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Beyond the safari

2008-03-31T21:11:00.000-07:00

Award winning columnist cum author Stephanie Nolan has an interesting article at the Globe and Mail about travel in Africa, and among other things, the impact of civil strife on the Kenyan tourist industry. Beyond Kenya, however, she notes that “there's a wealth of other vacation options on this vast continent. You can take both wildly opulent and budget safaris in South Africa. You can trek in the ancient cliff villages of Mali. Or sail a dhow in Zanzibar. There is much more to Africa than Kenya, despite what Papa Hemingway may have led you to believe.”

No freaking kidding. Nolan does a great job at painting the popular tourist haunts on the Cape to Cairo trail through South Africa, Zambia, and into Tanzania, and deserves credit for highlighting the legendary music of Mali. But in highlighting the most frequented places on the Continent she misses an opportunity to spread the wealth around, and draw attention to equally tourist-dollar starved locations ever so slightly off the beaten path. Now I’ll admit that any mention of travel to Africa is usually met with blank stares and offers of life insurance but having travelled through 17 countries on the Continent, and having crossed 17 borders by land, I’d like to offer an alternative to Nolan’s list.

But before I get to the list, a few important points that may help convince would-be travellers believe that I’m not alone in pushing these far-off destinations. In December 2007, Delta Airlines officially opened three new routes from the U.S. to the Continent, with flights linking New York and Atlanta to Accra, Dakar and Lagos. Even more exotic was British Midland’s decision in February to take over operations of a London to Freetown, Sierra Leone route.

And so I’ll start with this last destination, a former outpost of mine, Sierra Leone. Now I’m not going to paint a particularly rosy picture of this place. Any country that has witnessed a decade + of civil strife is going to bear the marks and stresses of conflict. Power is intermittent on a good day, the traffic is atrocious, and while crime is not a major issue, being out after dark without a plan is a bit beyond adventuresome. But as I learnt while I lived and travelled throughout the country in 2005/2006, it offers some worthy spots for tourists willing to forego the safari-routes of East and Southern Africa.

With hundreds of kilometres of unspoilt coastline, the country hosts several beaches that easily compete with popular outposts in the Caribbean, all minus the all-inclusive four-star resorts. Instead you’ll stare up at the stars from a cozy thatch roof hut while enjoying the fruits of the sea prepared by friendly local hosts, all too eager to earn a few US dollars in an economy where unemployment exceeds 50%. Once the sun rises, boat trips through the mangroves of coastal islands uncover hundreds of species of birds, monkeys and other wildlife, which while not as exotic as the beasts of the Serengeti, offer a much more serene interaction with nature (i.e. you don’t have to line up to take a picture of the lioness).

Once off the coast the potential for tourism is slightly less evident. Freetown, while charming in its own right with its Krio wood-framed houses, ubiquitous street vendors and never-ending supply of English speaking hosts, offers the usual assortment of nightclubs, restaurants and one-room museums geared towards the hundred of NGO workers in town. But a few hours up the road (and to be honest, I’m talking about a couple of hours to travel a few dozen kilometres) the provincial towns of Bo, Makeni and Kono each offer travellers cheap accommodation, great local food and an opportunity to see the slightly slower pace of life up-country. And while far from glamorous it affords outsiders a glimpse of a country in the mid-stages of a massive renovation effort. One which will require much more than a coat of paint but rather a wholesale reconstruction of the country’s foundation. And just so you know I’m putting my money where my mouth is, I’m taking my lovely girlfriend over in May.

Like Sierra Leone, Mozambique is still dealing with the impacts of conflict that raged for nearly two decades. Maputo, the capital, is still frequently plunged into darkness by power cuts and outside of its expensive four-star hotels, offers little accommodation for budget travellers. But with a little searching it reveals itself to be a paradise in waiting where cold one-litre beers are the perfect companion to spicy piri-piri shrimp. I’ll never forget the day a local friend of mine took me for dinner and after ordering the second cheapest option on the chalkboard menu ($4), being inundated with a literal boatload of the country’s precious sea-borne export.

I spent weeks along the South coast of the country, lazing on beautiful beaches with throngs of South African surfers. I liked the place so much I came back a second time, this time travelling through the much more remote fringes of the country’s far north, bordering Tanzania. Here tourists were close to non-existent – in my month or so in the country’s north I came across two French tourists and one American missionary - but the sights were even more astounding. The beaches were still as beautiful as in the South but completing it were several historical cities, complete with ruins of days long past. La Ilha de Mocambique, which served as the country’s capital until 1898, is as picturesque as they come and easily reached by bus traffic from the busy centre of Pemba.

Less easily accessed, but far more exciting, is Ibo Island. This now 200 year old ghost-town once hosted Vasco de Gama. Today it hosts (a luxury resort and) several smaller guesthouses which serve as great outposts to tour the small island’s ruins which include the remnants of Portuguese army fortifications and a crumbling Indian temple. Ibo has a quiet eeriness to it which is aided by the adventure of getting there. Things change rapidly, and hidden tourist gems get popular even faster, so my experience in getting to Ibo may not be applicable today but the story is great nonetheless. For three days in a row I woke at 3am in order to make my way to the main thoroughfare in Pemba to attempt to find the lone pick-up truck that would head towards the coast where I was told I could find a local fisherman who would take me across to Ibo. And for three days I waited without luck. On the fourth day I thought about staying in bed but dragged myself into town and was rewarded with a seat on the back of decrepit Toyota Hilux with, I’m not kidding, about fifteen others. We literally held onto eachother in order to keep from falling off as the truck bounced along dirt roads towards the coast. After several hours we arrived only to find that we had missed the tides and would have to wait for several hours until the waters were high enough to bring us across. And so for hours I chatted with my fellow group of travellers, only one of whom spoke English, but all of whom were eager to know why I was so far from home.

And while nearly everyone who travels anywhere will tell you that wherever they spent their last vacation had the nicest people on earth, sometimes the people don’t matter. Case in point: Namibia. If you want to see nature at its finest then this is the place. Never have I been so awestruck then amidst the towering sand dunes of the Namib desert. There’s really not much more to say – the ethereal silence amongst the sharp edged dunes, perhaps a result of too much sun and too little water, is as close to nirvana as I’ll ever get. Throw in one of the world’s best national parks, Etosha, and Windhoek’s roaring nightlife and you’ll see why I’m planning a return.

And so while Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia and South Africa are all well-deserved spots for a vacation, so too are Sierra Leone, Mozambique and Namibia. I’ve a list of a dozen other countries with similar tourist possibilities – from touring the rubber plantations in Liberia, to lounging on the shores of beautiful Lake Kivu in Rwanda - it’s all a question of preference. Namibia, for example, is quite well set up for individual travellers with decent local transportation, hostels, campsites and great roads for do-it-yourselfers. Sierra Leone and Mozambique are evidently more challenging and require a great deal of patience, keen negotiation skills and a willingness to forego some of the usual comforts.

But just as not long ago travelling to China, India or the South Pacific was considered out of the ordinary, here’s hoping that someday our tourist dollars might soon stretch to help bring light to the 52 countries so often thought to be part of a dark continent.

From Micro to Meso-Finance

2008-03-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

Microfinance is justly seen as a savior for millions around the world. As of 2007 it's estimated that over 16 million of the world's poorest benefit from the small extensions of credit that the over 7000 global microcredit organizations channel. The volume of loans now approaches some $25 billion, including an increasing share of direct peer-to-peer loans through sites such as Kiva, Microplace and MyC4. It's primacy role in economic development and poverty alleviation was perhaps best showcased by the awarding of the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize to the father of microfinance, Muhammad Yunus, the founder of the now-famous Grameen Bank.

At the time of the award, the Norwegian Nobel Committee noted that, "Micro-credit has proved to be an important liberating force in societies where women in particular have to struggle against repressive social and economic conditions...Yunus’s long-term vision is to eliminate poverty in the world. That vision can not be realised by means of micro-credit alone. But Muhammad Yunus and Grameen Bank have shown that, in the continuing efforts to achieve it, micro-credit must play a major part."

But building at the bottom of the economic pyramid has it's limits. Indeed, microfinance can enable millions to survive where and when they could not previously. But as James Surowiecki, author of The Wisdom of Crowds, points out in his recent editorial in the New Yorker, there are definite limits to how far microfinance can go in enabling economic development.

He writes,

"What poor countries need most, then, is not more microbusinesses. They need more small-to-medium-sized enterprises, the kind that are bigger than a fruit stand but smaller than a Fortune 1000 corporation. In high-income countries, these companies create more than sixty per cent of all jobs, but in the developing world they’re relatively rare, thanks to a lack of institutions able to provide them with the capital they need. It’s easy for really big companies in poor countries to tap the markets for funding, and now, because of microfinance, it’s possible for really small enterprises to get money, too. But the companies in between find it hard. It’s a phenomenon that has been dubbed the “missing middle.”

Filling this missing middle, usually neglected by both domestic and international lending sources, has come to be termed "meso-finance" and aims at enabling SME's to grow and subsequently expand their employment bases. One of the means of doing so is taking a Prosper/Zopa like approach to peer-lending, and aggregating small loans into $10,000 + amounts for entrepreneurs in the developing world. Evidently there are some significant risk issues that accompany the extension of such credit but with the right local structures in place, Web 2.0 lending might just offer meso-finance the channel it needs to extend the credit that small business owners the world over desperately want.

Curiosity.

2007-12-14T19:05:00.000-08:00

“You can come across, but promise me you won’t stay the night, ok?” Not quite the terror inducing remarks I expected from a border guard as I tried to cross into the DRC in August 2004. The country was still in the midst of an interminable ethnic conflict and I’d heard nothing but terrifying stories from the few that I met who had ventured in. It’s a ghost town they said, the police will strip you naked claimed others. But after having decided to forego a visit to Bukavu due to encroaching rebels I knew this was my last shot. Curiosity had pushed aside my voice of reason and as I stared at Mt. Nyiragongo from across the border in Gisenyi I knew I wanted to go.

My fascination with Africa stemmed in large part from my grandmothers stories about the Congo – some in our family had worked there during Belgian’s atrocious colonial period – and I longed to see whether myth was indeed reality. Before leaving home that spring, my mother had made me promise not to go to either of the Congo’s or Burundi. Too dangerous she said - I wouldn’t survive past customs. But kids being kids I decided I couldn’t miss out on this opportunity to see what had become Africa’s biggest question mark; the continent’s biggest country, its richest in terms of resources, yet the most ravaged by conflict and poverty.

And as if decades of war and foreign interference weren’t bad enough, Mt. Nyiragongo had, in 2002, spewed rivers of deadly lava onto Goma – destroying much of the city and forcing hundreds of thousands, many of whom were refugees from the Rwandan genocide, out of their homes. I still remember the eruption in 2002. I was a student back in Canada and vividly recall a feeling of incredulousness as I watched the streams of people, and rivers of fire, pour through Goma on the news. How could one place have it so bad?

So two years later, hesitations pushed aside, I was on the cusp of finally getting where I wanted so badly to go. And yet this man, a government official no less, was telling me that I couldn’t stay the night. Rebels, he said, you never know when they’ll come back.

I’m always quick to believe I’m semi-invincible; he’s just trying to protect the foreigner I thought. But at the same time I couldn’t help but remember Pasteur Kiza’s warnings in Burundi. “Things are getting worse – you foreigners don’t see it – but things are getting worse.” His fears rang true in Bujumbura as the day after we pulled into port over a hundred refugees were massacred on the border between the DRC and Burundi. From that moment forward I decided to put a bit more stock into these warnings.

And so after a surprisingly enjoyable conversation with my French-speaking border guard I promised him that I would indeed just stay the day, though only after exacting a promise that he’d let me come back tomorrow on the same visa. Africa gets a bad rap for many things, several justifiable, but after having crossed 17 borders by land I’m still amazed at the hospitality and friendliness of the military and police who patrol their borders. While a few have asked for this or that (my favourite remains the Mozambican officer who really admired my quick-dry socks), the majority are just curious about the young man in front of them. Curiosity defies race, its defies wealth; it’s simply who we are.

Perspective

2007-04-24T01:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve just returned from Sierra Leone, a country that went to hell and back. 11 years of civil war, brutal, at times demonic. Walking the streets of Freetown or Makeni you see the scars. Burnt out buildings, rusted tanks and, in particular, -amputees - it leaves a lasting impression.

When I first arrived in Freetown I was somewhat immune to the pain and suffering I saw around me. Having spent time in Rwanda, Burundi and the DRC I came here thinking that it couldn’t possibly be any different, any worse.

Heck, soaring above the swampy Atlantic on the approach to Freetown you’d be forgiven for thinking you had found paradise. Everything looks so pristine from onboard my brightly painted, though visibly decrepit, Russian military helicopter. Beautiful green mountains weave their way through the city, meeting miles of sandy white beaches along the crystal clear waters of the Atlantic. The beach is busy, local boys playing football outside one of the many bars and restaurants that have opened to cater to the since-departed population of UN soldiers and aid workers that at one time numbered nearly 20,000.

But ten years of brutal civil war have left an indelible imprint on the country’s infrastructure and its people. Freetown, the capital, was left relatively untouched until “Operation No Living Thing” entered the city in January 1999. I could get into the details but, truthfully, much of it is too harsh to recount. Put it this way, a lot of people died.

The rebel attack left bullet riddled facades and the blackened outer shells of charred government offices in its wake, not to mention the traumatic memories of atrocities that are now hidden deep in the minds of thousands of Freetown’s residents.

Upwards of seventy-five thousand rebel soldiers once roamed the hills and valleys of Sierra Leone, the bulk of them, young men, often children, were often drugged and forced to commit the most heinous of atrocities. Rehabilitation is inevitably slow.

It took me ages to get used to Freetown. African capitals are chaotic. Freetown, however, takes it one step further. It’s chaotic yet at the same time frightening. For at every corner groups of young men congregate, jobless, without education, and without much hope of anything more fruitful coming their way.

They ply the streets all hours of the day, selling anything they can get their hands on. No need to go far to shop as with a little patience the shop will come to you. The smell of fried cassava, plantains, chicken and fish permeate what is otherwise a mix of dust, rotting garbage and petrol fumes. Children weave between parked cars and the ubiquitous piles of steel and garbage, selling candies, fruit and bags of cold water to passerby’s. The governments’ policy of universal education has allowed most children to attend school but many more are too poor to afford the required uniforms, books and supplies. Most of the children who do attend school do so in shifts, spending their mornings in class and their afternoons on the dusty streets of Freetown trying to make enough money to fund their educations and more often their survival. Young men and women are largely in a similar situation. With few private sector jobs and few chances to attend post-secondary education, they take to the streets hoping to make a few dollars by joining a thriving informal economy. Life in Freetown is not easy. A large proportion survive on less than a dollar a day, enough to eat but nowhere near enough to escape from the cycle of poverty that grips this beautiful West African nation.

And so amidst the dirt and dust that was my home, I, a 25 year old just a few years out of university tried to make a difference. How exactly? Some days I wonder myself. I can’t build bridges, cannot cure the ill, nor feed the poor. My role within a small NGO and the UN seemed unlikely to save the world, let alone save lives. It’s hard to value your role when death and disease are commonplace and the life expectancy is 34.7 years. To put it all in perspective I would often give one of the neighborhood boys who lived near me the equivalent of $0.75 for doing a small job, perhaps laundry, shining my shoes – I just doubled his daily salary.

Months later I still struggle to see what the biggest contribution I can make really is. On one hand I don’t want to be just another rich white man in Africa, satisfying my own desire to help while being seen as a savior by those in need. But at the same time I can’t escape the fact that the modest monthly stipend I received while in Freetown, let alone my salary today, is worth three annual salaries. A rookie police offer takes home less than $30 a month, staff at one of the luxury hotels maybe $40 or $50, a teacher - just $25.

And so months after the peacekeepers left, months after people started talking about change, and months after the optimism and patience that come with peace started to fade, I left, leaving many friends behind.

Now, a few months later, I’m back in the relatively quiet confines of a friends condo in Toronto. Back at work, with my friends, in a city that offers me what ever I could ever imagine. Yet the experience of living in Freetown is still fresh, almost too fresh, as today, equipped with a perspective on life that few will ever have, I struggle to find peace. As every morning I buy a coffee for the equivalent of feeding a family of four in relative luxury over there. I have a gym membership that would pay for their rent for the year. I have, the vast majority there don’t. It’s pretty simple.

And so it comes every couple of weeks or so. It might be while I’m walking down the street, or perhaps while I’m grabbing my morning coffee. It stalks me. The guilt of having left, of having been able to escape, of having. Or, as I put it not so politely to my friends, the guilt of perspective and the fact that “perspective’s a bitch.”

No matter the signs of progress I saw while I was there, and there were some, I’d even like to think I helped create a few, I can’t help but think that so much more should be already be in place. Money is theoretically pouring in. DFID, CIDA, USAID…. they’re all there. They’re all pouring money into projects. And yet people are still dying from diseases they shouldn’t die from, from water they shouldn’t be forced to drink, from problems they shouldn’t have to face. And yes, I know, measures of wealth and income are all relative. The basic necessities of life, however, are not.

But so goes the reality of life. Some have, some don’t.

I, for one, got lucky, very lucky. And while I may not know the meaning of life, my travels have given me perspective. I’ve seen young men in Rwanda with scars that have left them looking more alien than human, met women so often raped that they’ve lost the ability to care. And so tonight, as I sit in the confines of what is once again home, I can’t help but think of my friends in Sierra Leone, in Rwanda, and in Burundi. And while I know that one man can only do so much, I’m determined to go back and to try to help them build something better. Some might say it’s just another case of a rich westerner wanting to satisfy his own somewhat selfish desire to help. Perhaps, but in the end, does it really matter?

My last night in Sierra Leone was spent outside Mohamed’s roadside shop, engulfed by shadows and watching cars stream by in the darkness. I sat there knowing I was leaving, leaving them behind. Knowing that I could do nothing more than hope against all hope that things would get better, that perhaps I had done something to make things better, and that perhaps they would find a way to build a better future. For without hope, we are but shadows of what we could be.

Courage.

2006-01-30T03:04:00.000-08:00

Politics and violence.

2006-01-30T02:59:00.000-08:00

How does one get so desperate as to kill his fellow man? I see it here and I saw it before in Rwanda. Former neighbors, former friends turning on each other in the name of some far-fetched ideology that promises to take them away from the poverty that is life in too much of Africa. Yet country after country realizes much too late that the violence does nothing but ruin the country, and does little to address the root causes of the conflict, the hatrid, and the all-too common poverty.

Patience is a virtue.

2006-01-30T02:58:00.000-08:00

In the tinderbox that is Freetown, most sit idly by as the clock ticks. Life in this land of abject poverty is simply a matter of survival. Enough money for food, for a taxi, maybe for a bread and butter breakfast. Three years after peace was declared they still have nothing. Young men who were once rebels, sit idly waiting for something that may never come, work, school, anything to get them off the streets. But as everyday passes the threat that someone will drop the match rises, the paper house swaying gently in an Atlantic breeze…. Nothing to lose….

Karoake.

2006-01-30T02:56:00.000-08:00

How I’ve ended up in this Karoake bar with a handful of soldiers is beyond me. Nonetheless I’m now watching them take their turns belting out god-awful renditions of Hits from the 80’s. But this isn’t about sounding good. This is about, albeit momentarily, forgetting whats going on outside. Forgetting that beyond the walls of this fortress lies a country in shambles and neck-deep in poverty. So thousands of miles away from home, here they are, a proverbial united nations of peacekeepers – Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Guatamalans, Nepalis, Nigerians and a few Brits.

Beyond comprehension

2006-01-30T02:51:00.000-08:00

What does it feel like to be scared, truly scared? To know that someone is trying to kill you – that you are the hunted? I can’t imagine what the people of Sierra Leone felt like for nearly a decade, knowing that somewhere over the hills were a people that wanted nothing more than to wipe them out. Fear is something very relative. We can only compare that gut wrenching feeling to our own experiences. What scars it must leave behind on its victims, both the perpetrators and those who feared the latters violence.

Dusty Streets and Sweet Smells

2005-10-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in Freetown for three weeks now and while the city is still an utterly chaotic place, I’ve really taken to it. Men and women ply the streets all hours of the day, selling anything they get their hands on. The smell of fried cassava, plaintains, chicken and fish permeates what is otherwise a mix of dust, rotting garbage and petrol fumes. Children weave between parked cars and the ubiquitous piles of steel and garbage, selling candies, fruit and bags of cold water to passerbyes. The governments policy of universal education has allowed most children to attend school but many more are too poor to afford the required uniforms, books and supplies. Most of the children who do attend school do so in shifts, spending their mornings in class and their afternoons on the dusty streets of Freetown trying to make enough money to purchase their next meal. Young men and women are largely in a similar situation. With few private sector jobs and few chances to attend post-secondary education, they take to the streets hoping to make a few dollars by selling second hand clothing, towels, etc. Life in Freetown is not easy. A large proportion survive on less than a dollar a day, enough to eat but nowhere near enough to escape from the cycle of poverty that grips this beautiful West African nation.

Woken by the hand of God

2005-08-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

The Sani Pass, Lesotho
June 17, 2004

Gus and Betty were retired missionaries touring through Lesotho as they paid a visit to their eldest son who was volunteering in the Peace Corps. They’d spent twenty years working in parishes throughout the Senegal, and their children had each chosen similar paths. While a pair of God fearing retirees isn’t my usual idea of good company, my choices in the mountainous kingdom of Lesotho were undeniably slim.
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I’d been having trouble sleeping that night, must have been dinner or perhaps the altitude I thought. Regardless, it was 2am and I was wide awake in the pitch dark confines of our room. As I stared blankly at the ceiling all I could think of was the searing pain that made its way through my chest and throat every time I took a breath. The cold weather had got to me.
___________________________________________________________

“Everybody wake up – we have to get out of here.” I’ll never forget Gus’s choppy voice, resonating off the rooms barren walls. Instantly I was alert, trying in vain to focus on something, anything. All I could find, though, was smoke, hot, choking smoke. Gus shone the flashlight from his top bunk and the rays of light barely made their way to me. Between us lay a chasm of smoke, billowing out from the fireplace, turning our cozy chambers into a race against time.

We quickly gathered ourselves and crawled our way towards the door. My throat seared with pain as I tried to catch my breath. As Gus pushed open the door we felt the fierce winter winds whip across our faces as clouds of smoke forced their way out of the building. The cold air snapped me out the haze that had nearly paralyzed me but I still couldn’t muster a word. Looking over at Gus and Betty, our eyes met, each of us knowing that another ten minutes in there would have meant we might never have woken up….

Makes you think

2005-07-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

I found this walking through the hills around Ruacana, a small town in Northern Namibia. I was camping on the edge of a massive valley bordering Angola and as I lay in my tent I could hear the faint sound of children coming from the valley. The next day I went for a walk and among the children and livestock was this reminder of the Namibian war of independence.

Humbled in the hills of Africa: Part 1

2005-06-30T20:30:00.000-07:00

In the confines of Bujambura you’d be hard pressed to find any signs of the civil war that rages beyond the hills that frame the capital against Lake Tanganyaka. Thrown into chaos along with their Rwandan neighbours in 1994 the civil war that has devastated the pristine forests of this tiny country has rarely made its way into the heart of the capital. Instead, the streets bustle with hawkers, street kids, and well-dressed businessman shuffling through the dusty streets, noisy markets, sweet-smelling pastry shops, all trying to hang on to the optimism that recent peace has brought.

My first night is spent staring through the window of my lonely hotel room, listening to the sounds of a city that, despite a 10pm curfew, is alive and wants to show it. The nightclub across the street is a haze of smoke and lights, pumping out a mix of house and rock music that has the walls in my room shaking. I’d love to go but my heart has yet to regain a normal pace. I’m still nervous, downright scared to be here. The customs officials at the port reassured me that all was calm, as did the Pasteur whom I’ve very quickly begun to trust, but I need a night to acclimatize to these feelings of fear.

The Pasteur brought me to this hotel – an apparent favourite of the foreigners in town. Looking around during dinner I came to the quick and very evident conclusion that I’m the only tourist here – the only non-soldier here, save for a few extremely pretty local ladies. There are small groupings of soldiers scattered around the patio, all separated by nationality, no one seems to mix. Around 10 French speaking African soldiers have taken over the pool table while just in front of me, 5 soldiers from Bahrain are fixed on the television set, yet to say a word to each other since I sat down. I’m not sure if I feel safer surrounded by them or whether it simply provides a bigger target. This isn’t Iraq but I can’t help my thoughts from wandering.

……………………

I arrived in Kigoma around 4pm – accompanied by a friendly German couple – having spent the last three days swaying in the bowels of the MV Liemba. Life on the boat was exactly what I thought it would be - a living, growing mass of people and goods. Though I would be lying to say I wasn’t disappointed to find a fully stocked bar with cable TV, my selfish dreams of being another of the great explorers doesn’t work as well with them on board.

………………………

My first full-day in Buja is made easier by the return of the Pasteur who has volunteered himself as my escort. Despite my confident pleas I know he knows I’m scared to be here alone. Something about him has stripped away all my usual apprehensions – I’m aware of this but don’t seem to mind.

We spend our first day driving between town and the Customs Office at the Port to retrieve our passports. As I learn over the course of my stay, travel in Burundi requires more than the normal level of patience. Thankfully and quite surprisingly the bureaucratic hurdles are not accompanied by any requests for un petit cadeau. The imposing female Customs Officer is much more interested in whether I might know her cousin who escaped to Montreal some years ago. Canada is a big place I explain, though I’ll keep my ears open. She smiles and asks God to keep me safe. It doesn’t seem right though, I should be the one asking God to keep her safe. I should be the one looking up passages in the Book to give her hope. It’s amazing that in a land absolutely raped by war the people have so much hope, so much optimism and such overwhelming goodwill. Leaving the Port feels like leaving the home of a good friend. We just can’t seem to leave. The ladies have found out that my friend is a Pastor and bring the office to a standstill as they interrogate him on the meaning of various passages. A small crowd gathers around us, many are annoyed at the delay while others are mesmerized by the sermon delivered by the Pasteur . His words are like Magic, bringing smiles and tears to our growing group of friends.

With our paperwork accomplished we make our way into the heart of Buja. It’s an amazing town, completely run down but so full of life. At every corner well-dressed money changers walk up beside me and whisper the going rate in my ear hoping that I’m as naïve as I look. We make our way into the cornerstone of life in Buja, the central market. It is quite possibly the biggest market I’ve ever seen, putting St. Lawrence market in Toronto to shame. People run to and from between the mass of goods and produce available. It’s always a shock to see so much food in a place that is supposed to be so poor. The Pasteur's cell phone rings and we part ways with a promise to meet up in the afternoon. For the first time in ages I feel like I have a friend. He’s told me so much about his life in the Congo, his family, the war that I feel like I’ve known him forever. He is so well-spoken, so calm, so friendly. I continue my tour of the market, accosted by smiles and shouts of “Patron”, boss in French. There’s always one or two people whose smiles draw you in and before I know it I’m being given a sales speech by a friendly man, my age, in the brightest pink shirt I’ve ever seen. He calls me boss but I tell him that this is his store so he’s the boss. He laughs and says I’m a good man. Boss or not I’m not buying what he’s selling but he doesn’t seem to mind. I love meeting people like this, curious like me. We talk for a bit before I tell him I need to go. Go where he asks? I smile and shrug my shoulders, the worlds a big place I tell him. Equally satisfied we both walk away with big grins on our faces, both yelling “Au revoir Patron”.

…………………………………

The soldiers at the Port in Kigoma are positive I can get on the boat tomorrow without any problems. What about a visa? Not to worry, just show up at 6am.

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The hotel is empty when I get back. The soldiers must all be out on their rounds. I swear every third car I see is a UN or MSF car. The others being taxis and the ubiquitous mini-buses. The hotel receptionist is around my age and a student at the only university in the country. He, like many others here, is very critical of the soldiers. They come supposedly to help but do little he claims, using the massacre of 200 refugees a few weeks back as a prime example. There’s a huge gap between the expectations of the local people and the actions of the UN personnel. Despite it he doesn’t want them to leave. Too many people depend on their presence to make a living. Look around he says, I’m the only tourist the hotel has seen in weeks. If it weren’t for the soldiers he would be out of a job, so would the extremely pretty ladies sitting at the bar.

The Pasteur drops by but can’t stay longer than a cup of coffee. His attempts to get a visa to travel to Brussels aren’t going well. In spite of his frustrations he still impresses me.

Before I know it night has fallen and I’m joined at the hotel restaurant by the droves of returning soldiers. I can tell they are curious as to who I am. I say hello to a few but they just mumble and walk by. Eric tells me they probably think I’m a journalist or worse yet, a stupid tourist. We all sit in silence, eating our dinners, watching the soccer highlights. The TV cuts out momentarily and the soldiers scream in protest, urging the barman to fix it. He hits it so hard I can’t believe it’s not in pieces but miraculously the picture jumps back on.

I can’t understand this silence. There are 30, maybe forty people in the courtyard yet no one is talking. I guess their jobs must carry a pretty heavy mental toll. Or maybe they’re all just thinkers like me. Regardless I’m relieved, yet somewhat apprehensive, when a well-dressed man asks to join me. I’m lonely and am dying to talk to someone so we quickly hit it off. He’s the interim Minister of the Environment for the new government and after a day of meetings he needs a beer. Worlds apart, life isn’t so different. We talk well into the night and before I know it he offers to help me extend my visa. This country needs help and he isn’t shy to ask. I’ve often thought of staying here to help but I don’t know what I’d do. I’m not a doctor, a teacher, or anything specific for that matter. I just want to help. He tells me to sleep on it and that he’ll contact me in the morning to fix my visa.

I can’t sleep that night, my brain too busy dissecting the million ways I could stay behind.
Again I’m tempted by the nightclub across the street but decide to enjoy it from my balcony instead. I’ve overcome my initial fears of the city but I don’t feel like venturing out alone. Too bad the Pasteur isn’t younger and up for a night on the town.

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I sat for two hours in the Customs Office at the Military Port in Kigoma before I was told that I wasn’t in the right place. The officer walks me across the base and before I know it my passport is stamped and I’ve taken my seat on the bullet-riddled first-class deck of the MV Mwongozo. Compared to the frenzy of life on the first leg of my trip up Lake Tanganyiaka, the subdued if not downright quiet atmosphere on the boat is somewhat unnerving. I take a walk around the boat and count a total of 15 passengers. For the first time in months I’m doubting one of my decisions. Africa holds enough risks, let alone walking into a civil war. What was I thinking.
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