Gacaca

The Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre is located on a hill, and feels remote, aloof almost. The unassuming but elegant building is fronted by grassy terraces that cascade down towards a wetland. Beyond this open space the bustle of Kigali continues unhindered. The unassuming exterior is deceptive.

Careful and intelligent design takes one on an emotional journey that ranges from absolute outrage to deep and profound sadness. Exhibit one contains a generous treatment of colonialism; the beginnings of the exploitation of clan difference in the service of Empire. I use the word 'generous' since throughout the Centre, the material is displayed with wisdom and compassion. After this introduction one is drawn into a depiction of evil and terror. Video footage bears testimony to survivor experiences, newspaper clippings portray the mad propaganda that incited mass murder of Tutsis and moderate Hutus and many photographs. Exhibits include the remains of victims, clothing and the elementary but highly effective weapons used in this 3-month mass slaughter.

The building allows for moments of composure; after each exhibit one is given the opportunity to exit the room to a secluded space outside. Floor one concludes with current measures intended to serve justice. This includes the Gacaca village justice system where communities are given opportunity to try perpetrators. There has been a lot of criticism leveled at this system, not least the subsequent victimization of witnesses. The humanity displayed in enabling such closure I considered laudable as I viewed the second floor exhibition. The display on genocides elsewhere - Namibia, Nazi Germany, Cambodia, Bosnia - is rendered remote by time and geography. One is brought back to the present with a sharp blow: a memorial to children containing photographs posted by family members, personalized with detail on their favorite foods, ambitions, activities and aspirations. Tearful and upset, I rushed outside to find solace in the gardens outside, facing the grassy terraces outside punctuated by concrete slabs, nondescript rectangular blocks that contain mass graves, crypts containing the remains of friends, wives, husbands, lovers, children... a dignified burial for the many lost.

Boda Boda

The drive from Kampala to Entebbe airport can take 2 hours, despite a distance of about 40 km's. I have found that time spent in traffic is best invested in taking photographs of the textured human activity along these busy corridors and chatting to taxi drivers. After the mandatory exchanges on the FIFA World Cup and our President's colorful personal life (a source of amusement and not insubstantial derision from most people that I have encountered on my travels), I am almost always presented with colorful tales and opinions that give some wonderful insights into local life. One such story is the origin of the name 'boda boda' assigned to motorcycle taxis (and the excellent bar I went to the previous night....). Apparently these vehicles provide transport to passengers and goods between the Kenyan and Ugandan borders. These mobilities also accommodate smuggling apparently; cheaper Kenyan sugar being the most popular product that finds its way boda to boda.

The notion of borders in the African context is infused with history and battles. The Great Lakes region is particularly prone to conflicts arising from colonial legacies infused with tribal resentments and old battles. A different kind of battle is discernible in the media; that of the sexes. In the run-up to Valentines Day, a radio phone-in program revealed an interesting dilemma; a listener was earnestly seeking advice on which of her four boyfriends she should go out with on this auspicious day. Apparently this is not an unique problem. My Ugandan friends tell me that the increase in the HIV infection rate recently is due to these peculiar sexual networks that proliferate. Intimacies transgress boundaries of marital status and commitment on both sides of the gender divide. Billboards graphically depict the extent of these networks and their implications. There is tacit public agreement and I would venture to say, acceptance of this sexual behavior. I harbor no moral judgement in this respect (in fact I am amazed that people have time for such complications in their lives!), what I do find contentious however, is that such openness co-exists with the homophobia that has been institutionalized in Uganda, effectively criminalizing homosexual relationships. Clearly some borders are more porous than others.

The element of surprise

The flight from Nairobi to Kisumu is short; the entire 35 minutes could be spent with one's nose pressed against the aircraft window like an enchanted child coveting an expensive toy. Kenya is incredibly beautiful, I thought when my reverie was interrupted by the sudden ascent of the plane as we were about to land. An abrupt change in wind direction necessitated this anxiety inducing change of plan; the butterflies in my stomach were pacified by the view of Lake Victoria as we circled and prepared for a second attempt at landing. I was relieved to find myself on terra firma outside the tiny airport building boasting ‘Kisumu International Airport’ with the glossy rendition of future extensions featuring in the background. Kisumu is a pretty town, art deco architecture frames a thriving commercial centre. Driving through it I was charmed by its laid back energy, a feature, it seems, of African cities located close to large expanses of water.

Many languid cyclists contribute to this laid-back atmosphere. They transport large rolled up sisal mats, plants and grasses, large quantities of goods and of course passengers. Apparently Kisumu is the regional pioneer of the bicycle taxi (although I sense my Malawian colleagues would disagree), but much like other innovations that run contrary to regulation, they are viewed with suspicion and irritation by local urban managers. Owners are required to register their bicycles but little has been done to accommodate or facilitate their movement. They are parked on street corners, fixed and serviced in small shady spots in between parking areas and buildings. Like a sudden take-off upon landing, a glitch in a flight path, I think city managers tend to treat such innovations as unanticipated deviations to be controlled in order to avert any unanticipated phenomena. By doing so they deprive themselves of an extraordinary view, I think.

Kumasi Kente

Upon the conclusion of meetings with colleagues at Kwame Nkrumah University in Kumasi, I was asked what I may need in addition to the many notes, recordings, business cards and photos taken during my two-day visit. Kente, I replied, without hesitation, I want some Kente. The regular patterns that criss-cross in small autonomous blocks, the amalgamation of colours and textures that somehow unify into a visual feast represent a tourist export that one cannot leave Ghana without. It manages to retain its allure despite such overexposure. In many ways I think Kente is symbolic of planners’ perfect cities: small controlled, regular entities; visually beautiful with diverse components contriving to create a harmonious visual impact. The product celebrates and protects. Kente is a ceremonial product of the Ashanti. Kumasi is the current Ashanti capital and contains many reminders of this once powerful kingdom.

At the height of its powers the Ashanti Kingdom spanned across much of Central Ghana, Togo and Cote d'Ivoire. Architectural remains can be seen in close proximity to the Ashanti Palace in central Kumasi. The kingdom essentially comprised an amalgamation of city states representing a powerful collective of urban traders. The popular tendency is to think of cities as Northern constructs; ancient cities of Greece and Italy provide us with clues to Western civilisation whilst the industrialisation of London and others confirmed Modern epoch. Odd then that we tend to overlook urban African histories, with Africans being particularly guilty of this. Policy makers tend to view urbanisation on this continent as an aberration, a deviation. When looking at Kejetia Market in Kisumu, the largest in West Africa, I can see how overwhelming African cities could be. The size, the bustle, the densities represent a messy urbanity. Entering it you fear being swept along in a tide of human activity, perhaps mistakenly finding yourself on a bus to Tamale or a train to Accra amongst chickens, goats and cheap Chinese imports. Yet, these spaces contain threads of gold similar to that found in good Kente cloth. Ordinary people trading, buying, negotiating and transporting goods may not shine as bright as the gold in the Ashanti throne; this propensity to trade is as traditional and legendary as its ceremonial cloth.

Public Affairs

The taxi driver was surprised when I suggested he drop me in Osu so that I could walk the remaining 3 kilometres to the Accra city centre. It was hot and his fee had effectively been reduced by 30%. Walking down Cantonments Road, continuing to Independence Square should be one of those wonderful processes of anticipation as one gets closer to the visual celebration of Africa’s first independent state. Instead of keeping my eye on the unfolding of this spectacle however, my eyes were on the sidewalk. Dodging potholes, scrambling over piles of bricks and competing with oncoming traffic and traders on narrow strips, I felt my rights as a pedestrian severely infringed upon.

When I was able to raise my eyes from this continuous obstacle course, I was distracted by the ubiquitous mobile phone advertisements; MTN, Zain and Vodafone dominate. The cacophony of colours and typefaces is discernable on small hotel walls, shops fronts (sides, backs and tops sometimes), bus terminals and benches. And of course the billboards; Vodafone flashes its glamour while Zain’s colour palette is a strange but attractive blend of mint green and light magenta. MTN is most poignant in its portrayal of children physically illustrating how wide, fast and well connected its network is. Mobile telephony has enabled the leapfrogging that makes landline telephony seem almost quant. It connects friends and family, enables social and economic networks and is a constant reminder of the importance of communication. I find it ironic however, that whilst we are constantly reminded in the public realm that connection is only a phone call away, moving 500m by foot is beset with difficulties.

My experience of Accra city centre is that its users walk, trade and network on the streets. Air-conditioned offices and underground parking may provide a middle-class reprieve from the outside bustle but I would argue that the majority of Accra folk (as in other African cities) find their way around the city centre on foot. We celebrate connection and transcendence of space yet the normal and most celebrated way of movement is constrained by a lack of very simple infrastructure. Perhaps the yellow MTN sponsored bus shelter provides us with a clue here. Why not assign a levy on mobile phone company advertisements and use this funding to upgrade the physical environment? Somehow I think it is not the mobile phone companies that would object. The problem is public.