Following is a review of Paul Theroux's latest travel book, which is now several years old. The review also appears on the web site of the Friends of Kenya.
Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux,Houghton Mifflin, NY 2003
Dark Star Safari – Overland from Cairo to Cape Town marked Theroux’s return to Africa in the year 2000 after thirty years absence. He strove to travel the length of the continent as a solo voyager using local transportation such as buses, trucks and trains. Using his other travel books as models, he closely observed those whom he met and commented trenchantly, candidly and cynically about them. The value of the book is that Theroux writes so well that his observations ring of truthfulness – whether or not they are accurate. The compilation of anecdotes forms a body of work that paints a realistic picture of contemporary Africa. Furthermore, because he revisits territory and situations known to RPCVs, we have the advantage of seeing again places and people we once encountered.
Since this column focuses on Kenya, I will confine myself to comments about the East Africa section of Theroux’s journey, i.e. Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania. Theroux came down the great north road from Moyale on a cattle truck, an overlander truck and with a missionary. Because he was refused a ride, Theroux gave vent to his negative opinion of AID workers and their undertakings. “They were in general oafish self-dramatizing prigs, and often complete bastards.” Theroux, however, was an equal opportunity basher, noting the provinciality of Kenya’s northern residents who were apprehensive about troubles in Ethiopia, Theroux observed, “These ignorant inhabitants, traveling on a hideous road in an over-heated desert, in a neglected province of one of the most corrupt and distressed and crime-ridden countries in Africa, regarded sunny, threadbare, but dignified Ethiopia as a war zone.” As did the locals Theroux feared shifta bandits. He was told by a driver, however, “They do not want your life, bwana, they want your shoes.” Theroux reflected that indeed human life was cheap in Africa; shoes had more utility.
Seeing the slums outside Nairobi, Theroux said, “it was clear that the Kenya I had known was gone. I didn’t mind; perhaps the newness would make this trip all the more memorable.” Theroux did find a new Kenya, where inhabitants were savaged by Moi’s thugs, harassed on crowded crime ridden streets, governed by a self-serving ruling class, afflicted by HIV/AIDS and gripped by a sense of desperation that he encountered in all African cities. He noted that whenever a city grew bigger, “it got uglier, messier, more dangerous, an effect of bad planning, underfunding and graft.”
The author did not stay long in Nairobi but hurried on through Nakuru, Kericho and Kisumu. He was not impressed. He noted the lack of any modern development. He blamed ineffectual international assistance programs for being a complete waste of money, but also recognized that Africans themselves had botched most opportunities. He saw one “booming industry” upon leaving Kisumu – coffin makers – “a perfect image for a country that seemed terminally ill.”
Theroux returned to his personal past in Kampala where he had taught for several years at Makerere University. He found Uganda marginally better than Kenya; at least it was imbued with a sense of forward motion. In contacting old friends he discovered that the surroundings of the political debates had changed, but the underlying terms were the same. How to develop? Who should rule? How? What systems would work for Africa? Obviously there were no answers to these questions. While awaiting permission to board a lake ferry, Theroux wandered around the city he once knew and reflected on the changes wrought by thirty years in Uganda, in Ugandans, and in himself.
Finally aboard a rail-car carrier to Mwanza, Theroux entered into a Zen like state that would successfully carry him across the lake, on by rail to Dar and via the TanZam towards Malawi. Although he enjoyed the people, Theroux observed, “The dogmatic, motto-chanting Tanzanians had been humbled. No one talked of imperialism and neocolonialism now, nor of the evils of capitalism – though they could have, for even capitalism had failed in Tanzania.”
Errors: I always stumble upon geographical mix-ups. I am surprised that “fact checkers” don’t do a better job. Talking about volcanoes, Theroux said that “Mt. Lengai in Rwanda” was erupting. However, Mt. Lengai is dormant and in Tanzania. All the Rwandan volcanoes are dormant, but Mts. Nyiragongo and Nyamulagira in neighboring Congo remain active. Theroux noted that he had hoped to visit “Kabila” in western Uganda to see chimpanzees. There is no Kabila. I assume he meant Kabale Forest where chimps are easily seen. Similarly, he listed Lake Tanzania as one of the East African great lakes. Its name is Tanganyika.
Theroux ‘s journey began before East Africa and continued on afterwards. His take on other countries and people encountered are equally realistic, albeit amusing or infuriating. Theroux wanted to be in-the-mix, but not of it. He sought to retain a dispassionate perspective, but never hesitated to share scathing judgments. He was proud of his undertaking, but arrogant in judging that the sojourns, travels, observations and works of others were somehow less noble. Even so, a reader cannot help but like the guy. He went and did it and told it like he saw it.
.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
USA - Drive to Alaska
Following is a piece that I did for the Washington Post travel section, but they have not used it yet.
The Trip: A fifteen thousand mile odyssey from Virginia to the land of the midnight sun – west across the prairies, north along the spine of the Rockies, up the Alcan Highway, north to Dawson, Yukon, “Top of the World” highway into Alaska, north to the Artic Circle, then almost every road in that vast state (there are not that many), back south on the ferry through the inside passage, zip across the lower 48 to home. Whew!
Who went? Me; Connie, my wife, and our 2003 Jeep.
When? July to mid-September.
Why? I had been there briefly in 1992 and knew that Alaska needed more time. There is just too much to see. Recently retired, we had the time and the vehicle; besides, we had not been on a really good road trip since driving around East Africa for two months in 1999.
How long? We did not rush. Twelve weeks.
Getting there was …three quarters of the adventure. Each day was new. The road rolled out before us. Mountains loomed, glaciers gushed, bears prowled, flowers bloomed in profusion, rivers roared, fish jumped. Most roads were well paved and, once past the Canadian mountain parks, traffic was light.
First Alaskan moment: Stopping in the rain and mud at the ramshackle log cabin café at Boundary replete with moose antlers and assorted junk stacked around the yard, but a warm welcome, hot coffee and cinnamon buns inside.
Best museums: A guided walking tour of historical buildings – the court house, customs house, old church, and the army post - in the town of Eagle (population 60) exposed a rich trove of sleds, vehicles, pelts and paraphernalia from the gold rush era 100 years ago. Eagle has few visitors so everything was hands on – touch, sit, feel. A second delight was the hammer collection in Haines that displays virtually thousands of hammers of all descriptions. I also recommend the state museum in Anchorage, the oil pipeline display in Valdez, sourdough cabins in Hope, and Native American artists at work in Sitka.
It was all worth it when…. after two days of camping in the cold rain and mist at Wonder Lake in Denali Park, I arose at 3:00 am and in the dawn’s early light discovered Mt. McKinley, the mother of mountains, towering above. She was out and crystal clear for two days, fading again into the clouds only when we departed.
Wildlife: We saw lots of bears – black, grizzly, brown – along the Alcan, and all around Alaska, but especially in Denali Park where we also had encounters with moose, wolves, caribou and ground squirrels. In the waters we saw tens of thousands of salmon spawning, otters floating, sea lions bellowing and whales breaching. Eagles, hawks, puffins and kittiwake gulls crowded the skies. Good binoculars were essential.
Scariest moments: We hiked for several hours daily – rain or shine. In Alaska we had lots of rain. I wore bear bells and when evidence, i.e. fresh scat, indicated ursine presence nearby, I clapped and sang out, “I can run fastest. Catch Connie!” Fortunately, this was effective; the only bear I met at close quarters completely ignored me.
Best golf: Yes, I carted my clubs along. The links type course at Haines cannot be bested anywhere in the world for its spectacular setting along the fiord surrounded by snow capped mountains and hanging glaciers. It was a decent nine hole layout as well, but the eagles all stayed in the trees.
Thrill: Flying in a small plane below the mountain peaks over the vast Davison glacier and looking up to spot mountain goats on the ledges.
Favorite meal: An hour long boat ride from Homer took us to Halibut Cove, an artists’ enclave, where we dined at The Saltry on scrumptious fresh seafood before a roaring fire on the covered outdoor deck. A good bottle of wine made it perfect!
Hostelries: We stayed at brand name motels, mom and pop’s, even a double wide motel, b&b’s, our tents, with friends, park and fishing lodges, and a cabin on the ferry. We especially liked two old hotels with the charm of an earlier epoch: the Van Gilder in Seward and Hotel Halsingland in Haines. Be warned, however, that all lodging in Alaska – no matter the quality – is about twice the price of “outside,” i.e. the lower 48.
Biggest disappointment: Not the bugs, the distance, the prices, my failure to catch a really big fish, but the weather. August/September 2006 was mostly chilly (day time highs in the fifties at best) and wet. However, long daylight was nice and the few sunny days were magnificent.
While we were there: Alaskans squabbled, then elected a newcomer woman governor over seasoned pros. They voted a cruise ship tax (that will be passed on to passengers.) They vociferously debated routing of a natural gas pipeline, whined about federal controls on federal land, rejoiced in the $1000 per capita payout from the state’s Permanent Fund, bemoaned the extension of the 81st Stryker Brigade in Iraq, and mourned the passing of Iditarod legend, Susan Butcher.
The Trip: A fifteen thousand mile odyssey from Virginia to the land of the midnight sun – west across the prairies, north along the spine of the Rockies, up the Alcan Highway, north to Dawson, Yukon, “Top of the World” highway into Alaska, north to the Artic Circle, then almost every road in that vast state (there are not that many), back south on the ferry through the inside passage, zip across the lower 48 to home. Whew!
Who went? Me; Connie, my wife, and our 2003 Jeep.
When? July to mid-September.
Why? I had been there briefly in 1992 and knew that Alaska needed more time. There is just too much to see. Recently retired, we had the time and the vehicle; besides, we had not been on a really good road trip since driving around East Africa for two months in 1999.
How long? We did not rush. Twelve weeks.
Getting there was …three quarters of the adventure. Each day was new. The road rolled out before us. Mountains loomed, glaciers gushed, bears prowled, flowers bloomed in profusion, rivers roared, fish jumped. Most roads were well paved and, once past the Canadian mountain parks, traffic was light.
First Alaskan moment: Stopping in the rain and mud at the ramshackle log cabin café at Boundary replete with moose antlers and assorted junk stacked around the yard, but a warm welcome, hot coffee and cinnamon buns inside.
Best museums: A guided walking tour of historical buildings – the court house, customs house, old church, and the army post - in the town of Eagle (population 60) exposed a rich trove of sleds, vehicles, pelts and paraphernalia from the gold rush era 100 years ago. Eagle has few visitors so everything was hands on – touch, sit, feel. A second delight was the hammer collection in Haines that displays virtually thousands of hammers of all descriptions. I also recommend the state museum in Anchorage, the oil pipeline display in Valdez, sourdough cabins in Hope, and Native American artists at work in Sitka.
It was all worth it when…. after two days of camping in the cold rain and mist at Wonder Lake in Denali Park, I arose at 3:00 am and in the dawn’s early light discovered Mt. McKinley, the mother of mountains, towering above. She was out and crystal clear for two days, fading again into the clouds only when we departed.
Wildlife: We saw lots of bears – black, grizzly, brown – along the Alcan, and all around Alaska, but especially in Denali Park where we also had encounters with moose, wolves, caribou and ground squirrels. In the waters we saw tens of thousands of salmon spawning, otters floating, sea lions bellowing and whales breaching. Eagles, hawks, puffins and kittiwake gulls crowded the skies. Good binoculars were essential.
Scariest moments: We hiked for several hours daily – rain or shine. In Alaska we had lots of rain. I wore bear bells and when evidence, i.e. fresh scat, indicated ursine presence nearby, I clapped and sang out, “I can run fastest. Catch Connie!” Fortunately, this was effective; the only bear I met at close quarters completely ignored me.
Best golf: Yes, I carted my clubs along. The links type course at Haines cannot be bested anywhere in the world for its spectacular setting along the fiord surrounded by snow capped mountains and hanging glaciers. It was a decent nine hole layout as well, but the eagles all stayed in the trees.
Thrill: Flying in a small plane below the mountain peaks over the vast Davison glacier and looking up to spot mountain goats on the ledges.
Favorite meal: An hour long boat ride from Homer took us to Halibut Cove, an artists’ enclave, where we dined at The Saltry on scrumptious fresh seafood before a roaring fire on the covered outdoor deck. A good bottle of wine made it perfect!
Hostelries: We stayed at brand name motels, mom and pop’s, even a double wide motel, b&b’s, our tents, with friends, park and fishing lodges, and a cabin on the ferry. We especially liked two old hotels with the charm of an earlier epoch: the Van Gilder in Seward and Hotel Halsingland in Haines. Be warned, however, that all lodging in Alaska – no matter the quality – is about twice the price of “outside,” i.e. the lower 48.
Biggest disappointment: Not the bugs, the distance, the prices, my failure to catch a really big fish, but the weather. August/September 2006 was mostly chilly (day time highs in the fifties at best) and wet. However, long daylight was nice and the few sunny days were magnificent.
While we were there: Alaskans squabbled, then elected a newcomer woman governor over seasoned pros. They voted a cruise ship tax (that will be passed on to passengers.) They vociferously debated routing of a natural gas pipeline, whined about federal controls on federal land, rejoiced in the $1000 per capita payout from the state’s Permanent Fund, bemoaned the extension of the 81st Stryker Brigade in Iraq, and mourned the passing of Iditarod legend, Susan Butcher.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Kenya - Not so Ferocious African Bees
As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kenya in the late sixties, I shared a ramshackle European farm house with two other PCVs. Despite its dilapidation, it was certainly not a rural African hut. We had indoor plumbing, running water (when the 1913 vintage pump could be coaxed into operation), electrical outlets (but no generator), even a phone line and telephone number (but no instrument). Nonetheless, it was acceptable shelter.
What did remain magnificent, however, were the flowers. We had a profusion of roses, day lilies and flowering bushes of all types. Orange and lime trees continued to produce abundantly. The most redolent white trumpet shaped flowers grew on bushes some ten feet high. We called them the bee trees because they attracted bees. Hundreds, if not thousands, buzzed around incessantly. When the indoor plumbing was inoperative on account of lack of water, the dash through the bee trees to the outdoor facility had to be timed so as not to agitate the bees. Even so, we got used to them and coexisted amiably.
One of my housemates, Dennis, observed one day that the bees were getting louder and flying constantly around the windows to his room. Investigation behind the shrubs showed that, sure enough, bees were streaming in and out of the crawl space. Our Nandi tribesman night watchman, confirmed that bees had moved in and were making honey. He proposed a solution. He said he had some friends who knew bees and collected honey. In exchange for the bulk of the honey, they would rid us of the hive. We cut the deal. Within a day or two, one of the experts inspected the site. He said his team would return when the time was right.
We waited expectantly, but no one showed. The dry hot days stretched out. The bees buzzed. Dennis could not sleep at night from the hum below. Finally, the rains began, first in the afternoon, followed by a long evening soak. The next rainy night the bee men arrived. In the pouring rain, they stripped naked, busted into the crawl space, pushed a smoky torch under the house (I feared they’d burn the whole place down) and began passing out buckets of honey comb. Soon they located the queen, placed her and a quivering mass of insects into a paper box to cart off to more salubrious surroundings.
With some delight one of the bee men told me that bees did not associate wet hairless human skin with the enemy. However, they would attack furry creatures with frenzy. Woe be to the bee man who was not shaven! The night, the smoke and the rain also confused the bees, impeded flying and communication.
We got a half bucket of delicious honey out of the deal and patched up the hole the next morning.
What did remain magnificent, however, were the flowers. We had a profusion of roses, day lilies and flowering bushes of all types. Orange and lime trees continued to produce abundantly. The most redolent white trumpet shaped flowers grew on bushes some ten feet high. We called them the bee trees because they attracted bees. Hundreds, if not thousands, buzzed around incessantly. When the indoor plumbing was inoperative on account of lack of water, the dash through the bee trees to the outdoor facility had to be timed so as not to agitate the bees. Even so, we got used to them and coexisted amiably.
One of my housemates, Dennis, observed one day that the bees were getting louder and flying constantly around the windows to his room. Investigation behind the shrubs showed that, sure enough, bees were streaming in and out of the crawl space. Our Nandi tribesman night watchman, confirmed that bees had moved in and were making honey. He proposed a solution. He said he had some friends who knew bees and collected honey. In exchange for the bulk of the honey, they would rid us of the hive. We cut the deal. Within a day or two, one of the experts inspected the site. He said his team would return when the time was right.
We waited expectantly, but no one showed. The dry hot days stretched out. The bees buzzed. Dennis could not sleep at night from the hum below. Finally, the rains began, first in the afternoon, followed by a long evening soak. The next rainy night the bee men arrived. In the pouring rain, they stripped naked, busted into the crawl space, pushed a smoky torch under the house (I feared they’d burn the whole place down) and began passing out buckets of honey comb. Soon they located the queen, placed her and a quivering mass of insects into a paper box to cart off to more salubrious surroundings.
With some delight one of the bee men told me that bees did not associate wet hairless human skin with the enemy. However, they would attack furry creatures with frenzy. Woe be to the bee man who was not shaven! The night, the smoke and the rain also confused the bees, impeded flying and communication.
We got a half bucket of delicious honey out of the deal and patched up the hole the next morning.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Kenya - The Struggle for Democracy
This is a book review of a new academic oriented collection of essays about Kenya's democractic prospects.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy
Godwin R. Murunga & Shadrack W. Nasong’o, editors
Zed Books, NY, 2007
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, still hot from the printer, is a compilation of scholarly essays about contemporary Kenya. The individual pieces are honest and blunt. Authors make no effort to hide prejudices that are aimed at colonialism, the Kenyatta and Moi regimes. Judgments on the Kibaki era are hedged, but various contributors fear it too is becoming engulfed in the same vortex of oligarchic power that has plagued Kenya for generations.
The editors state at the outset that contributors to the book are young academics not tainted by sell-out to the system. Further, the editors claim, young academics never benefited from mentoring that ought to have been their due from the previous generation (who did sell out). This is only the first of many themes of opportunities lost that run through the tome.
Readers be warned that Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy is an academic book replete with footnotes and citations of other learned works. Language too is quite erudite – often it seems deliberately so – sentences occasionally need several readings in order to make sense. Yet, there is a great deal of extremely good sense in this book.
The overall thrust of the book is to discuss in the Kenyan context the various elements that make up a democratic society. The basic charge against Kenya is that colonialism extended into Kenyattaism and Moism and even Kibakism without substantial change in the format of how government works, i.e. by coercion and intimidation. Although the leadership changed, authoritarian rule only became worse as Kenyatta and Moi expanded the powers of the presidency and then used those powers to assure their predominance. Yet against this backdrop, there was throughout an effort by many to push for democracy, popular participation and accountability. Topics covered in the book include the evolution of civil society organizations, the growth of religious movements and their political roles, the problems encountered by opposition political parties, the growth of youth movements and abuses of the same during multiparty elections, the stymied participation of women, missed opportunities by intellectuals, abuses perpetrated by the police, the impact of structural adjustment policies and the confusing roles of donors.
I judged the chapter on political parties to be among the most interesting, not only for its accurate history of the convoluted opposition to the Kenyatta and Moi regimes, but more on account of the analysis of why opposition did not function well and continues to operate poorly. The explanation that African polities do not accommodate a loyal opposition, i.e. you are either with me or an enemy, rings true in the Kenyan context, but is buttressed by the fact that no parties, expect perhaps KANU for a time, really have had any existence outside an electoral period. Beyond temporary coalitions designed solely to oust Moi, Kenya has no parties of issues –– only parties of “big men” who organize, pay for and selfishly direct “their” parties. This explains why Kenya has 55 registered parties, most of which are simply vehicles for personal ambitions. The author of this chapter argued that until political parties themselves become internally democratic they cannot become “democratic institutions” and realistically foment democracy.
The chapter on women explained convincingly how women were sidelined from national life during the last half century. The exclusion they experienced during colonial times arose mostly from the nature of their subsistence labor which kept them out of the “modern” sector and away from education. Such marginalization was augmented after independence when a perverted form of “traditional” patriarchy pushed them further into the corners of national life. Today Kenyan women account for only 6 percent of public figures; nearly last place in Africa. One solution might be an electoral system of proportional representation for Parliament. Countries with these systems, such as Rwanda (48 %), tend to have much higher proportions of women in public roles.
The discussion of intellectuals was a telling indictment by the author of his peers. He alleged that Kenyan intellectuals have not stood up to their responsibility to foster democracy. Several reasons for this lacuna are put forward: fear of reprisals,love of the good life, co-optation by the powers-that-be, failure of the older generation to give way to the new or simply shirking of duty. The introspection shown by this chapter demonstrates the guilt felt by many intellectuals for the failure of Kenya, both historically and currently, to achieve its democratic potential.
The chapter on the police provided details on how the police and security services evolved under Kenyatta and Moi to become the essential bulwark of presidential power. Instances of assassination, torture, and other egregious abuses of authority are cited as well as the erosion of the rule of law and the compromise of the judiciary. It is a troubling read, but necessary to understand the fear and intimidation that permeated political society and kept the opposition in check. The author hopes that under Kibaki abuses are being corrected, but gives little evidence that the system has undergone fundamental reform.
Finally, the book concludes with two chapters that link Kenya’s political troubles and tensions of the last half century to its economic woes. There were certainly causal links as bad decisions (both political and economic) and bad luck (mostly economic) led to a spiral of decline. The poor internal Kenyan economic dynamic was further destabilized by changing and contradictory policies imposed by the World Bank, IMF and donor nations. Although there is an effort to level blame for economic failures, there is more of an explanation of what happened and an appeal for consistency in the future.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, is full of current information and realistic history. For those ready for a graduate-school level tome, it is a useful guide to crucial Kenyan issues.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy
Godwin R. Murunga & Shadrack W. Nasong’o, editors
Zed Books, NY, 2007
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, still hot from the printer, is a compilation of scholarly essays about contemporary Kenya. The individual pieces are honest and blunt. Authors make no effort to hide prejudices that are aimed at colonialism, the Kenyatta and Moi regimes. Judgments on the Kibaki era are hedged, but various contributors fear it too is becoming engulfed in the same vortex of oligarchic power that has plagued Kenya for generations.
The editors state at the outset that contributors to the book are young academics not tainted by sell-out to the system. Further, the editors claim, young academics never benefited from mentoring that ought to have been their due from the previous generation (who did sell out). This is only the first of many themes of opportunities lost that run through the tome.
Readers be warned that Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy is an academic book replete with footnotes and citations of other learned works. Language too is quite erudite – often it seems deliberately so – sentences occasionally need several readings in order to make sense. Yet, there is a great deal of extremely good sense in this book.
The overall thrust of the book is to discuss in the Kenyan context the various elements that make up a democratic society. The basic charge against Kenya is that colonialism extended into Kenyattaism and Moism and even Kibakism without substantial change in the format of how government works, i.e. by coercion and intimidation. Although the leadership changed, authoritarian rule only became worse as Kenyatta and Moi expanded the powers of the presidency and then used those powers to assure their predominance. Yet against this backdrop, there was throughout an effort by many to push for democracy, popular participation and accountability. Topics covered in the book include the evolution of civil society organizations, the growth of religious movements and their political roles, the problems encountered by opposition political parties, the growth of youth movements and abuses of the same during multiparty elections, the stymied participation of women, missed opportunities by intellectuals, abuses perpetrated by the police, the impact of structural adjustment policies and the confusing roles of donors.
I judged the chapter on political parties to be among the most interesting, not only for its accurate history of the convoluted opposition to the Kenyatta and Moi regimes, but more on account of the analysis of why opposition did not function well and continues to operate poorly. The explanation that African polities do not accommodate a loyal opposition, i.e. you are either with me or an enemy, rings true in the Kenyan context, but is buttressed by the fact that no parties, expect perhaps KANU for a time, really have had any existence outside an electoral period. Beyond temporary coalitions designed solely to oust Moi, Kenya has no parties of issues –– only parties of “big men” who organize, pay for and selfishly direct “their” parties. This explains why Kenya has 55 registered parties, most of which are simply vehicles for personal ambitions. The author of this chapter argued that until political parties themselves become internally democratic they cannot become “democratic institutions” and realistically foment democracy.
The chapter on women explained convincingly how women were sidelined from national life during the last half century. The exclusion they experienced during colonial times arose mostly from the nature of their subsistence labor which kept them out of the “modern” sector and away from education. Such marginalization was augmented after independence when a perverted form of “traditional” patriarchy pushed them further into the corners of national life. Today Kenyan women account for only 6 percent of public figures; nearly last place in Africa. One solution might be an electoral system of proportional representation for Parliament. Countries with these systems, such as Rwanda (48 %), tend to have much higher proportions of women in public roles.
The discussion of intellectuals was a telling indictment by the author of his peers. He alleged that Kenyan intellectuals have not stood up to their responsibility to foster democracy. Several reasons for this lacuna are put forward: fear of reprisals,love of the good life, co-optation by the powers-that-be, failure of the older generation to give way to the new or simply shirking of duty. The introspection shown by this chapter demonstrates the guilt felt by many intellectuals for the failure of Kenya, both historically and currently, to achieve its democratic potential.
The chapter on the police provided details on how the police and security services evolved under Kenyatta and Moi to become the essential bulwark of presidential power. Instances of assassination, torture, and other egregious abuses of authority are cited as well as the erosion of the rule of law and the compromise of the judiciary. It is a troubling read, but necessary to understand the fear and intimidation that permeated political society and kept the opposition in check. The author hopes that under Kibaki abuses are being corrected, but gives little evidence that the system has undergone fundamental reform.
Finally, the book concludes with two chapters that link Kenya’s political troubles and tensions of the last half century to its economic woes. There were certainly causal links as bad decisions (both political and economic) and bad luck (mostly economic) led to a spiral of decline. The poor internal Kenyan economic dynamic was further destabilized by changing and contradictory policies imposed by the World Bank, IMF and donor nations. Although there is an effort to level blame for economic failures, there is more of an explanation of what happened and an appeal for consistency in the future.
Kenya – The Struggle for Democracy, is full of current information and realistic history. For those ready for a graduate-school level tome, it is a useful guide to crucial Kenyan issues.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Central African Republic - "Passing Through"
Following is a story I wrote based on my experience as Vice Consul in Bangui. Although elements of the piece are true, overall it is fiction.
Passing Through
It had been a good month for vendors, but poor for commerce. The string of salesmen stopping by home or office in the shady African backwater capital had offered poached ivory - usually small tusks indicating taken from females – smelly leopard skins, or carefully produced leather pouches containing a half dozen little brown stones – diamonds they averred. A few businessmen laid out artistic wares, mostly masks from neighboring Zaire. I was intrigued by a few of those, but had only added one to my collection. As for the ivory and leopard skins I explained that international commerce in either was illegal so I could not and would not buy. The seller, of course, saw this riposte as a bargaining ploy and tried to haggle on. I usually listened to the diamond merchants’ stories about how these were from a clandestine dig, had been brought home by a brother, were the family treasure but now needed to be sold for medicine – ergo, they could be had cheaply. I had no ability to tell if the little rocks were uncut diamonds, pieces of glass or whatever, but I did suggest that the purveyor take them to the American-owned, diamond purchasing office downtown for analysis and possible purchase. Once I asked Fred, the U.S. rep for the office, if any walk-ins really had good stuff. He said that often they did have small industrial grade stones, which, he said, reflected nation-wide artisan production. Only once, he told me, had he really bought a very nice gem stone from a street vendor. He cautioned me not to buy raw diamonds from anyone. He added that the broken glass sellers never stopped by his place for an estimate.
Lately, there was a new wrinkle to sales pitches. Emile, the receptionist buzzed me to advise that a “commercant” wanted to see me. This gent was well dressed and spoke good French. He said he had come upon a “strategic material” that he knew the U.S. needed to corral. After prodding, he confided that it was the uranium used in nuclear bombs. It had come from mines in Zaire. Although he said he could not reveal how he had come to possess it, he affirmed it was radioactive. I asked him to describe what he was talking about: was it liquid or solid, how was it packed? How did he know it was radioactive?
In reply he said it was solid. That answer immediately piqued my interest. This was not just another “red lead” approach. Mercury that had been used in various sorts of x-ray machines circulated in little vials throughout Central Africa. If some of this stuff was slightly radioactive, that was nothing compared to its danger as mercury – especially when used by some “guérisseur” as part of a local cure. Given America’s nuclear might, red lead was flogged from time to time by the street vendors that came to see me.
I remembered a cable from Kinshasa several months back that detailed the disappearance some years ago of a very small quantity of material from the nuclear facility at the university there. Apparently the stolen stuff had no possible weapons implications, but it was real, processed, radioactive and possibly dangerous if kept near people. At the time I had visions of a whole family being poisoned from sleeping near a little brown suitcase with the missing uranium in it.
I asked for a moment, dug out the cable – I did do a little proper filing now and then – and warned my interlocutor of what he might have. He was crestfallen when I said the U.S. government did not want to purchase his item. He blustered that he would go to the French, Soviets or Chinese. I said fine, his stuff really had no value except at the research center from which it had been stolen. He left in a huff.
I recounted this encounter to Joe, the Peace Corps director, over our luncheon beer on the terrace of the New Palace Hotel. Joe, in turn, passed on word from a PCV in Mbaiki, a town at the edge of the great Congo basin forest, some seventy miles south of town. Rob reported that he had first heard about then finally met a bedraggled “blanc” in the market. The man in question said his name was Thomas (pronounced Tow-ma in the French fashion) and that he was an American. Rob invited him home for a meal and heard a bit of his story. Essentially Thomas had been living with a pygmy band for over a year roaming through the vast forest.
Except for a missionary zealot who had vanished while testing the upper rapids of the Oubangui River some ten years earlier – and was presumably eaten by crocodiles - I had no current lookouts for missing Americans. Thomas intrigued us. Was his story truthful and if so, why? We mulled it over, but having run into a number of wayward individuals over the years, reckoned that he probably had his motives. I had no mandate to go look for this guy, but asked Joe to tell Rob to tell Thomas that if he needed any assistance to come see me.
Over the next couple of days, I thought more about Thomas. I grew curiouser and curiouser. Why would some one purposely seek out a stone age existence? Not just for a week or two as an adventure, but for a year or more. I decided to touch base with the local pygmy watchers. Ian, a Quebecois, was part of a university medical team studying pygmies. I had visited their field clinic in the forest. They measured, took blood, obtained family histories, etc. all part of a greater quest to find Eve, the mother of us all. Ian confirmed that his team had picked up rumors from pygmy contacts to the effect that a white shadow was lurking deep in the forest. He thought that was a relatively new phenomenon, but added that the pygmies were full of apocryphal stories. It was impossible to separate fiction from fact. My other pygmy expert was a missionary whose group was translating the Bible into African tongues, including Yaka, the language of the Bayaka, the pygmies of the region. Jim said they started with a few Bible stories like Joseph’s coat of many colors and David and Goliath, both of which had worked well elsewhere in country. He candidly confessed, however, that neither story registered with the pygmies. They did not wear clothes, so coveting a coat made no sense. Additionally, they were not at all violent, so a war based story was equally irrelevant. But in response to my question about a white guy with a pygmy band, Jim hadn’t heard it.
Then in one of those serendipitous moments, Emile buzzed to say that a Monsieur Thomas was there to see me. Yep, he was as described – a gaunt, pale-faced young man sporting a scraggly beard. He wore an old tee shirt, shorts and flip flops. He held an Australian bush hat in hand. Introducing himself as Thomas Breaux, he said he heard from Rob that I might help him. I noted that as the American Vice Consul I was charged with seeing to the welfare of Americans in the country. There were things I could do and things I couldn’t. But first, I asked that he tell me about himself. I was curious as to why he was living with pygmies.
He stumbled at first, advised that he had not spoken much English lately. He also seemed reluctant to tell much, so I just got a bare outline. He had been with an overland London to Nairobi group called Siafu. Thomas said group dynamics were poor; people were selfish, bickering and snarling at each other after several weeks in the truck. He’d had enough, so when they camped near Boda to photo the pygmies, Thomas said he packed his stuff, told the driver to screw himself and walked away. After the overlanders left, he gradually became friendly with Adamo, one of the young Bayaka men. He later learned that his friend was just a visitor to the fringes of civilization. His family group lived far off in the forest. To make things short, he accompanied Adamo on his return trip home. They walked for several weeks. By then Thomas said he was so lost in the forest that he had no way out, even if he wanted to leave.
Instead Thomas said he adjusted, took each day as it came – just like the pygmies did. He gradually learned their language. As his cigarettes and lighter expired, he lost what utility he had to them, although certainly he retained his entertainment value. The pygmies laughed a lot – at him, at each other, at themselves. They always saw the bright side of circumstances. Life was uncomplicated. Search for food, link up nets for hunting, pause for a while in this or that camp, then move on. Although puzzled over him, the small band included Thomas without rancor. Thomas said he learned an enormous amount of forest lore, some Bayaka songs, but more especially the value of human relationships, of gentleness, tolerance and inclusion. He admitted that he needed that healing. When the time came several weeks ago, when Adamo told him they were approaching a town, Thomas said he too knew that his sojourn with the people of the forest was over.
He guessed he needed to reconnect and to tell his father where he was. Their last contact came before Thomas left New York. I offered to stake him to a phone call, but he demurred. His telex essentially said, “Alive and well in Bangui, send money.”
Two days later, Thomas passed by to say thanks. He had just gotten money from the bank. He’d decided to continue on to Kenya. He said goodbye and walked towards the Zaire ferry.
Such people come and go through our lives. I did not really know Thomas at all, yet his small saga taught me something about simplifying complexities and the value of trusting relationships. Yet, it seemed that within his own family, Thomas could not practice his own new gospel.
Of course, I never knew what happened to him.
Passing Through
It had been a good month for vendors, but poor for commerce. The string of salesmen stopping by home or office in the shady African backwater capital had offered poached ivory - usually small tusks indicating taken from females – smelly leopard skins, or carefully produced leather pouches containing a half dozen little brown stones – diamonds they averred. A few businessmen laid out artistic wares, mostly masks from neighboring Zaire. I was intrigued by a few of those, but had only added one to my collection. As for the ivory and leopard skins I explained that international commerce in either was illegal so I could not and would not buy. The seller, of course, saw this riposte as a bargaining ploy and tried to haggle on. I usually listened to the diamond merchants’ stories about how these were from a clandestine dig, had been brought home by a brother, were the family treasure but now needed to be sold for medicine – ergo, they could be had cheaply. I had no ability to tell if the little rocks were uncut diamonds, pieces of glass or whatever, but I did suggest that the purveyor take them to the American-owned, diamond purchasing office downtown for analysis and possible purchase. Once I asked Fred, the U.S. rep for the office, if any walk-ins really had good stuff. He said that often they did have small industrial grade stones, which, he said, reflected nation-wide artisan production. Only once, he told me, had he really bought a very nice gem stone from a street vendor. He cautioned me not to buy raw diamonds from anyone. He added that the broken glass sellers never stopped by his place for an estimate.
Lately, there was a new wrinkle to sales pitches. Emile, the receptionist buzzed me to advise that a “commercant” wanted to see me. This gent was well dressed and spoke good French. He said he had come upon a “strategic material” that he knew the U.S. needed to corral. After prodding, he confided that it was the uranium used in nuclear bombs. It had come from mines in Zaire. Although he said he could not reveal how he had come to possess it, he affirmed it was radioactive. I asked him to describe what he was talking about: was it liquid or solid, how was it packed? How did he know it was radioactive?
In reply he said it was solid. That answer immediately piqued my interest. This was not just another “red lead” approach. Mercury that had been used in various sorts of x-ray machines circulated in little vials throughout Central Africa. If some of this stuff was slightly radioactive, that was nothing compared to its danger as mercury – especially when used by some “guérisseur” as part of a local cure. Given America’s nuclear might, red lead was flogged from time to time by the street vendors that came to see me.
I remembered a cable from Kinshasa several months back that detailed the disappearance some years ago of a very small quantity of material from the nuclear facility at the university there. Apparently the stolen stuff had no possible weapons implications, but it was real, processed, radioactive and possibly dangerous if kept near people. At the time I had visions of a whole family being poisoned from sleeping near a little brown suitcase with the missing uranium in it.
I asked for a moment, dug out the cable – I did do a little proper filing now and then – and warned my interlocutor of what he might have. He was crestfallen when I said the U.S. government did not want to purchase his item. He blustered that he would go to the French, Soviets or Chinese. I said fine, his stuff really had no value except at the research center from which it had been stolen. He left in a huff.
I recounted this encounter to Joe, the Peace Corps director, over our luncheon beer on the terrace of the New Palace Hotel. Joe, in turn, passed on word from a PCV in Mbaiki, a town at the edge of the great Congo basin forest, some seventy miles south of town. Rob reported that he had first heard about then finally met a bedraggled “blanc” in the market. The man in question said his name was Thomas (pronounced Tow-ma in the French fashion) and that he was an American. Rob invited him home for a meal and heard a bit of his story. Essentially Thomas had been living with a pygmy band for over a year roaming through the vast forest.
Except for a missionary zealot who had vanished while testing the upper rapids of the Oubangui River some ten years earlier – and was presumably eaten by crocodiles - I had no current lookouts for missing Americans. Thomas intrigued us. Was his story truthful and if so, why? We mulled it over, but having run into a number of wayward individuals over the years, reckoned that he probably had his motives. I had no mandate to go look for this guy, but asked Joe to tell Rob to tell Thomas that if he needed any assistance to come see me.
Over the next couple of days, I thought more about Thomas. I grew curiouser and curiouser. Why would some one purposely seek out a stone age existence? Not just for a week or two as an adventure, but for a year or more. I decided to touch base with the local pygmy watchers. Ian, a Quebecois, was part of a university medical team studying pygmies. I had visited their field clinic in the forest. They measured, took blood, obtained family histories, etc. all part of a greater quest to find Eve, the mother of us all. Ian confirmed that his team had picked up rumors from pygmy contacts to the effect that a white shadow was lurking deep in the forest. He thought that was a relatively new phenomenon, but added that the pygmies were full of apocryphal stories. It was impossible to separate fiction from fact. My other pygmy expert was a missionary whose group was translating the Bible into African tongues, including Yaka, the language of the Bayaka, the pygmies of the region. Jim said they started with a few Bible stories like Joseph’s coat of many colors and David and Goliath, both of which had worked well elsewhere in country. He candidly confessed, however, that neither story registered with the pygmies. They did not wear clothes, so coveting a coat made no sense. Additionally, they were not at all violent, so a war based story was equally irrelevant. But in response to my question about a white guy with a pygmy band, Jim hadn’t heard it.
Then in one of those serendipitous moments, Emile buzzed to say that a Monsieur Thomas was there to see me. Yep, he was as described – a gaunt, pale-faced young man sporting a scraggly beard. He wore an old tee shirt, shorts and flip flops. He held an Australian bush hat in hand. Introducing himself as Thomas Breaux, he said he heard from Rob that I might help him. I noted that as the American Vice Consul I was charged with seeing to the welfare of Americans in the country. There were things I could do and things I couldn’t. But first, I asked that he tell me about himself. I was curious as to why he was living with pygmies.
He stumbled at first, advised that he had not spoken much English lately. He also seemed reluctant to tell much, so I just got a bare outline. He had been with an overland London to Nairobi group called Siafu. Thomas said group dynamics were poor; people were selfish, bickering and snarling at each other after several weeks in the truck. He’d had enough, so when they camped near Boda to photo the pygmies, Thomas said he packed his stuff, told the driver to screw himself and walked away. After the overlanders left, he gradually became friendly with Adamo, one of the young Bayaka men. He later learned that his friend was just a visitor to the fringes of civilization. His family group lived far off in the forest. To make things short, he accompanied Adamo on his return trip home. They walked for several weeks. By then Thomas said he was so lost in the forest that he had no way out, even if he wanted to leave.
Instead Thomas said he adjusted, took each day as it came – just like the pygmies did. He gradually learned their language. As his cigarettes and lighter expired, he lost what utility he had to them, although certainly he retained his entertainment value. The pygmies laughed a lot – at him, at each other, at themselves. They always saw the bright side of circumstances. Life was uncomplicated. Search for food, link up nets for hunting, pause for a while in this or that camp, then move on. Although puzzled over him, the small band included Thomas without rancor. Thomas said he learned an enormous amount of forest lore, some Bayaka songs, but more especially the value of human relationships, of gentleness, tolerance and inclusion. He admitted that he needed that healing. When the time came several weeks ago, when Adamo told him they were approaching a town, Thomas said he too knew that his sojourn with the people of the forest was over.
He guessed he needed to reconnect and to tell his father where he was. Their last contact came before Thomas left New York. I offered to stake him to a phone call, but he demurred. His telex essentially said, “Alive and well in Bangui, send money.”
Two days later, Thomas passed by to say thanks. He had just gotten money from the bank. He’d decided to continue on to Kenya. He said goodbye and walked towards the Zaire ferry.
Such people come and go through our lives. I did not really know Thomas at all, yet his small saga taught me something about simplifying complexities and the value of trusting relationships. Yet, it seemed that within his own family, Thomas could not practice his own new gospel.
Of course, I never knew what happened to him.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Central African Republic - Buffeted by Troubles
I worry about the Central African Republic. I suppose not many people do. It’s a small isolated nation in the heart of Africa. Surrounded by troubles in Sudan, Chad and Congo, nonetheless the CAR has proven capable of surfacing indigenous travails; most of which revolve around tribal politics or bad governance. The saddest part of the CAR’s plight is that nothing need be so bad. Ample opportunities to correct matters have been squandered over the years by self-serving politicians, military chiefs and even the people themselves via passivism in the face of egregious abuses and electoral choices that backfired. Yet, despite the malaise and corruption that belie the country, people are ever optimistic that matters will improve.
Currently, however, unrelated strife in two sections of the country poses difficulties. First, in the far northeast around the town of Birao – truly one of the most isolated towns in all of Africa – the Sudanese Darfur conflict spilled across the border in the form of raids by Janjaweed militias on horseback. The Birao region has much in common with Darfur. It is true Sahaelean land where the conflict between herders and agriculturalists mirrors the imbroglio across the border. Fighting around Birao, however, was exacerbated by CAR army troops who, being southerners from the woodlands and forests to the south, were incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, so chased everyone. With the support of French air power, the CAR army has prevailed for the time being, but Birao town was emptied and the citizenry highly annoyed. The CAR army is simply incapable of maintaining a strong military presence in the northeast; so how matters will shake out in the region in the months to come remains unknown. Perhaps one positive aspect of the fighting is the provision of an additional reason for the UN Security Council to act more vigorously vis a vis Darfur because the Council does have the specific mandate to contain international aggression.
Further west in the northern CAR around the town of Paoua near the Chadian border, the CAR’s internal politics are the cause for strife. The area in trouble is the home region of ousted and exiled President Felix Patasse. The incumbent government of President Francois Bozize continues to believe – with legitimate cause – that the region remains supportive of the ex-president. Thus, it over-reacts with violence to minor sparks of opposition. Short of more inclusive political reconciliation, which is unlikely, the region will remain a tinderbox; mostly to the detriment of rural inhabitants caught in the melee of government heavy-handedness.
One small bright spot in the CAR is in the far southeast along the upper reaches of the Mbomou River and border with the Congo and Sudan. There nearly forty thousand refugees from Sudan’s southern civil war settled since the 1980s and even before. Conclusion of that war in the Sudan in 2004 resulted in massive returns of these refugees to their ancestral homelands around Torit. To its credit the CAR had welcomed and assisted the refugees over the years. They, in fact, quadrupled the population of the thinly peopled east. Yet, despite the hospitality, they were still Sudanese refugees whose stay was temporary. When circumstances were right for their exodus, they went home.
So what can the outside world do for the CAR? There are no easy formulas. A regional, UN backed peace keeping mission has fostered peace in the capital, but doesn’t have the capacity (or mandate) to project forces. France, the former colonial power, retains interest and involvement in the CAR, but is reluctant to do too much. The U.S. has minimal diplomatic presence, few resources and little interest. The UN system responds adequately to humanitarian and refugee issues, but the remoteness of the needy areas limits effectiveness. So ultimately, it is up to the Central Africans themselves to shed the political and economic malaise that engulfs them. That is a tall order that can only be accomplished by many little steps. There is a continuing effort to rectify problems, but don’t expect too much. Meanwhile, worry.
Currently, however, unrelated strife in two sections of the country poses difficulties. First, in the far northeast around the town of Birao – truly one of the most isolated towns in all of Africa – the Sudanese Darfur conflict spilled across the border in the form of raids by Janjaweed militias on horseback. The Birao region has much in common with Darfur. It is true Sahaelean land where the conflict between herders and agriculturalists mirrors the imbroglio across the border. Fighting around Birao, however, was exacerbated by CAR army troops who, being southerners from the woodlands and forests to the south, were incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, so chased everyone. With the support of French air power, the CAR army has prevailed for the time being, but Birao town was emptied and the citizenry highly annoyed. The CAR army is simply incapable of maintaining a strong military presence in the northeast; so how matters will shake out in the region in the months to come remains unknown. Perhaps one positive aspect of the fighting is the provision of an additional reason for the UN Security Council to act more vigorously vis a vis Darfur because the Council does have the specific mandate to contain international aggression.
Further west in the northern CAR around the town of Paoua near the Chadian border, the CAR’s internal politics are the cause for strife. The area in trouble is the home region of ousted and exiled President Felix Patasse. The incumbent government of President Francois Bozize continues to believe – with legitimate cause – that the region remains supportive of the ex-president. Thus, it over-reacts with violence to minor sparks of opposition. Short of more inclusive political reconciliation, which is unlikely, the region will remain a tinderbox; mostly to the detriment of rural inhabitants caught in the melee of government heavy-handedness.
One small bright spot in the CAR is in the far southeast along the upper reaches of the Mbomou River and border with the Congo and Sudan. There nearly forty thousand refugees from Sudan’s southern civil war settled since the 1980s and even before. Conclusion of that war in the Sudan in 2004 resulted in massive returns of these refugees to their ancestral homelands around Torit. To its credit the CAR had welcomed and assisted the refugees over the years. They, in fact, quadrupled the population of the thinly peopled east. Yet, despite the hospitality, they were still Sudanese refugees whose stay was temporary. When circumstances were right for their exodus, they went home.
So what can the outside world do for the CAR? There are no easy formulas. A regional, UN backed peace keeping mission has fostered peace in the capital, but doesn’t have the capacity (or mandate) to project forces. France, the former colonial power, retains interest and involvement in the CAR, but is reluctant to do too much. The U.S. has minimal diplomatic presence, few resources and little interest. The UN system responds adequately to humanitarian and refugee issues, but the remoteness of the needy areas limits effectiveness. So ultimately, it is up to the Central Africans themselves to shed the political and economic malaise that engulfs them. That is a tall order that can only be accomplished by many little steps. There is a continuing effort to rectify problems, but don’t expect too much. Meanwhile, worry.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Golf in Africa
Following is a piece that I wrote about my golfing experiences in Africa that was published in the April 2007 edition of the Foreign Service Journal.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
Best and Worst Golf Courses
One valid subjective measure for rating an overseas post is the quality of the golf experience. In that spirit, I offer the following observations.
On becoming the consul in Mombasa, Kenya, I rented a house that backed up to the Nyali Club golf course. It was finally time for me to learn the game and become inculcated into the arcana of golf rules and, especially the formality of a British-origin club. I joined and, depending upon the season, played upon lush green fairways or hard-packed clay over fossilized coral rock. I regularly jumped my back fence for a few practice holes in the early evening. Baby monkeys carted off balls, doum palms ate them and the rough hid puff adders. Most refreshing during competitions was a cold fresh lime drink under the palm trees between nines.
The course in the middle of Kampala was full of ardent players. Thought modest, the prizes - a bicycle, a set of kitchen utensils or a bottle of scotch – were items beyond the reach of many players. Despite the fact that few players were British, an English sense of decorum prevailed. One did not fail to doff his hat upon entering the bar. Most entertaining were rule-committee arguments and rulings conducted in an open fashion over beers on the terrace. Real tension rose once a year in the regional competition organized on tribal lines; we foreigners were allocated any region where more players were needed. In keeping with Uganda’s strife plagued politics, the contest was war by other means. However, it all ended amicably in a huge drunk.
The course in Bangui became one of my favorites. It was not much of a course, with poorly mown fairways and oiled-sand greens, but it had very cold beer. As it happened either Political officer Stacy Kazacos, the only Central African Republic member Martin Yando, or I won every competition for about a year. This infuriated the largely French membership. My triumph was to capture the CAR national championship in 1995. Unfortunately, that was the last year it was played: the golf course succumbed to the ravages of civil strife, and has not reopened.
Kigali has a winding nine-hole course that crosses and recrosses an infernal stream. A challenging course, its fairways are narrow and grass greens unpredictable. The club had a mixed membership of Rwandans (mostly army officers who learned the game in Uganda) and international personnel. I tried to interest now-President Kagame in golf, but he preferred tennis (he rarely lost). Once a year we decorated the club house with left over July 4 bunting and played for the “American Cup.” We cooked hotdogs. I gave away putters, bags, balls to the winners.
Other memorable African courses that I know include Firestone East, located on a vast rubber plantation in Liberia. The main challenge was getting to and from the course, 40 miles from the capital. Players had to run a gauntlet of roadblocks manned by former dictator Charles Taylor’s goons and child soldiers.
The midtown course in Kinshasa is low lying with lots of water hazards. One rarely lost a ball, however, on account of the ever-present “crocodiles” – men who waited patiently by each pond, waded in and retrieved your ball for a small sum. In contrast the course in N’Djamena, Chad, had little vegetation but lots of sand. We carried around a swath of outdoor carpet to hit from into inconsistent oiled browns. Heat was the issue in Chad. It was already 95 degrees when we started at 9 a.m. and often 120 by the finish.
Djibouti’s course resembles Chad’s: sand and rock decorated by remnants of plastic trash bags. Heat and humidity, each about a 100, necessitated a dawn start. I would roust a caddy off his sleeping mat – they slept on the club veranda – and head out. One morning with a tail wind and good bounces, I had a legitimate sub-par round. The golf gods were telling me that even in Djibouti, they smile down on lunatics. A year later, my crowning achievement came on the course in Bujumbura. I aced hole number 12, a 180-yard, uphill par 3…bounce, bounce, in!
So which is the best or the worst? I can’t say. I liked them all. I needed them all! For without a golf course, any post is the pits.
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