: the amazing, unique flora and fauna they have; the mind-blowing discoveries of early hominoid skeletons (the largest, most precious collection in the world); plus a well-crafted presentation about the composition of the Kenyan society (with their fascinating 42 tribes), as well as the history of the common fight for independence of East African countries in the 50s and 60s. Wow. Lots to take in, but so so interesting (really, the first structured, comprehensive institution in East Africa that has given me the bigger picture). Above everything else, though, I found out that I weigh as much as the hideous warthog, on the comparative scale of man-to-Kenyan wildlife. I would have probably preferred to be like a zebra at 120 kilos rather than be forever tied at 60 to the warthog, but what do you do… Eat more meat at Carnivore, probably, and expand accordingly…
The last few hours were out in the wild of the city – a lunch in the National Park, with the same ugly warthogs and hysterical baboons running around. I also immediately bonded with the on-duty Masai dancing group, and I learnt how to jump around and wear beads with dignity and boldness at the same time.
All in all – WOW Kenya!!!
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