Boda Bodas Part II

Butare, Rwanda September 12/2006 (a belated post)

Back in Butare to work at Radio Salus again. Most of the time I make the 30-minute journey on foot but there are times when my pack is too heavy and/or I'm simply too tired so I resort to taking a moto (Rwanda's version of boda-bodas). At least here the drivers carry an extra helmet and the distances are relatively small.

Well, today presented a new challenge. As I walked to the moto stop by the stadium I realized I was wearing a long dress -- yip, and I don't think it would have been cool to hike it up and straddle both the bike and the driver. Shit, I thought, as I beckoned a driver. Then I heard somebody behind me say "muzungu" (white person in Kinyarwanda/kiswahili). I turned. A young man was standing there complete with a broken bottle held up in his hand. Coming right at me. I wanted to run or at least turn away. Instead, I smiled. We greeted, shook hands. I relaxed except for the nagging thought in my mind of the side saddle ride I'd have to do shortly.

The bottle-wielding man beckoned a moto. I grabbed the driver's shoulders and slid my ever-widening butt onto what seemed a pathetically inadequate "seat". My feet flopped around resembling fish caugh on dry land. I grabbed a small handle at the end of the seat and began to wonder waht was going to prevent me from sliding off or worse flung off (nothing, would be the correct answer!).

I decide I wouldn't move a muscle (balance, you know) before we reached our destination. And I didn't. Well, except holding the bar as tight as I could and moving my eyeballs to glance up as we passed a huge truck with a guy in the passenger seat looking down on me with a bemused (or amused?) look on his face. And he wasn't alone. As we whizzed down the main street there were more looks -- amused, bemused, shocked, horrified. But at least, I thought, I was providing some entertainment.

A few days later when presented with the same predicament (the long dress scenario), I realized I didn't want to balance anymore. So I just hopped on, skirt hiked up (but a reasonable hike) and straddled. Now that was more like it!

Trafficked Kids

My afternoon was spent with children who'd been trafficked and just recently rescued. Yes, basically kids in servitude here in Ghana by fellow Ghanaians. I interviewed two of them but there were 25 of them who had been released and are going to be reunited with their families tomorrow. Some of these kids were as young as 5 or 6. Many of the older ones (13-15) had been in servitude since they were 5 or 6. One of the boys told me he didn't know how old he was when he was taken away (purportedly to be given the chance to go to school) but went to bring in a smaller boy and said "this is how big I was when I was taken away."

Rejoice, our housekeeper, had wanted to come with me and I'm glad she did. She too is from the Volta region where these kids were from and so was able to translate from Ewe to English. A couple of times she started crying as she translated.

The story goes like this. Many of these kids are born into poor, large families with many kids and with not enough food or enough money to put them in school. Someone will come along and say they'll take one or two of the kids and put them into school. The parents agree (sometimes they're given a small sum of money). The kid goes with the man who puts them into school for a week or so. After one week, the man takes them out of school and takes them away, forcing them to do work.

Both boys and girls are taken. The girls will be forced to cook, to collect firewood and water and various other tasks while the boys are usually forced to work in the fishing industry. Some die. Why? Because their job is to dive to the bottom of Lake Volta to untangle the nets that have gotten caught on the tree stumps in the lake. Some of the boys get eaten by crocodiles, some get stuck in the sucking mud and can't get up for air. Others, like Kwame's brother James, just disappeared until his dead, bloated body showed up 3 days later.

Kwame is one of the boys that I interviewed. He's 15. He's the one who said he had no idea of how old he was when he was taken from his family but showed me by the size of another young boy. I'm guessing he was around 6 or 7 when he was taken. He hasn't seen his family in 8 years. But he'll get to see them for the first time in 8 years tomorrow.

These 25 kids were rescued by an organization called APPLE several weeks ago. They spend a few weeks at the Social Welfare Center before they're reunited with their families.

I think one of the things that astounded me the most was that Kwame just spoke so easily about the whole ordeal. I mean 8 years of his life as a slave. His childhood gone forever. Yet he is hopeful about he future. He wants to be a carpenter. And he wants to make sure that no other kid should have to endure what he did.

Had to go to Togo!

This blog was really only an excuse to use the title...I love writing that -- to go to togo!

But seriously, we got back from a fabulous vacation in South Africa and the next day I was off to Togo to participate in a Media Foundation of West Africa/International Media Support mission to assess the media needs regarding training etc in Togo. It was an interesting few days where I also got to visit a number of radio stations and newspapers. If North American journalists ever feel they've got it bad they need to make a visit to Togo (or almost any other African country for that matter). I visited radio stations where their on-air board pots were held in place with bits of ratty cardboard thus enabling the pot to stay in place...thus enabling the sound to actually go out on the air.

Reporters write everything long-hand, there are usually only a couple of computers, ancient tape decks (ok, and a few Nagras), most newspapers don't have an office or a printing press (and yes, that does beg the question of how they manage to stay in business etc...well, a lot of them don't!)

It's a pretty dire situation but what impressed me the most was the passion and the commitment and energy of some of these journalists - they believe in what they're doing, in the fight for press freedom and remain optimistic. Pretty incredible.

Boda-Bodas in the Morning

Kampala, Uganda

Hanging on to my seat for dear life I wrack my brain trying to remember whether my Saint Christopher is on my person or not. I can take a deep breath (though I continue to hold it) when I remember it’s somewhere in the bowels of my pack. I continue hanging onto the seat, thinking how my sister would call me the biggest hypocrite being on a motorcycle. I’ve always sworn I would never get on one of these two-wheeled machines. Let alone without a helmet. Let alone in the crazy traffic of central Kampala. Yikes. I continue to hold my breath as we squeeze between cars on one side and matatus (mini-buses – really aged vans of various makes which are ubiquitous in most of sub-Saharan Africa in which they squeeze as many people as possible (usually around 16 though it’s clearly written on the side that “holds max 11 pax”). There are mere centimeters between my leg and the vehicle we pass. I still hold my breath. And my backpack in which is my recording gear and my laptop – normally I’d call it my life, but in this circumstance it’s very clear to me what my real life is. And it’s almost passing before my eyes.

The boda-boda thing started out of desperation. I had only arrived in Kampala late the night before and knew only that I had an interview with the deputy mayor the next morning at 9am. I figured I had a 50-50 shot as to where the interview would be – either at City Hall or at Makerere University, where my contacts worked who had set everything up. I went for Makerere. I lost the bet. So I ran across campus and not seeing a taxi but beckoned by a helmeted motorcycle driver. I hesitated for a second, thought about the interview, threw my pack on my back as I nodded at the driver. I threw my leg over the bike, held onto the driver and asked him (very nicely) to please go slow. I had no idea how far we had to go. I hung on. I prayed. I thought of Saint Christopher, my sister, my husband, my family, my dog, my life….well, you get the picture.

But what I didn’t bargain for was how exhilarating the ride would be. And so each morning after my 45 minute very squishy matatu ride to the center, I’d hop a boda-boda, ask the driver to go slow and listen to the amused mutterings of Ugandans as they pointed to me, a clearly crazed (or crazy?) muzungu, skirt hiked up, hanging on for dear life, straddling the day’s boda-boda.

Where has Betz BEEN???

Cote d'Ivoire (twice), Nigeria and here in Ghana doing a couple of workshops and some consulting. I think I was traumatized by my last visit to Cote d'Ivoire where I was detained by plain-clothed policemen on arrival at the airport. I had just been to Abidjan two weeks earlier without incident and had the luxury of US State Dept. amenities such as airport expediters and air-con, comfy vehicles to shuttle me around. Then I arrived to do some more training of journalists in how to cover HIV/AIDS (really the only thing US-funded organizations can do with journalists in Cote d'Ivoire while quite frankly some training in conflict resolution etc would be much more useful...tho perhaps the situation is too far gone...).

I really don't want to relive the last Cote d'Ivoire visit as it just left such a bad taste in my mouth (no doubt in part due to vomiting for 24 hours two days before I was to return to Accra) and I'm just tired of telling the story. Long story short, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut but then when someone calls me a racist it's kind of hard....

So, really didn't want to do much writing after that and was just plain busy. Last week I started a project here in Accra with some (small) grant money I got. We're getting a group of 6 HIV+ women to keep radio diaries over the next couple months. Each woman is paired with a radio journalist if any technical, moral or other assistance is needed. I was a bit worried about this project but the workshops we did last week left me feeling much better and actually quite excited about the project. I'll keep you posted ... well, I'll try!

This week will be my last workshop for a while as I will then be devoting the summer to some freelance contracts I have to fulfill. I'll be filing radio stories for a Canadian podcast called "The Green Planet Monitor" (blog for that will be up and running soon). I'm the Africa person and will be covering stories on environment and development and will actually get to travel a bit. My first trip is back to Rwanda and Uganda where I've got some stories to pursue....

The Beauty and The Boys

It’s Sunday morning, the first day I’ve been able to sleep in while here. OK, so I was up at 5am to finish my Dan Brown novel and to listen to the deafening torrents of rain that slammed the house’s tin roof. An hour later I poked my head outside to see the most vibrant rainbow just to the north. And then I went back to sleep.

It had been raining all night in waves ranging from soft patters on the roof to the latest deluge that had awoken me. The odd clap of thunder and accompanying flashes of light had also snapped me awake several times.

Now as I sit out on the front porch drinking my Maraba espresso, listening to the birds and the sounds of singing churchgoers drifting from the Eglise Ste. Therese down the street I’m struck by the peacefulness and the incredible beauty. Thanks to all the rain, the flowers are in bloom in every color from palest of yellow roses to the loudest fuchsia bougainvillea. Yellow, red and blue birds flitter from one bush to the next chittering happily.

Yesterday on my way to Nyanza I was again awestruck by the stunning beauty of this tiny country. The sun was still coming up and the clouds were still down in the valleys, fingers of mist slowly withdrawing from the hills. The hills and vales are a million shades of green velvet and silk with the ever-changing African light doing a masterful job of lighting that I seriously doubt could ever be captured on film. Maybe that’s why I don’t take pictures here.

But perhaps what amazes me most is how much the beauty and serenity of this country belie it’s horrific past. It never ceases to amaze me how Rwanda’s beauty just kind of lures you in -- it’s just so incredibly stunning. But then you see the flash of a machete as it assists in the chopping down of a tree, or watch the film “100 Days” (as I did last night while the rain pounded) or drive by one of the dozens of genocide sites scattered around the country and it all comes back. Sometimes I wonder if I just have an overactive imagination -- like when I’m in this house wondering if it was around in 1994 and if so whether any people were killed here. But no, I don’t think it’s just that. I think this country just gets under your skin (well, at least mine). On one hand it’s got this horrendous history but at the same its beauty makes it seems nearly impossible for the two aspects to be reconciled.

And maybe that’s why this country freaks me out just a bit each time I come. It’s like you just can’t escape this country’s history despite the efforts to beautify and to put the past behind. And then this year I’ve managed to time my visit here (unintentionally) at the precise time the Genocide is being commemorated. And I find myself asking myself if I can’t push the genocide out of my mind, then how can the eight million Rwandans do so on a daily basis? I don’t know.

But then I think maybe it’s just that I spent the past 24 hours with some genocide orphans – Alphonsina’s family. I have “followed” these kids since I was first introduced to them in 2003 by a photojournalist friend when I met Alphonsina and three of her four younger brothers, the youngest was HIV positive. He died last year. He was only 11 or 12.

The last time I saw the boys was last November when I went with my friend Leopold to Gikongoro to track them down. When we found them they told us that Alphonsina had moved to Nyanza, gotten married and had a third child. And that Ariwanda had died.

Coincidentally, a woman in the UK had tracked me down as she wanted to help the boys any way she could. The November trip with Leopold was to visit the boys to see what we could do.

When I saw Leopold last week he told me he had been in touch with the boys and would arrange for the boys to take the bus to Butare from Gikongoro for a visit Friday afternoon. Of course as luck would have it, I got stuck in meeting after meeting each seeming to last forever. I finally got home after 6pm just as dusk began to set in. I had managed to snarf a bite of pizza down my gullet when I heard “Allo?”

I swallowed the first bite of food I’d eaten that day and went to see Leopold. I was sure he had the boys with him and sure enough he told me he’d brought the boys to see me. I went outside. There they were. I hugged them both and had them come inside. I can’t describe the immense joy I feel every time I see these boys.

It only became clear later that they’d probably never been in such luxurious surroundings for later Bariwanda, 14, asked to use the toilet. I showed him where it was. I realized there was a problem when a few minutes later the 21-year-old Alphonse went to assist his younger brother with something. I quickly followed suit. They were both hovering over the toilet and finally with hand motions asked me how to get rid of what they had deposited. I showed them how to flush the toilet. They were amazed!

A little while later I told them they could take showers if they wanted. They were thrilled. They loved the bar of soap I gave them and Bariwanda was still clutching the soap after he had showered and continued to rub it into his skin. Apparently he had only found the cold water as I later heard Alphonse exclaiming after his shower “amazi ashooshi” (warm water). And he had the biggest grin on his face.

These boys never cease to amaze me. They can find happiness in the most simple of things like Bariwanda’s small plastic, mud-covered toy cow that splits in two. They love magazines and newspapers even if they’re in English. Bariwanda impressed me that evening by counting to twenty in English. But he’s also got a bit of an attitude and that concerns me as we move them to Kigali (with the third brother who is living with Alphonsina) and try to get Bariwanda back into primary school and the two older brothers technical training of some sort. I just keep telling myself he’ll be fine.

I’m thrilled that the boys seem to understand the implications of what we’re offering and that they’ll be together again. I’m particularly excited that these boys may finally have some sort of future and I’m especially grateful to my friend Leopold who is taking all of this on even with the demands of his own family and a full-time job here in Butare.

And I just hope that the next time I get to Rwanda the boys will be in school.

Old Newspapers

So not only was I apprehensive about returning to work with the fledgling university radio station, Radio Salus, which went on the air last November, but it seemed my fears were confirmed upon my arrival. The first thing I saw on the interim station director’s desk was a copy of a newspaper from the precise week of the station’s launch – no current newspaper either daily or weekly – just a paper dated November 2005. Yikes, I thought, this can’t be happening. Surely they realize some four months have passed.

I tried to ignore the paper, but couldn’t, I mean it was right there -- one of the few things on his desk. It wouldn’t escape my peripheral vision no matter how hard I tried.

With the old newspaper as our audience, the interim director began to fill me in on the happenings of the past four months. It didn’t start well. The previous director had left almost two months previously (which I had been aware of) and Aldo was the interim director. What I didn’t know was that Aldo had already taken another job and would likely already be gone by the time a new director was hired. I was mortified. There would be no continuity, no historical memory.

Our chat continued and despite my abhorrence of the word ‘problem’ it was used a lot…and not just by Aldo. I was just as guilty. There had been several technical problems many of which were solved by our French savior, Vincent, who worked for the university’s computer department. The second transmitter was still being held hostage by Rwandan customs and there seemed to be no idea when it would be released, nor when it could then be installed. This second transmitter will allow the station to reach Kigali and will mean Radio Salus will reach almost 100% of the country’s population. It also means there is greater potential for future regional radio partnerships.

Currently, the signal reaches the southern half of Rwanda extending into northern Burundi. And while we don’t get all the way up north, depending on whether you’re on a hill or in a valley, you can get the signal all the way in the northeastern part of Rwanda. The station often receives call from Ruhengeri, famous as the starting point for visits to the mountain gorillas.

Three days have passed and after numerous meetings and chats I realize how far the station has come. Yes, of course, there are issues, or problems (I still prefer challenges) but I’ve been completely impressed with the initiative of the students and the journalists. They believe in what they are doing and that is something that I’ve always found encouraging – the fact that the journalists I’ve worked with in Rwanda want to make a difference. And that is clearly the case here at Radio Salus. Somehow, despite the absence of solid leadership (or, dare I say, any leadership at all) they’ve organized themselves, their programming and the station as a whole.

They’re archiving their material, maintaining program logs and basically doing the best they can with what they’ve got and while we still have a lot of work to do, at least for the moment I’m impressed.

But I have yet to find out why last November’s newspaper was sitting on Aldo’s desk.

Apprehension in Butare

So not only was I apprehensive about returning to work with the fledgling university radio station, Radio Salus, which went on the air last November, but it seemed my fears were confirmed upon my arrival. The first thing I saw on the interim station director’s desk was a copy of a newspaper from the precise week of the station’s launch – no current newspaper either daily or weekly – just a paper dated November 2005. Yikes, I thought, this can’t be happening. Surely they realize some four months have passed.

I tried to ignore the paper, but couldn’t, I mean it was right there -- one of the few things on his desk. It wouldn’t escape my peripheral vision no matter how hard I tried.

With the old newspaper as our audience, the interim director began to fill me in on the happenings of the past four months. It didn’t start well. The previous director had left almost two months previously (which I had been aware of) and Aldo was the interim director. What I didn’t know was that Aldo had already taken another job and would likely already be gone by the time a new director was hired. I was mortified. There would be no continuity, no historical memory.

Our chat continued and despite my abhorrence of the word ‘problem’ it was used a lot…and not just by Aldo. I was just as guilty. There had been several technical problems many of which were solved by our French savior, Vincent, who worked for the university’s computer department. The second transmitter was still being held hostage by Rwandan customs and there seemed to be no idea when it would be released, nor when it could then be installed. This second transmitter will allow the station to reach Kigali and will mean Radio Salus will reach almost 100% of the country’s population. It also means there is greater potential for future regional radio partnerships.

Currently, the signal reaches the southern half of Rwanda extending into northern Burundi. And while we don’t get all the way up north, depending on whether you’re on a hill or in a valley, you can get the signal all the way in the northeastern part of Rwanda. The station often receives call from Ruhengeri, famous as the starting point for visits to the mountain gorillas.

Three days have passed and after numerous meetings and chats I realize how far the station has come. Yes, of course, there are issues, or problems (I still prefer challenges) but I’ve been completely impressed with the initiative of the students and the journalists. They believe in what they are doing and that is something that I’ve always found encouraging – the fact that the journalists I’ve worked with in Rwanda want to make a difference. And that is clearly the case here at Radio Salus. Somehow, despite the absence of solid leadership (or, dare I say, any leadership at all) they’ve organized themselves, their programming and the station as a whole.

They’re archiving their material, maintaining program logs and basically doing the best they can with what they’ve got and while we still have a lot of work to do, at least for the moment I’m impressed.

But I have yet to find out why last November’s newspaper was sitting on Aldo’s desk.