Fimo Mitchell

A country with a vision

Fimo Mitchell — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 15:43:14 +0000

I found myself taking many pictures of the Rwandan flag

With a calm demeanour but stern voice, he reiterated that I would not be granted entrance into the country unless I produced a visa document. “You must have an acceptance letter like the other [tourists],” he said, with a sympathetic smile, after I offered to pay more than the 30$ that Canadians (not Americans and Brits) must fork up upon arriving in Rwanda.

As we conversed in English and French, it was obvious, despite my ability to make him grin and even chuckle, that he wasn’t going to excuse my ignorance (I seriously didn’t know that I needed to apply for a tourist visa) by stamping my passport and letting me walk through customs or take a bribe.

Yet, the thirty-something year-old looking man genuinely was concerned about my predicament and ultimately played a role in getting me out of it by making numerous calls, on his cell phone, to my Rwandan friend who was able to get a contact at immigrations to expedite my visa application form that I completed online in the customs area. He was fair, kind and courteous, which in my travels around the world, are rare qualities to find in a customs officer.

With that customs officer’s display of humanity fresh in my mind, the magnificent view of hills and lights from my passenger seat window and a cool evening breeze that was treating me to a prolong forehead kiss, I proudly told my friends during the ride to my hostel, that I was happy to be in Rwanda. I’m not sure if my statement surprised anyone in the SUV, but I surely wasn’t expecting to feel that way, at least not so soon.

When Joan and Anne, sisters I befriended during my college years, suggested that I paid them a visit in Kigali, since I was going to be backpacking around Africa, I was somewhat hesitant. Simply hearing the country’s name conjured up horrific images of the 1994 genocide and the refrain of Corneille’s “I’ll Never Call You Home Again”. Sensing my nervousness, they both, in their respective ways, mentioned that Rwanda was on the move and would be worth experiencing.

It turns out, they were absolutely right.

Almost all the Rwandans I’ve met and spoken with are young and unbelievably optimistic. They wholeheartedly believe that the country’s best days are ahead and that they can and will play a key part in developing it. When I consider the work many of them are doing or have done, it becomes clear that young people are impacting today’s Rwanda in ways that I never imagined.

Also, I get the sense that Rwandans truly respect President Kagame and believe that he’s steering the country in the right direction. According to government records, more than one million Rwandans have lifted themselves out of poverty in the past five years (In 2006 57% of the population was living in poverty, the rate dropped to 45% in 2011). Unlike North America, where leaders are indifferent to the poor, Rwandan leaders speak of eradicating poverty and growing to the middle-income.

Speaking at a conference on development and poverty reduction, this week in Kigali, Paul Collier, a Professor of Economics and Director of the Center for the Study of African Economies at Oxford University, made the following quote:

“What I see here is what should happen all over Africa. Despite numerous impediments, Rwanda continues to achieve what others have failed to achieve. The combination of growth, reduction in poverty and more equity has been achieved nowhere else in Africa.”

Government initiatives such as the One Cow Per Poor Household, a program launched in 2008 which seeks to provide 257 000 of the poorest families in the country training and support to raise milk for home consumption and Umuganda , a mandatory community service day held on the last Saturday of every month where all able bodied persons above the age of 18 and below 65 are expected to complete some form of community service, appear to have garnered the people’s support.

For the most part, all the Rwandans I’ve come across, strike me as being calm and reserved. But after a mere 13 days in Rwanda, there are some cultural and political nuances that I’m surely missing. After all, I’ve heard a number of locals say, “we Rwandans are complicated people”.

As a capital city, Kigali is remarkably clean, safe and quiet (coming from Dar es Salaam, I did miss a bit of the chaos which tends to give a city its character). There are some areas that are far more developed than others, but I haven’t come across any shantytowns.

Walking around the city it’s hard to imagine that some of the worse atrocities, in recent history, transpired here and around this undeniably beautiful land of a thousand hills a mere 18 years ago.

What Rwanda has been able to accomplish during these 18 years has been exceptional and with all the hope and harmony that seems to be flowing around, I can’t help but buy into the idea that things will continue to improve.

My smiles & my tears

Fimo Mitchell — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 12:56:00 +0000

Some of you have been asking for more pics, well, here are a few with of course some commentary…I hope that’s okay. Perhaps I need to get a cell phone that allows me to access the internet wherever and whenever so that I could use Tweeter effectively and give you a taste of what I’m experiencing in real time. But until that day happens, this is the best I can do. For more photos from this trip check out my flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/220578/ There’s a link to it from my homepage www.fimomitchell.com

Stone Town on the island of Zanzibar.These life-size statutes of slaves bear original chains from the gruesome period of history where Africans where captured on the mainland, transported to Stone Town, crammed into 15 tiny chambers below the earth before being sold by Arab traders and shipped off to Seychelles, Mauritius, Oman and Persia. Apparently the British threatened a naval assault on Zanzibar in 1873, which forced Sultan Barghash to officially close down one of the world's last open slave markets (my guide told me that the Arabs actually managed to keep it running illegally for another 25 years). In 1874, the Cathedral Church of Christ was erected in the same place where slaves were auctioned off like cattle and today it's a World Heritage Site. As I stood there, all I could do was cry.

Mr. Haji, a native of Nengwi, has been teaching at the Nengwi Primary and Secondary School for the past 35 years. Nowadays, he teaches geography, but for many years he was the school's English teacher. I was told that teachers in Zanzibar are not only underpaid, at times they aren't paid at all. I didn't ask Mr. Haji about his salary, but we did discuss an obvious observation I made when I visited a class of secondary students: the girls drastically outnumber the boys. "The boys are not interested in school," he said, without hesitation, "they don't think it's useful to come." Judging by his tone, I didn't get the sense that he thought this would change anytime soon.

It was in China, back in 2002, when I, for the first time, became familiar with David Beckham, Thierry Henry and other superstars of the sport. You see, China, like entire the world, excluding North America, loves football. During my time here in Africa, I've captured an array of images of boys and young men playing The Beautiful Game. I can't say that I've seen the best players in the world, here, but there's something special about watching them play with so much passion and joy. And although almost every player is a Manchester United fan (I'm an Arsenal supporter), I've enjoyed my exchanges with them.

Water, the one thing I'm always drinking is the same thing that apparently allows locals to know that I'm an visitor. According to the guy sitting next to me on the back of a truck heading up to Nengwi (the village in Zanzibar with perhaps the most beautiful beaches in Africa), he was certain that I was from a foreign land when he saw me pull out my water bottle. "People here don't do that," he said, with a wide grin. To think, I was trying to learn Swahili, when all I really needed to do was not carry a water bottle with me in public. As much as I'd like to be seen as a local (there are many reasons why I desire to gain the "local" status, the main one being it allows me to be the observer rather than the observed), when the temperature in Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar never seems to dip bellow 30 degrees, there's no way I'm leaving my water behind.

It's a little past 7am and the meat market in Stone Town is bustling. I happened to be on an early morning walk, when I came across this truck, these men and all this beef. I had never seen anything quite like this, so I began snapping away. I even filmed a bit of this process of taking the meat off the truck and carrying it into the market. What I didn't manage to get on film are the women who approached the truck to buy parts of the cow that I didn't know were eatable. After standing and watching for several minutes, I finally got over the blood and realized that despite all the flies on the meat, it was probably healthier than the stuff we eat in North America. Tanzanians have enjoyed telling me that unlike where I'm from in their country the fruits, vegetables and meat are all organic.

How many people do you think can be crammed into one of these? Whatever number you've come up with, just know there's always room for one more passenger. There are times when such mini vans are the only mode of transport, but then, there are times when I've used them because they are unbelievably cheaper than the other modes. Granted, comfort gets thrown out the window the moment you're seated, because like I said, there's always room for one more passenger even when there's actually no more room. Needless to say, on long trips, they can get very hot and smelly (I'm recalling the 8 hour ride from Windhoek to Rundu in Namibia). But there's something humbling about traveling with the folk who don't have much in terms of material wealth…there's something special about listening to the music they listen to and eating the food they eat.

Washing my whites in the sink. I really didn't think it would come to this but it has. You see, unlike the other countries I've been to during this trip, Tanzania charges some serious prices to have your clothes cleaned. As a result, I've been forced to do it myself which I can't say has been enjoyable in any way. I've seen experienced 'clothes washers' in action and the speed with which they can get through a load is quite impressive. Not only am I slow, but my whites never come out as white as I'm used to. Maybe I'm not scrubbing hard enough? Or maybe I need to use some bleach? Either way, now that I'm in Kigali, I'm hoping to find a good place to have my laundry done because I just can't take this sort of manual labour anymore (yeah I know I probably sound like some spoiled North American).

Pictures and thoughts

Fimo Mitchell — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 16:53:44 +0000

Over the past two months, I’ve been trying to make sense of what I’ve been seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, touching and feeling here in Africa. At times I wish I could share my journal with all of you so that you could get my viewpoints in a rather uncensored fashion. But since I’m not willing to share,in that way, I thought I’d offer some pictures and thoughts.

There are a number of African business tycoons, intellectuals, and economists who argue quite fervently that despite meeting some very basic needs, foreign aid has actually crippled many of the continent’s 53 countries. They argue that money from rich countries has trapped nations in a pattern of governmental corruption, slower economic growth and poverty. The reality is that contrary to how Africa is depicted in the Western media, this continent does not need to be rescued, rather, it desperately needs a square deal. I wonder what Africa would look like if it had equal access to international markets?

While stepping off a coach in Kapiri, a small town located three hours north of Lusaka, fruit and water vendors rushed in hoping to earn some money. Unfortunately this picture doesn’t capture the number of vendors that are vying for our attention. It’s so easy for me, as a passenger, to be bothered by them, the vendors, after all, not only do get in your way when you’re trying to walk away from the bus, but they basically plead with you to buy something. Yet, if we consider their reality, which for the majority of them is one of extreme poverty, their desperate behaviour becomes understandable.

Just 44km south of Lusaka lies a small town of Kafue. I met these two boys at a service station off the main road. They showed up to drink water at the outdoor tap, which adults were strictly using to wash their hands. As I watched them repeatedly place their small hands under the faucet, lower their faces into them and guzzle down the water, as if they'd traversed a desert and were on the verge of dying of thirst, I wondered about their background. Where had they come from? Where were they going? We were unable to communicate in English, so I was left unknowing.

I was looking for the famous Soweto Market in Lusaka and came across this bustling place of commerce. Similar to my fascination with bus and train stations, markets, in non-western countries are always alluring. Rarely do I go to actually purchase goods, I rather enjoy observing the the relationship between vendor and buyer. Yes, such markets do offer cheap counterfeit products which are an obvious draw, but the conversations, the laughter, the disputes, the stares and the array of non-verbal communication are what bring markets to life.

Eight years after former President Frederick Chiluba officially declared Zambia to be a Christian Nation, Archbishop Mambo was quoted in the papers as saying, "There is very little to show that we are a Christian nation with so much wrong-doing, both in private and public life. There is nothing to distinguish us from secular nations. This is sad." Interestingly enough, throughout Zambia's twenty years as a Christian Nation there have been several other religious leaders that have pointed out the country's failure to live up to its name. In my conversations with everyday Zambians, the whole declaration is fundamentally perceived as a joke. Yes, there are preachers that get on coaches and urge passengers to choose Jesus or else face eternity in hell, but for the most part, the people just seem to want to live their lives the way they see fit. Shouldn't they be able to do that?

The big man on the bus

Fimo Mitchell — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 12:07:21 +0000

Where the journey to Dar es Salaam began

Reclining in his makeshift seat next to the driver, he devoured the roasted chicken and french fries with no apparent regard for the forty plus hungry passengers sitting behind him. Then, with his greasy fingers wrapped around a cold bottle of water, he took a gulp to wash down his meal. With my eyes fixed on his large frame, I shook my head in disbelief as he lifted the bottle to his mouth for a second and third time wondering how he, as a ticket collector and main guarantor of passenger safety and comfort, could behave in such a selfish manner.

He, who was often called big man by some of the male passengers, was absolutely aware that the last food stop we made was at six o’clock the previous evening and that it was now lunch time. He must have known that we were out of food and water.

After spending the night parked outside the gate of the Zambia-Tanzania border waiting on it to open at 7am and then waisting close to three hours going through customs, a breakfast stop was in order but wasn’t given.

According to the Zimbabwean woman sitting next to me, who got on the bus in Harare and a few other passengers, he was upset about the money customs officers asked him to pay and complained about us being hours behind schedule due to delays at the border and an accident on the highway.

On the road to Dar es Salaam we had to stop for about an hour because of this accident

(He wasn’t the only one upset about border fees. I wasn’t thrilled about having to cough up 50 US dollars to enter Tanzania, especially when I only had 35 Euros on me and therefore had to walk over to the bureau de change hoping to get a good exchange, which, naturally I didn’t receive so I had to dig into my bag and pull out some Namibian dollars which luckily covered the difference)

In my view, he exposed his tyrannical tendencies at the bus station in Lusaka (where I boarded the coach) when he told me to move out of my first row seat. “But this is my seat,” I protested, calmly, not wanting to make any enemies. “No, it’s not you’ve made a mistake,” he replied, standing next to the second row seat that he wanted me to relocate to. I should mention, that the ticket agent had given me a first row seat so that I could enjoy the extra leg room and even guided me to it ten minutes earlier.

“Come move here, this seat is more comfortable,” he said, with a cunning smile. It took a lot of strength for me to accept his unfair treatment, but I felt it would have been unwise to start a verbal war with a ticket collector in a foreign land, especially since he seemed bent on ruling the bus with an iron fist. A few minutes after moving into my new seat, the bus pulled out of Lusaka Inter-City Bus Terminus and he proudly plopped himself into that first row seat.

This is the bus...I don't have a shot of the big man or the front row seat

During the first four hours of the journey, the bus stopped on numerous occasions. However, he routinely fixed himself by the door and rudely stopped some men from exiting the bus to relieve themselves in the bushes.

Yet, I must concede, that for the most part, he appeared to have earned the appreciation of everybody on the bus, excluding mine of course. The African music he played had people singing and the Tanzanian television dramas he put on the large Sony flat screen captivated everybody. He also handed out lollipops, which was an extremely popular act ( I must say, it was odd seeing so many grown men and women sucking on candy on the end of a stick. I gracefully told the big man I didn’t want his candy).

Just when I was beginning to forget about the seat incident, he bumped my shoulder on his way down the aisle, waking me out of a light sleep. I don’t know if the contact was intentional, but when it happened again later on in the night, when the bus was completely dark, I suspected that he might have been looking to start an altercation.

By late morning, on the second day of our trek to Dar es Salaam, I heard a number of loud sighs that eventually turned into faint grumblings. One female passenger asked that music be played or that something be shown on the Sony flat screen. Though her requests were not met, the big man did hand out candy and then passed out several lollipops to passengers he referred to as VIPs.

Taking into account the minor confrontation that occurred earlier in the day when he tried to bully me into staying on the bus by putting a hand on my chest and I refused, deciding to walk right pass him (when I returned to the bus, he was standing at the door conversing with a female passenger. He pretended not to see me and was deliberately blocking my entrance but I powered my way through him), I definitely wasn’t a VIP.

“We have not had our breakfast or lunch and you want us to use the bathroom,” said the Zimbabwean, translating the outburst of a gentleman sitting behind me after the bus made a bathroom rather than a food stop. The man’s words garnered to support of almost every traveler. An hour later, the bus stopped and the big man announced in a stern voice that we had 10 minutes to get some grub.

Although I hadn’t eating all day and didn’t have any Tanzanian Shillings to purchase a meal (all I could afford with my two US dollars was water and a box of ginger cookies), I felt vindicated watching the big man lose the admiration of most passengers. I was tempted to lead a mini celebration when he gathered his belongings and got off the bus in a small town near Dar es Salaam. The final hour of the trip was astonishingly more enjoyable without the big man.

Searching for authentic experiences

Fimo Mitchell — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 20:49:57 +0000

I didn’t come to Swakopmund to go quad biking in the desert, but after hearing a few travellers rave about the experience, I began to consider signing up for it. Unlike skydiving and paragliding, two other activities that are offered here in the Namib Desert, quad biking is exhilarating but not frightening.

It’s the tourist’s longing for experiences and the local’s recognition of this longing which is at the root of the tourism industry. Regardless of whether a tourist prefers to travel in a tour group or navigate the foreign lands independently, like myself, the reality is that a tourist always ends up paying for an experience.

During my conversations with non-Africans tourists, here in Namibia, I’ve noticed that by and large, they’ve come to this country, and Africa, desiring authentic encounters with its people, wildlife, cultures and landscapes.

As a result, many have rented cars to freely drive across the 824 268 square km of predominantly desert land, camped out in deserts and even volunteered in nature reserves. While others have done some of the activities and extreme sports listed above, visited townships as part of a guided tour (just like in South Africa, guided tours of townships here in Namibia are available for a price of 40 or 50 dollars) and of course gone to Etosha national park which is home to four of the “Big Five” (the lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant and rhino are part of the “Big Five”. Tourists speak of the “Big Five” with such admiration, I keep thinking maybe I should try to at least see one of them…or maybe not, what can I say I’m not particularly motivated to go on a safari).

Nevertheless, after all this effort and not to mention, money spent, rarely do I come across a non-African tourist that has been overwhelmingly satisfied with his or her time in Africa. It’s alarming to see the amount of long and exhausted faces hanging around hostels. On some occasions, I’ve met travellers who’ve felt completely cheated, claiming to have received very little, in terms of experience, for the fees they paid to visit countries like Botswana, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, Kenya, Tanzania and Malawi.

I’m not a shrink and there are obviously many reasons why so many non-African tourists may be disappointed or even bored, but I can’t help but think that it might have something to do with expectations not being met. Imagine journeying all the way to Africa and looking forward to having an authentic African experience (the key word here being authentic, which surely means different things to different people) and not having it?

As I reflected on this issue of unmet expectations I’ve wondered if it’s still possible for the traveller to have an authentic experience, when practically everything has been commercialized by the local.

Last Thursday afternoon, I was at Pick N Pay, a South African grocery chain that’s present across Namibia, to buy some food when I suddenly felt the urge to invite myself to a local’s house for dinner. “You’re joking right?” asked the young woman, with a quizzical look on her face as her two friends appeared to be discussing my request. “No, I’m very serious,” I said, grinning widely, “I’ve been in Africa for almost a month but I don’t feel like I’ve eaten many African meals so I’d like to eat something Namibian.” After a fifteen minute discussion, they agreed to have me over for dinner so long as I brought non-alcoholic beverages.

That dinner, will remain one of my favourites for many reasons, but mainly because it was organically spontaneous (the food was great and the conversation was very engaging).

Sure, there are some hunter-gatherer tribes scattered that I would relish the opportunity to commune with, but in this day and age, I may have to pay hundreds of dollars to make it happen. And perhaps even more troubling (if I was looking for a non-Westernized experience), is the possibility that due to the previous travellers who paid them a visit, they may not only understand my English but respond to me in the language (heck, they may even wear Western clothes and have iPhones).

A few weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to meet and interview a group of artists.

To live is to experience, so maybe it’s a question of not over-thinking the sort of experience one wants to have but simply being present and making the most of the environment that one is currently in. I concede that has a traveler, it’s frustrating to watch how people attempt to commercialize any and everything, but there are ways around this phenomenon: take in every moment and appreciate it as an experience.

It was an intense run to the top of Dune 7 here in Swakopmund...I felt good!

Border crossing

Fimo Mitchell — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 14:37:08 +0000

Rummaging through the Rasta’s suitcase, determined to find something that would warrant the amount of attention they were paying him, one of the custom’s officers pulled out a roach (not the insect). As he held it up to his face, wanting, along with his colleagues, to examine it further, the tall and slim dreadlocked man, wearing a white wrap on his head, seemed to be attempting to explain himself. The officers didn’t appear to be convinced by his words and quickly escorted him off the platform, where many of the other passengers were standing, into a back room.

While the Rasta, and I assume his belongings, were undergoing intense examination in some dingy office, a short and stalky officer pointed at the man that I was conversing with demanding to see his luggage. Forced to obey the officer’s wishes, the two bus drivers with the help of the targeted man, who happened to also have dreads, dug out the large suitcase and placed it down on the platform. After not finding anything incriminating in the man’s possessions, all passengers were ordered back on the bus. Many travellers, me included, did not have our effects inspected.

Border crossing, to me, is often the most frustrating part of any journey. After observing far too many instances of border officers practically bullying travellers and being involved in some of my own border disputes, I’ve developed a slight disdain for not only the notion of borders but the armed men and women who apparently keep them safe (I understand that everybody needs to work, but if you’re job involves tyrannizing people it’s hard for me to respect you).

So when we were finally allowed to drive out of South African territory and enter Namibia, some ten seconds later, I wasn’t in the best of moods. Listening to the seated officers press decent human beings for answers to questions that don’t or shouldn’t determine whether a person has the legal right to enter a country, began to frustrate me (I should mention that it was 2am and I hadn’t eaten since noon).

“How come you don’t have a contact person?” a well groomed officer asked me, his tone undoubtedly accusatory. “Because I don’t know anybody in Namibia,” I answered, swiftly. He clearly understood my response but still asked why I didn’t know anybody in Namibia. Knowing that I would get nowhere by being rude, I calmly explained that I’m just backpacking around Africa.

Looking down at my passport, he decided to inquire about my contacts in Canada. “You mean, you really want me to give you the name and number of someone in Canada?”, I asked, in almost disbelief. Smiling, he said, “Yes, that way if something should happen to you in Namibia we can call them”. (There was something unsettling about his words, but I nonetheless wrote down my mother’s name and telephone number, which I should mention is clearly written in my passport…the same passport that will be on me if anything “should” happen to me.)

A few feet to my left, the Rasta, who I was pleased to see was released from South African customs was being grilled about not having listed an address on his Namibia entry form. “If you don’t have an address you will not be allowed into Namibia,” the female officer declared, angrily.

I happen to be holding a pamphlet for a hostel in Windhoek and wanted to slip it down to him so that he could jot down the address at once. (While being stuck in the middle of nowhere for about three hours, due to mechanical problems, I and him struck up a good conversation about life and the arts so I naturally wanted to help him out). But considering that the officer dealing with me had just stamped my passport, officially allowing me into Namibia, I didn’t think it was wise to show such overt disrespect for a policy that I deem utterly idiotic. I quietly left the room and the Rasta behind.

Ten minutes later, I along with a dozen other passengers were sitting inside Wimpy’s, a fast food chain, eagerly awaiting food. With only one cook in kitchen, the wait was long, but at least we had successfully crossed the Namibian border and closer to our destination: Windhoek. For those of you wondering what happened to the Rasta, he, after much questioning and other forms of scrutiny, that from his description sounded very much like harassment, was allowed into Namibia.

Robben Island

Fimo Mitchell — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 14:22:09 +0000

After briefly detailing the despicable living conditions of prisoners on Robben Island, the soft-spoken guide, a former prisoner himself, asked if there were any questions. One man, possibly in his thirties, said that he simply wanted to visit Nelson Mandela’s cell. “That’s not a question,” said the guide, calmly, “we will go there after as I’m sure most people have come here to see Mr. Mandela’s cell”.

Our prison guide detailing life behind bars

I had several questions bouncing around in my head but didn’t pose a single one. For starters, I felt slightly uncomfortable touring the prison with a group of thirty plus visitors (whenever I travel, I do whatever is possible to avoid being part of such groups but with Robben Island there was no alternative).

Also, the guide’s overall tone and body language gave me the impression that he wasn’t enjoying his duties. Bearing in mind that he spent almost a decade on the island coping with the cruel treatment he described, his manners were completely understandable. At any rate, I found myself tiptoeing around the older man, when under different circumstances we could have possibly had a wonderful dialogue. But the instant I overheard the man who pressed the guide about seeing Mandela’s cell say, “So I know you had to forget the outside world when you were in prison” and the guide’s irritable response of “what are you talking about?”, I knew better than to make any inquiries.

I had never visited a prison, much less one used to break the bodies and minds of so many freedom fighters. While the group was led to the section that Nelson Mandela’s cell is found, my friend and I lingered in the courtyard where he maintained a small garden (in his autobiography titled A Long Walk To Freedom Nelson Mandela discussed the time he spent gardening and the pleasure it brought him).

Wanting to have a quiet moment at Mandiba’s cell, we waited until our group finished viewing the main attraction before entering the wing. Standing in front of the tiny cage that he spent 18 years of his life in I had my friend film me expressing my thoughts on the moment. Not wanting to break down on camera, I stopped talking after a mere 40 seconds. I just couldn’t shake the image of Mandiba existing in such an inhuman environment all because he refused to live under Apartheid.

Mandiba's cell

When the prison tour was finished, we were driven around the island on a large bus . Speaking with a microphone, the young female guide explained that Robben Island was once a place where lepers and those labelled as lunatics were sent to. She also talked about the maximum security prisons that were used to house regular criminals. To think, I was surveying an island that for centuries was a place of imprisonment, banishment and isolation and that is today an intentionally recognized World Heritage Site.

The bus paused in front of the tiny house that Robert Sobukwe, former leader of the Pan Africanist Congress, lived in, under solitary confinement from 1963 to 1969. The Apartheid government considered Sobukwe to be the country’s most dangerous leader and went out its way to ensure that he wasn’t given the slightest opportunity to speak to a single prisoner.

While on Robben Island this was Robert Sobukwe's home

The guide indicated that as much as Sobukwe respected Mandela, he vehemently disagreed with his politics. As she spoke, I felt guilty about only knowing a few details about him and those were presented by Mandela in his book. She moved me when she, in a powerful storytelling tone, described how Sobukwe would communicate non-verbally to passing soldiers by taking sand in his hand, lifting it above his head and letting it fall through his fingers. Apparently, he did this to remind and encourage the prisoners to fight for a South Africa that belongs to Africans.

I’m certain that I wasn’t the only visitor desiring to step off the bus and take in the fenced off area while reflecting on the life of a man that was targeted by the Apartheid regime until his death in 1978.

Thus, following his release from Robben Island, he was kept under house arrest in Kimberley. Because he was a banned person, he could not be quoted in the media. Evidently, the government didn’t want his words reaching the people of South Africa or the world.

Robert Sobukwe

“World civilisation will not be complete until the African has made his full contribution…I wish to make it clear again that we are anti-nobody. We are pro-Africa. We breathe, we dream, we live Africa; because Africa and humanity are inseparable. It is only by doing the same that the minorities in this land – the European, Coloured and Indian, can secure mental and spiritual freedom. On the liberation of the African depends the liberation of the entire world.” Robert Sobukwe

Wandering and learning

Fimo Mitchell — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 12:19:23 +0000

Sitting across from the director of the National Youth Development Agency (NYDA) branch here in Cape Town, I conducted a thirty minute interview that was as enjoyable as it was informative. In many ways, our conversation reminded me of why I wanted to be journalist.

You see, prior to entering the NYDA center, I had no idea who Stephen Curry was and he evidently didn’t know me. I can only imagine what was going through his head when I walked into his office, unannounced, introducing myself as a traveler with a profound curiosity about the human experience.

Naturally, he was a bit guarded a first, but after talking, of the record, for about twenty minutes and becoming more familiar with one another, I pulled out my digital recording device and commenced the interview (I wanted to use my video camera but he refused to be filmed so I had to settle for the sound recorder).

Having visited the Khayelitsha township the previous day, I was excited to hear about the work that the NYDA is doing there and moved by Stephen’s obvious passion for youth, in particular those from underprivileged areas.

Stephen Curry at his desk

When the interview was over, he told me a personal story about his family which made me feel like we were no longer strangers. The branch director even sang a line from an old song depicting the life of a wanderer, playfully suggesting that the lyrics should become my mantra.

I smiled uncontrollably as I exited the NYDA office and waved goodbye to Stephen. Similar to how I felt after an impromptu interview with a group of Rastafarian artists in Port Elizabeth, my exchange with Stephen renewed my belief in wandering and leaving the day open for life to do whatever it wills.

It’s uncertain whether it was fate or pure chance that I ended up on the second floor of the downtown mall, where I spotted the NYDA office and was drawn inside by a desire to learn about the work that was done there; I was simply glad the encounter happened.

The sun was still a few hours away from setting when I passed a small bar that was blasting a tune that I first heard in my parents’ car during the summer. My father had it on one of his African music CDs, but didn’t know who sang it.

Following a moment or two of deliberation I decided to backtrack. I entered the establishment and asked the bartender if she knew who sang the tune which makes me want to dance whenever I hear it. She smiled politely and told me that she didn’t. One man at the bar asserted that the singer was Nigerian, but nobody could tell me his name though.

After leaving the bar, I resumed my twenty five minute walk back to my hostel. However, less then ten minutes later I wound up inside a large art gallery where a posh wine and cheese function was being held (the spread consisted of a lot more than just wine and cheese; there were all sorts of finger foods and desserts as well).

Although I was clearly underdressed, attendees were all wearing formal clothing, and I knew nobody in the gallery, I tried to walk around as if I was invited and knew exactly why I was there.

The glamourous life

As much as I wanted to devour the food, I thought it would be wiser to take in the works of art first. While observing one painting, the event photographer and his assistant asked me to pose with an older blonde woman who told me we looked great together despite her husband being only a few feet away.

I was eating when I heard one of the most captivating voices I had heard in a long time. The singer’s words were not in English but that didn’t matter, thus his delivery was so honest and vulnerable I felt like his performance was perfectly understandable. Despite having to run to another engagement, Bongile Mantsai, a native of Cape Town, graciously agreed to speak on camera and ran out to his car to fetch his business card for me.

A little while later, Neo Muyanga, a musician from Soweto who’s been living in this city for the past nine years, offered the crowd an electrifying short set at the grand piano and on guitar. His music is incredibly memorable, but it was the thought he shared about economic disparity in South Africa that left the biggest impact on me. “The are two worlds in this country,” he said, after I told him about my trip to Khayelitsha, “that’s what creates all this tension here”.

While drinking some of the best red wine I’ve ever tasted and unapologtically people watching, I grew increasingly tired of the luxurious life and chose to abandon it.

Soweto & Apartheid

Fimo Mitchell — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 20:02:45 +0000

“I saw a child fall down. Under a shower of bullets I rushed forward and went for the picture. It had been a peaceful march, the children were told to disperse, they started singing Nkosi Sikelele. The police were ordered to shoot.” Sam Nzima

The picture, taken on June 16, 1976 by Sam Nzima, who was a photographer for the Johannesburg newspaper The World at that time, shows Mbuyisa Makhubo, 18, running with the bloody and dying body of 12-year-old Hetor Pieterson, who was shot by the police, in his arms as the boy’s older sister sprints alongside in obvious anguish.

The iconic photo captured by Sam Nzima

Pieterson was pronounced dead at a nearby clinic, he’s remembered as one of the first casualties of the Soweto Uprising in which police opened fire on some 10 000 school children who were protested a law they felt was unjust.

The powerful image epitomized the outrage and tragedy of a day that would forever mark South Africa, especially once it was transmitted around the globe. Due to constant police harassment, Sam Nzima ended up quitting his job at The World , in 1977 he opened up his own business in a northern city. Mbuyisa Makhubo was also the victim of such intimidation. He went into exile and apparently hasn’t been heard of since 1978 when he sent a letter form Nigeria to his mother.

Soweto or Jo'burg

Last week, while standing at the intersection where, 35 years ago, Pieterson and possibly hundreds of more young people were killed, a few questions popped up in my head. How could law enforcement officers shoot at unarmed children? What ever happened to the men that murdered those Soweto youth? I walked around the area reading the notices that offered information on the Uprising, taking pictures and reflecting.

Outside the Hector Pieterson Museum

The words of Nelson Mandela

A short car ride away I visited the Hector Pieterson museum (it opened on June 16, 2002 a few year’s after the Mandela House opened). Before entering the modern two storey structure, I spent much time taking in the quotes and slogans written on stones and metallic boards outside its front doors. The following are the words of Mbuyisa Makhubo’s mother, they were written on a large rectangular stone.

“Mbuyisa is or was my son. But he’s not a hero. In my culture, picking up Hector is not an act of heroism. It was his job as a brother. If he left him on the ground and somebody saw him jumping over Hector, he would never be able to live here.”

I was disappointed that I couldn’t take pictures inside the museum because some of the photos were so compelling they need to be shared. Considering there’s still much controversy over the details of the Uprising, I thought the curator did a good job of presenting the events leading up to that faithful day and utilized a lot of first hand accounts from the young protesters and parents.

In the section dedicated to incidents following June 16 hung one photo that’s still vivid in my mind. The image is of a moving green vehicle being driven by an un-uniformed white police officer. In the backseat there’s another man aiming a shotgun out of a semi-opened window. Next to the photo, are several accounts by Soweto residents claiming to have seen that car driving around and shooting blacks.

After eating a delicious late lunch on the street for barely 3 bucks (I had some barbecued beef, pap (which is a South African staple), pumpkin, chilli peppers and salad), I got a car ride out of Soweto to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg.

Standing at the entrance of the Apartheid Museum

As a teenager I read Mark Mathabane’s Kaffir Boy and a few years ago I read Nelson Mandela’s A Long Walk To Freedom (I’ve also watched a few films dealing with apartheid such as Cry Freedom), so I wasn’t expecting to be surprised or moved by anything in the grandiose building. Yet, the combination of videos, photos and narrative writing inside its walls left me with a hauntingly intense understanding of the apartheid system. It was a degree of understanding that I had never experienced.

That evening, back at my hostel, I thought about what I heard, saw and learned. It wasn’t long before I was going over my first three days in Jo’burg (Johannesburg) and tentatively hypothesizing that apartheid has made it extremely easy to distrust and even hate in this country. Hopefully, time and effective changes will make love equally possible.

My last stand in Paris

Fimo Mitchell — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 06:08:11 +0000

Three straight nights of Paris nightlife had taken its toll on me. My voice was raspy and whenever I sat down the desire to sleep would arise. It was Saturday afternoon and apart from seeing the Eiffel Tower, I had not yet observed any other tourist attraction and I had no urgent impulse to do so. Instead, I was on my way to visit an old friend from college at her weekly three hour choir practice at a church in Bastille.

After three nights of loud club music, it was refreshing and even heartwarming to hear worship songs that were sang so beautifully. Once practice was done, Tracy and I grabbed two baguette sandwiches and walked to a nearby square (something Paris has loads of) where we chatted away while enjoying our déjeuner. Being married to a Frenchman and having lived in the City of Light for almost four years Tracy had no problem showing me around a rather quiet area and then a bustling commercial district while providing me with public and personal impressions of the city.

By late afternoon, I had passed the architecturally stunning Hôtel de Ville and arrived, alone, at the Notre-Dame de Paris as the sun was setting. Walking aimlessly behind the picturesque cathedral I stumbled upon a very unique bridge where hundreds and possibly thousands of padlocks with loves messages or hearts on them are locked to its railings. Evidently, all the hoopla about Paris being an effortlessly romantic city was proving to be true.

Notre-Dame de Paris

Locks of love

Saturday night was the first time I went to bed at a reasonable hour. When I arose on Sunday, I was energized for a day of sightseeing. In the morning I visited the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur, a nearby museum and a section of Montmartre. For lunch, I met up with my host, Ludivine, and we dined at a small but delightful Cuban restaurant. It was yet another mild and sunny day in Paris so we decided to walk down to the Champs-Élysées where we met up with her sister and friend in front of the Grand Palais. Before dusk, we took loads of pictures in front of the Arc de Triomphe. We concluded the day with some humorous poses in front of a lit up Moulin Rouge.

Basilique du Sacré-Coeur

Posing in front of Arc de Triomphe

I saved the Musée du Louvre for my last full day in Paris and it was well worth the wait. The storied museum was far larger than I imagined it to be, I could have easily spent a full day taking in some of the greatest European works of art. The crowds of tourists that surrounded the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa was incredible. I filmed a lot of the gentle pushing and positioning that was happening in order for them to get the best possible shot (I must note that I thought the Mona Lisa is quite small, especially when comparing it to the other paintings).

The Louvre

The Seine on a sunny afternoon

Once outside the museum, I decided to take a stroll along La Seine , which was one of the most peaceful walks I’ve ever had, before rushing off to hang out with a Parisian that I met, by chance, in Bangkok in 2007 and 2009. Cédric came to pick me up from a metro station on his scooter, then drove us back to his place where he had some red wine, camembert cheese and ham slices waiting for me (he also prepared some small fish balls that reminded me of the fish balls my Bajan neighbours use to make when I was child). As we talked and laughed under the influence of Bordeaux, he reminded me, several times, that Parisians, like himself, believe in enjoying their lives rather than constantly working.

After leaving Cédric’s apartment, I met up with Hélène Lee, a French journalist who wrote the brilliant book The First Rasta: Leonard Howell and the Rise of Rastafarianism which she helped turn into a film last year. Having a background in journalism myself and a passion for travelling and learning about the unfamiliar, I was overjoyed to sit down in Hélène’s home and discuss her work and mine (she was also kind enough to offer me a plate of delicious fish and a grain that looked like couscous but wasn’t).

When Tuesday morning arrived, I was up before my host, packing my bag and reviewing the previous six days. I went to Paris with very low expectations, but that morning, I proudly told Ludivine that I would love to return and see what else the city and the rest of the country has to offer. Next up was South Africa and my very first African journey.