It was quieter this time, Stav thought, perhaps drowned somewhat by the engines that were at once paused and left idling by their occupants, handbrakes on, doors left swinging in the breeze. The sirens, now unmistakably clear, wail over the city as Stav watches a young couple locked in an embrace crouch behind the front axles of their station-wagon. He trained for this, they all had, at school and later again in the army. Stav has been taught that he has ninety seconds to make it to a shelter. This information enters his mind now, ninety seconds; the amount of time it takes to reheat a pie in the microwave except that by the time the rocket comes it will still be cold. Ninety seconds is bullshit. Stav stands, feet rooted to the pavement, wanting and needing to see this. His eyes trained on the blue sky and it’s silhouette of tall square buildings watching a bright light, no bigger than a bird in the distance, streaking across the sky. It comes fast from the south in its shallow arc aimed directly at the city. Stav’s gaze is caught by a new object, faster and seemingly stronger, silently launched from the ground. The sirens still drone in the background giving the soundtrack to Stav’s viewing. He begins to raise his camera but lowers it without taking his eyes off the rockets. Some things need to be seen with the naked eye.

The sound of the explosion reaches Stav as a cloud of black smoke formed a triangle against the cloudless blue sky. He felt safe, like a spectator on the sidelines. The conflict was real now, it always had been but Stav didn’t feel like a participant. Knowing full well that rockets are inaccurate and indiscriminate, still Stav felt like he wasn’t the target. After all he had Arab friends, spoke their language and attended their parties. During the army he had been a translator, often clashing with his friends who nicknamed him Abdullah. None of that counted now, on the verge of a new war. Surely he would be called up with the rest of his battalion soon. He imagined where he would be, what he would be doing, perhaps the call would come while he is in the shower. Perhaps, just perhaps he will miss it and they will forget about him.

The sirens stop as the now disfigured triangle fades into the blue, carried west over the Mediterranean. Stav felt a period of calm wash over the cars left idling, people still hiding behind their metal bodies. This was over as quickly as the sirens had come and the streets of Tel Aviv came back to life; engines roared, horns sounded, the Africans gathered I the park, Israeli mothers carried their shopping home, stalls once again vied for Stav’s attention and above all the slow drone of the sirens is replaced by the frantic piercing sound of police cars. This is just the beginning, Stav felt.This is war.

Aside: My first piece of fiction; just 400 words. Scrawled on a crumpled bit of paper after witnessing the third day of the 2012 Gaza campaign. Stav is made up character but the event is real. He is the average Israeli, like hundreds I have met, he does not want war but will fight if war comes to him. We see only one side of the picture in the media, and its not what I saw on the ground. Studying in a bomb shelter is not fun, living is fear is not fun, this is life in Israel. I do not agree with what the Israelis subject the Palestinians to, but I do believe that everyone has the right to defend themselves. This post is for my Israeli and Jewish friends, the ones I made cry and storm out with my opinions, the ones who tirelessly argued with me till we almost came to blows. I respect your passion and your beliefs but I will not stop fighting for the rights of the Palestinians. What you have given me is the gift of perspective and for that I thank you because I was lacking it before.

I love Jerusalem and I love Israel, I only hope that in my lifetime I can visit at peace.

H

Its fair to say that my trip through Africa has been at my own pace, lacking forward planning and carried out with spontaneity from its conception till now. I decided to get south sooner rather than later, I needed to get out of Africa.

 
Three consecutive days of hitch hiking and 18 hour bus rides took me from Western Tanzania to Lusaka in Zambia (over 2500km on dirt roads). Barely stopping, arriving at a transit town and taking the cheapest bed available before heading off again the next day at 6am. This style of backpacking is physically and mentally draining and I would find comfort in drifting off to sleep as the African women began to sing each day at sunset. The bus would fill with harmonized voices, usually praising our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. During one of these sing-a-longs I glanced sideways at the Muslim man sitting next to me and couldn’t resist resist, ‘la illaha il allah’ (there is no god but Allah) he beams at me and lets out a chuckle. I do feel like Tanzania is the first African country I have rushed through; not doing any of the things Tanzania is meant to be famous for. No Zanzibar, Mt Kilimanjaro or the Serengeti yet I still managed to meet some beautiful people along the Tan-Zam highway.

 
Zambia signaled the end of East Africa and the beginning of the South. I arrived at the busy border crossing that cuts the Tan-Zam highway in two. I crossed and was immediately approached by the usual touts and moneychangers that all seem to be made of the same cloth. What I hadn’t anticipated was Zambia’s recent change to a new currency (1st January 2013) meant there were two sets of notes on the market. Anything printed prior to 2012 was now only worth a tenth of those printed post. I wished to change my left over Tanzanian Shillings, about $50 USD worth, and was soon approached by a man holding a thick wad of cash. The normal wrangling took place before we stuck a deal for 280,000 Zambian Kawtcha, at which he eagerly put four 50,000 notes into my hand followed by eight 10,000 notes. It took me roughly 35 seconds to realise that he had given me 8,000 instead of 80,000 and by 40 seconds I was tearing after him, my pack bouncing up and down on my shoulders. I grabbed the back of his shirt as he was midstride and as he spun around his face melted. I told him in very few words that I would not be shitted round and he better give me my money. To which he had little choice but to do as I held his shirt in a balled fist. Welcome to Zambia.

Lusaka is a modern city, like a safer less crazy version of Nairobi. I went to a film for the first time since Israel; Iron Man 3. Nothing here will draw me back in any big rush, I thought as my bus pulled away from the central bus station en route to the Victoria Falls.
Livingston is a magnet for backpackers. Not only is it they home of Victoria Falls but it straddles the border between Zambia, Botswana and Zimbabwe. Here bars fill with American and British college students playing pool and beer pong in hostels that litter the city. After the remoteness of Western Tanzania it was a relief to meet up with a young crowd and I felt normalness creeping back after a long absence. Dr Livingston, the famous explorer, referred to them as the ‘smoke that thunders’ and for anyone who has the privilege of witnessing Africa’s most amazing geographic feature, you cannot disagree. Not only does it thunder but it rains, hard. The mist of water vapour rises up out of the depths of the great crevasse and far above my head to come crashing down over me. If I closed my eyes I am standing in the shower, with the tap turned on full. The water beats down on us in a rhythmic drumming that leaves us soaked to our core. When the wind changes ever so slightly it opens up a gap in the mist through which I am granted a sighting of the majestic Victoria Falls. Water falls off the sharp edge and plummets straight down with such force that its constant roaring can be heard for miles around. On the far side of the Zambezi River Zimbabwe stretches over the landscape. I walk across the bridge between the two countries, its halfway point marking the entry into Zimbabwe, take 10 steps inside Zim and greet the border guard. Sadly I do not have time to venture through Zim but that could be a blessing for my wallet as they recently converted to using USD as their adopted currency. It is hard to believe that you can own a real one hundred trillion-dollar banknote, a testament to how bad Zim’s inflation was, but one such note now lines the inside of my wallet.

 
Together with an English bloke and a pair of killer hangovers we hitch-hiked into Botswana, our moods only broken by sightings of Elephants at the side of the road. At the border after having our passports stamped we boarded a barge which would deposit us safely across the river that separates the two countries. I had been told that it is straight paved roads from here to Cape Town which was a huge relief after months of Africa’s dirt roads. However I wasn’t going there just yet and followed Carl to a safari lodge on Botswana’s famous Salt Pans, where his friend Rich worked as a wildlife guide. Rich’s clients are paying for an exclusive experience in one of Botswana’s most luxurious camps. I myself had experienced this level of hospitality the previous night, when on the streets of Livingston I spotted a pair of familiar faces driving in a safari vehicle. It is shocking to think that you would see friends in Zambia from Wellington; their son had gone to Huntley Boarding School with me years ago and I can remember sleepovers at their house watching scary movies. I joined them at their lodge that night perched on the river with a tranquil setting that rivaled anywhere I had seen in Africa. After a night of catching up on things from home (aided by an open bar) and about my trip through Africa it was sad to say goodbye. These had been the first familiar faces I had seen since my own father left Jerusalem in December and it was nice to not be a stranger for once.

I sit now, in the dining room of beautiful African Lodge in Bots, having woken up in my chalet and eaten a buffet breakfast, writing on a borrowed computer. I have spent much of this trip in squalled accommodation but now, just over a thousand kilometres from my final destination, I am relaxed, well fed and rested. Guess it pays to know someone in Africa and I am thankful that from now on I do know someone, in Gaborone, in Johannesburg, and in Cape Town. I am in Southern Africa now, the stories of war, genocide and suffering abate and tonight I will sit around the fire with the Safari guides, drink beer and listen to stories of encounters with lions, elephants, snakes and scorpions.

Six months is a long time, even longer when spent in third world countries. Soon I cross into South Africa, its not the real Africa as I know it but the thought of Beer, Rugby and nights on the jol with mates is just what the witchdoctor ordered. I have learnt many things in Africa, I know that everyone has a story, each one more saddening than the last and as I listen to each they take a piece of me with them. The thing is that now I have no more to give, I have almost stopped caring about famine, disease and death. How can I care about one people more than another as I do with the Palestinians or Syrians? The Africans are just as demanding for my sympathy but I have stopped dishing it out, I have stopped listening. It is this thought alone that scares the living shit out of me an signals its time to leave.

H

I am in a shop, with plastic draped over its roof and down its sides. More of a shack. Its Zambia but it could have been anywhere on the Continent. ‘Please, my friend have a look at my shop’ says the man who I don’t bother asking the name of. ‘Did you make this?’ I say pointing to a polished wooden Hippo, full well knowing the answer already and already dismissing it being the truth. What these shop owners don’t seem to realize is that I started seeing the exact same Hippo’s in Kenya three months ago. I know they are mass produced in some warehouse which I wouldn’t be shocked to learn is in Asia. We progress further along our line of transaction, me claiming that I am just looking and him replying, ‘looking is free, so is touching!’

 
A small thumb sized Rhinoceros catches my eye sitting among copper bracelets and bead necklaces. ‘How much is that?’ Jabbing my index finger at the table. Ignoring my question the man, who by now I am just calling ‘my friend’, pushes his lips together and makes a sound at the back of his throat meant to imply the significance of the object. ‘This one is a Rhinoceros, one of Africa’s greatest animals’ his voice has gone into a near whisper now. ‘My friend, you know the gorge over the hill’ -no- ‘yes, there is a village there where the women carved this object out of wood stone that is collected during the summer from the Zambezi forest.’ ‘My friend, since you are the first customer of the day, I will give it to you for 35,000 Kwatcha.’ It looked fairly plain to me so I pick it up to inspect it closely. Firstly it is made of plastic, the small lines where it has been melted together clearly visible. I turn it over and read the stamped text on its underbelly: MADE IN CHINA. I turn to my friend, intrigued and intending not to hell him out of his hole but rather see him go deeper. ‘Do you know the names of the women who made it?’ of course he did, and this set him off an new tangent of lies, some of which directly conflicted each other. I let him waft on for some time before coming to his rescue. ‘I think its plastic, my friend’, I am ignored, undeterred I try again, ‘what does this say?’ pointing to the country of manufacture. My friend takes his time reading this line as if digesting each individual letter and pairing it with the bullshit he had just fed me. His face shows no sign of shock or embarrassment, just concentration on the six centimeter plastic Rhinoceros he holds between his fingers. He lets out another noise from the back of his throat, this time softer and then leads straight into a barrage of apology. ‘My friend, my friend, it is China yes but you see I do not have my glasses on and I could not read it.’ He changes tact, ‘I was confused, I thought it was a Hippo that is made out of wood stone collected in the forest.’ My personal favorite is the finale, ‘My friend, I have diabetes and my blood sugars are too low.’ My friend is defeated clearly assuming I will no longer do business with him, he slumps down on the chair.

 
For me this epitomizes African businessmen, a gross generalization would be to say they are not good at it. It is something that comes naturally to the Arabs, Indians and Asians but not for the Africans and not for my friend here. But I had already forgiven him by the time he had placed the Rhino back on the table, for he was simply saying what he thought I wanted to hear. All through Africa, whether you are asking directions or a question, people will do their utmost to give an answer. If they don’t know the answer or where such and such a place is then they will make it up. I have not once heard the answer ‘I don’t know’, but many times I have followed directions only to end up nowhere near where I would like to be. This guy, this shop, this Rhino represents it all; Africa and its confusion, its lost-ness, its deception, its corruption and its beauty. I approach my friend, sitting slumped in his chair counting through coins. ‘How much?’ I hold out the Rhino and he stares back in bewilderment. Being the businessman that he is, my friend collects himself and jumps up from his seat. He does not question my interest in purchasing the Chinese object, but stammers out his price: 5,000 Kwatcha ($1USD). I hand him two gold colored coins worth just under half of this and he nods. Dropping my new purchase into my pocket I stroll out of the store. I have spent a lot of money in Africa, well a lot for me, but this by far is the best use of 50c in all my travels. For when I look at this Rhinoceros sitting on my desk at university and later in my career I will be taken back to that shop, back to Africa.

Lake Tanganyika’s waters touch the shores of four African nations; The Democratic Republic of Congo, Zambia, Burundi and Tanzania; where I find myself now. Its cool waters surround my limbs as I float on my back staring up at a crisp blue sky. I feel the familiar urge to itch the small red spots on my legs, clearly visible through the glass-like lake. I resisted this longing; knowing full well that I would only be perpetuating a problem that has plagued me for the past three weeks.
I should’ve started by saying that I first became aware of this issue in Burundi. It was a slow realisation that was kept at bay by the constant buzzing of mosquitos and wilful blindness. They’re just mozzie bites, I told myself but soon I was plagued with them, constantly scratching at my skin. No amount of repellent could help and so I suffered a quite festering of parasites on my body. My mind jumped to the worst, I had heard of travellers getting Scabies in Africa; parasites that burrow under the skin. Or perhaps it was bedbugs, yes that’s common although no amount of cleansing my bedding seemed to help. By the time I reached Kigoma, a relatively remote town two days drive in a Land Cruiser from Dar es Salaam, I conceded that I needed help. I was staying at a campsite, the kind of place where Zebras wander freely about the bush and my tent opened up to a view out across the water. It was a decent slog through the midmorning heat to reach the nearest village, where I hoped I would find a Missionary or NGO clinic. Upon arrival I was swamped with children shouting, ‘pina,pina’, which I later learned means ‘football’. I wandered about but speaking only English I was soon taken to the school teachers house. Sitting in the doorway of his thatched hut I spoke to him and his wife. Ignoring my plea for directions to a clinic, he battered me with questions about my country. His excitement was flattering and he dragged me by the arm to a group of children sitting under a tree where he asked me to repeat the impromptu geography lesson I had just given him.

So there I was, standing under a tree, surrounded by 30 small dark faces which waited anxiously as I used a stick to draw the continents in the dirt. I pointed to each one, saying its name and waiting for the chorus of response, ‘America’, ‘Australia’, ‘Asia’ and ‘Africa’- to which I received a few nods of recognition that this was where we were. A taller boy stood at the back watching with his arms crossed in front of his chest, he raised his hand confidently and spoke without waiting for me to show notice. ‘Why do they all start with ‘A’?’ He posed as if testing me. I had to admit that I didn’t have a damn clue why. The boy, while obviously not satisfied with my response, let me off the hook with a casual ‘sauwa’ (cool in Swahili). There was a murmur of ‘oooo’ and ‘aaaaah’ when I drew a line in the dirt across the Indian Ocean from Tanzania to the two blobs I was passing off as New Zealand.
I was far from home and this fact alone seemed to grant me a level of respect equal with their own teacher. Four volunteers offered to show me the Doctor’s house, I hired them all paying them a few shillings each (5c). ‘Are you sure that this is the Doctor’s house?’ I asked the tall boy who now seemed to be leading our party. It didn’t look like much, a mud hut with a thatched roof, much like the other buildings in the village. However the kids were insistent, saying ‘doktor’ over and over. Some of the girls hid behind the larger boys as the door opened and a couple of them even took a step backward when a short half-naked man appeared in the doorway. ‘Meisterwerke’ (I presumed ‘Mr Werke’) did not like clothes, shoes or soap for that matter but he welcomed me inside. It wasn’t hard to work out that I was inside the house of a Witch-doctor as I looked around at the vegetables and spices hanging from the walls. Jars filled with various roots, dead animals and liquids lined the floor. I was told, not asked, to sit on the dirt floor while Meisterwerke took up a squatting position over a mattress in the corner. He seemed to know why I was there and grabbed at my legs, arms and neck inspecting the small red spots. His attention shifted to my head where he squatted and roughly sifted through my long hair, pulling my beard from side to side. After some time of this ape like spectacle he let out a grunt of approval which was only the second time he had used his voice in my presence. Holding out his hand to me I could see a small black unmistakable bug. I had fleas, probably due to my habit of enjoying the company of a dog as much as a human’s. While I was contemplating the origin of these parasites, Miesterwerke began sifting through jars and plastic bags before pulling out a large ginger root. He took the root over to the other side of the room where smouldering embers lay in his fireplace. He placed the root into the fire which began to crackle and emit a sweet rich smell of ginger. Smiling at me with a toothy grin, he spoke in broken English, ‘take, take’ he said handing me a small plastic bag full of ash from the now dying fire. He said the name of the lake, Tanganyika, over and over whilst making a throwing motion with his hands, then a swimming motion. I repeated these actions back to him; first throw the ash into the lake then swim in the lake? He held his hand up and counted through his fingers and thumb, do this five times? I was confused but at this point his hands were in the small of my back ushering me out into the midday sun.
I stumbled back through the village, this time without an entourage but clasping my plastic bag full of ginger ash. I hadn’t decided whether I would follow the ‘doctors’ orders when I arrived back at my tent an hour later. There seemed to be no reason to the ginger, but I felt like the swimming would somehow drown the fleas. I was desperate, my legs sore from constant scratching. I grabbed large armfuls of clothing and began to make trips back and forth from my tent to the beach where I amassed a pile of belongings. Everything would be washed, it all went in: hats, socks, jeans, sleeping bag and my empty pack. As the crystal waters of the lake were polluted with almost everything I owned I followed into the water myself. But not before taking a small plastic bag out of my pocket and sprinkling a few pinches of its contents over the water’s surface. I watched as the black and grey flakes floated atop the ripples before being absorbed and disappearing into its depths. I stripped off my clothes and left them floating with the others, completely naked, I ran and jumped into the cold lake. I dived deep surfacing some meters from my entry point and away from my washing. I took a deep breath and rolled onto my back, where I lay floating, resisting the urge to scratch, staring blankly upwards.

Tom

Nairobi is a strange city. On one hand it is modern with all the bells and whistles you would expect to find in London or Los Angles but on the other it is crowded, hot and unsafe once the sun goes down. Rivaling Johannesburg for the title of most dangerous city, I proceeded cautiously when leaving the hostel for a pack of cigarettes at 10pm on a Friday night. I had originally planned to cross from Kenya into Tanzania and climb Mt Kilimanjaro, while I am sure this would have been an amazing and rewarding experience it costs over $1000USD. I figured I could spend the same amount getting lost in East Africa’s Great Lake region of Uganda, Rwanda and Burundi. These are a few snippets from a month in paradise.

*

I found myself waking to the sound of monkeys tripping over my tent-lines. Peering out of my triangle I looked out across Lake Navashir. Bounding towards me was Tractor, a six month old St Bernard that belonged to Sean, the owner of Fisherman´s Camp. Over the next few days Tractor became my companion, exploring the lakes shores and warding off Hippo´s which strayed too close. However Hells Gate´s policy of no dogs put an end to our bromance and I teamed up with a couple of Aussies to tackle one of Kenya´s most rugged National Parks. It is unique among Africa´s wildlife experiences in that you are actively encouraged to rent a mountain bike to explore the valley. The prospect of having no metallic bonnet between myself and the Buffalo, Leopard and Elephant was exhilarating. The landscape of the park was simply breathtaking as we explored deep valleys and vast open plains filled with Zebra, Giraffe, Impala, Warthog, Baboons, Hippo´s and Buffalo. My first big game experience and I was hooked .

While camping was quite cheap for an empty tent without a mattress, the food at the lodge was a little pricey for my wallet. My Scottish blood shone through and because I didn’t want to leave my new found slice of paradise I began devising ways to avoid eating at the restaurant. I befriended the resident weaver who sold his crafts to the passing tourists; his name was Tom, a short thin man with dark leathery hands and a slight hobble as he walked to and from his spinning wheel. After leaving my tent each morning I would meet Tom in his shack and discuss Kenyan politics until around 7:30am when Mamma Rosie would come around selling cups of African porridge for 50c a cup. The mornings were slow, spent reading or talking with the various travelers staying lakeside. I slipped efficiently into a routine, heading up to the local village for a lunch of Ugali (mashed Maze) and Roast Goat. If my mornings were slow my afternoons were at snail’s pace, spent sitting with Tom and other boatmen on the jetty, fishing with a rod I had crafted myself out of a reed and some twine and a toothpick. The pickings were slim but in about 3 hours I usually managed to get 5-6 hand sized fish, which I gutted and stuck on a skewer to be roasted over a fire when the sun went down. It was my routine and I liked it. No, I loved it.

*

My first photo in Uganda

´Your name is Sharp? My name is Sharp! Welcome to Uganda Sharp!´ It appeared that the over enthusiastic Border Guard at Uganda´s Malaba crossing was also named Sharp.  Within a minute of walking through the border post I was stepping up into the cab of Osama´s truck. Osama´s mother is from Yemen and his father from Kenya, meaning that we could communicate in Saudi Arabic. The three hour drive to Jinja was enough time for me to hear Osama´s life story. His two sons named Gaddafi and Saddam (no I am not kidding) attend school in Kenya´s Muslim dominated Mombasa. Our honeymoon period came to an end when the truck peetered out on the side of the road. I left Osama tinkering under the hood as I jumped on a bus for the last few kilometers. Perched on the northern tip of Lake Victoria, Jinja is where the Nile begins its journey north to the shores of the Mediterranean. So I had done it; followed the world´s longest river from its end in Egypt to its birth in Central Africa. A dull sense of accomplishment came over me followed by a the thought: ´what next?` Silly question, follow the mantra, ´if in doubt, head south´.

Kampala is another bustling African mess splayed out across seven hills and valleys.

Lake Bunyoni lies in the hills between Uganda, The Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda. Its isolation is its greatest asset. The placid water gives way to our wooden boat as Nicolas, our driver, reeves the throttle of his two stroke motor. In the darkness I could make out a jetty lit by a kerosene lamp. At this stage I should mention that I am travelling with a fellow Kiwi named Hamish who is a Doctor working in Zambia. We spent the next few days exploring the backwaters of the lake and the remote villages flanked by steep valley walls.

A Mountain Gorilla shares 97% of our DNA. Remarkably they seem to know it; as I watch a teenage male reaches from Ham´s orange bag. But my eyes are fixed on the 300kg Male Silverback sitting less than two meters in front of me. I am transfixed by this brooding black beast who sits up, scratches his balls and then sniffs his fingers. His family play around him, female’s, babies on their backs and rebellious youths occupy the branches and trees around our clearing. Words cannot describe. Because of the risk of spreading disease to the Gorillas the time is limited to one hour and we were soon being dragged away with backward glances. Thank god Hamish and I were able to share his camera. 

James spent his time fighting the LRA (Kony) before coming to work at the Park

James, Ham, Bonnie

We hiked to a ridge above the park, accompanied by two armed guards to scare off bush elephants apparently; their names were James and Bonnie, great chaps. Surrounded by dense jungle that spreads out of the largest forest in Africa, Hamish casually pulls out his Iphone to check our location. I shit you not the little blue dot was well inside the line that marks the Border with the DRC, meaning that we had unknowingly crossed into one of the most dangerous countries in the world. As I looked across at the Congo, it called to me in a way that scarily reminded me of the Middle East. What I had hoped was just an attraction to Arab culture was becoming a strange obsession with something not so savory. Something much more dangerous: an addiction to conflict.

*

Hotel Rwanda

For me Rwanda represents one thing in my mind. Shame. We did not act to prevent one of the greatest tragedies in our history. What always hit me the hardest is the French force of 500 soldiers were sent in to Kigali to rescue all the ´whites´ from the Interhamwe (killing militias). The reality is that those 500 paratroopers were the best of the French army and with their advanced weaponry could have stopped the violence being committed by the blade of the machete. Easily. And yet we did nothing and as a result one million corpses lined the streets of this tiny country that I now found myself in. Walking the streets is a constant reminder of our guilt; after the Genocide international guilt money flowed into the country and it has been lavishly spent on modern footpaths and pristine gardens that reminded me of American Suburbia. Hamish and I headed north to a remote border town on the shores of Lake Kivu. My attempt to cross into the Congo was short-lived, fueled by the prospect of another adventure, and extinguished by a corrupt border guard who sensing my eagerness refused to allow me across unless a hefty sum was handed over. I didn’t fight it, part of me, the rational side breathed a sigh of relief that I knew would be echoed by my family across the world. I was eager to leave Rwanda, its scars a painful reminder of what is happening in Syria. A reminder that we are doing this again, we are abandoning innocent people to be slaughtered like dogs in the street. Excuse me while I rant. I am well aware that for people back home it is hard to comprehend why I give a damn, why I am constantly posting articles about Syria. Not that I feel the need to justify my Facebook activity; it is an issue very close to my heart. When every time you turn on the news you see images of the places you have been, now lying in heaps of rumble or when I see pictures of dead bodies, wondering, did I meet her, or him, did she wave to me as I drove past that one time? It is impossible not to be gripped at the very core, frightened to read the news, for fear of reading as I did three days ago of a bomb that killed 43 and injured 100 in the town of Reyhanli. Reyhanli, the town where I bought a lighter from the supermarket, where we shared Syrian bread with Mahmoud and his family, where we met 7 year old Jamil, where we watched a game of football being played under lights, where we played a game of table tennis at the youth center and the laughed at me because I tripped over whilst fetching the ball. It is real to me and I care. I do not want to stand in a memorial in Damascus one day as I stood then in Kigali and read about how the UN floundered around like headless chickens. I do not want to read the names of my friends carved into a marble stone with the words ´never again´ written above them.

Jamil a Syrian refugee in Reyhanli

*

Burundi only emerged from civil war in 2007 and the peace has been somewhat fragile since to say the least. Yet this was my next destination and I managed to drag Hamish along, although he wasn’t hard to convince in the end. We knew we were among a handful of travelers to make the trip overland on public transport through the northern provinces to the capital Bujumbura. We didn’t let this deter us, setting out early from Kigali so to be sure to be off the road by nightfall in Burundi. French, I didn’t enjoy it when I was third form and I didn’t enjoy it now. I will give you an example: one night we went to a local place for a meal and looked at the menu, it was in French. I wanted the chicken, all out, the pork, all out, the beef, all out, and so I was left staring at Chevre, which I mistook for Chevron- which means horse. Hamish went ahead and ordered what I thought was horse while I shot him dirty looks across the table. Having spent a lot of time around horses as a boy I could not bring myself to eat the animal and so ordered plain chips and salad, shite food. The ´horse´ arrived and I made some remark about how small the knee joint was for a horse, ´must´ve been a pony´ Hamish remarked taking clear joy in my squeamishness. A week after leaving Burundi I open an email from old Ham which explains that Chevre means goat and that I went hungry that night for nothing .

Burundi pleasantly surprised me in its normalness. For a country that has a travel warning of ´high risk´ for the entire country I was left wondering what on earth for? We headed for the beach on Sunday and caught the local aid workers, contractors and UN Peace Keepers in their weekly routine of beers and volleyball with the mountains of the DRC watching us from across Lake Tanganyika. Playing a game of volleyball and sipping beers in the pool is not how I envisioned my trip inside what I thought was going to be the most dangerous place in Africa. I was sad to leave but the three day visa dictated that we must part in our ways and make for opposite borders, Hamish heading north for Kilimanjaro and I south for Kigoma. Squeezed eight into a five seat sedan, and with a flurry of hands exchanging thin notes of cash I crossed into Tanzania for the first time. Jambo, Habari Jesus!’

*

I will finish on a light note, as this post has been more of a yarn than any kind of short stories that I designed when I began writing. The Africans have taken to calling me names, ranging from Mazungu (white man) to Johnny (what they think all Englishmen are named) to Chuck Norris and finally the most common and by far the most irritating; Jesus. ´Hey Jesus!´ constantly. To be fair I have long hair and a beard now but I take pleasure in shooting them warning glances and for those who push their luck I snap back that Jesus was an Arab and watch their face crumble in disillusionment. After 11 countries, 10,000km and three months I am ready to leave Africa, yet I still have some way to go yet and I don’t know when my next post will come. But in the meantime take a look the new and improved photo galleries and please scroll down and sign the petition for Syria, as a Birthday favor to me if nothing else.

Toda Aba. Asante Sane. Shukran Kter. Merci Becou. Thank you very much.

Yours,

H

It all started in Uganda. I used my credit card at an ATM in Kampala, attempting to withdraw 100USD worth of Ugandan Shillings. The four words you never want to hear: ´Amount exceeds available balance´ become much worse when you are in Uganda with just 2500 Shillings (1 dollar) in your pocket. I assumed some error had been made as to my knowledge there was a fair amount of change in my account. Trying again I was rebuffed with the same message. Fuck. I used my last dollar to jump on the back of a Boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) and head to check my account online. Yep, empty. All gone. I sat there staring at the transaction history: 400 dollars at Banana Republic, the same amount at the Nike store, the Timberland store and finally some place called Osh Kosh. I had essentially given some bastard a makeover at my expense. The phone call with the bank was interesting; ´have you ever given out your pin to someone?´ oh yea I forgot I have it tattooed on my forehead, ´have you ever written it down?´ No, ´Well then how do you remember the pin?´ It’s a four digit code, if I have to explain how the brain works then don’t waste my time and get me your supervisor. I was stuck in Kampala for longer than I had intended and my tab at the hostel seemed to mount rapidly.

My luck didn’t get any better when my computer died a couple of days later. After having visited every computer store in the city without bearing any fruit I gave up and resigned that I no longer had one in working order. Which not only jammed my blogging, but also my writing and the only source of income I have had for the past year. At least I had backed up my files and photos on my hard-drive. However just a week later my seemingly indestructible little box decided it would break into pieces and I am told that the chances of getting the files back are 50%. Brilliant, I lost photos from six different countries as well as Gap Year, not to mention a copy of every important document to my name. Surely my luck must change soon, I thought.

The night before I paid 400USD for a once and a lifetime experience tracking Mountain Gorillas in Bwindi National Park, I am busy fussing over my camera. Cleaning the thing, blowing dust from its cracks and generally showing it the love it deserves. I look at it, thinking, this thing has been through hell, and never quite the same since it was dropped by a Jordanian soldier at Al Zatari refugee camp. Clicking the lens back onto the body I move it to focus the picture, crack, shit. I tried to salvage it but the metal rods which focus the photo had snapped and the lens is useless. I was almost in tears at this point, it sounds stupid crying over material possessions when there is so much shit happening in the world but this was more than that; I had just lost memories, a means of income and a hobby in the space of a few short moments.

I tried not to let it get me down and moved on in my travels, now after three weeks with no camera or computer I try to look at the bright side. Not having my camera has forced me to interact with the people more, usually I would focus on getting that perfect shot; often putting my camera in between myself and the person. As far as my credit card goes I should be getting the money back any day now after the bank found that their system had been hacked and it certainly was not my fault. The computer is a real bugger, its certainly hard to advocate for the situation in Syria without access to internet or the ability to type. Its also near impossible to submit articles for the magazine or other outlets without my own device. I realize I will need to get a new computer and camera if I want to continue working at capturing moments but will wait till South Africa. It has just added another hurdle in this trip down the length of Africa, one that I hadn’t expected but one I am not going to let ruin my travels. The lesson I take from this is that technology is and always will be my greatest ally and adversary, the bane of my existence. Also I just have shit luck. 

Dear friends,

In 1994, after his family was butchered in a wave of systematic violence, Rwandan Apollon Katahizi posed an important question to the world: “When they said ‘never again’ after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?” Now, as I stand in front of a mass grave in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital, I realize that we are witnessing yet another failure to uphold our promise of ‘never again,’ this time in Syria.

In 1994 it took three months for the UN to act; in that time approximately one million Rwandese were killed. The decision not to act was described by the Belgian Prime Minister as ‘a gross failure of morality by the international community.’ Currently we sit continuing to twiddle our thumbs over the war in Syria for almost two years now and in that time over 70,000 Syrians have died. The vast majority are not dying with a gun in their hand, but instead they are civilian victims of a relentless aerial campaign by the Syrian regime. Often the shelling is of towns long held by the opposition and is seen as a form of ‘punishment’ for gains made by the rebel forces on the front line. The weapons being used to inflict carnage by the regime include surface to surface scud missiles, cluster bombs and according to U.S. Secretary of Defense Chuck Hagel, chemical weapons.

This is not acceptable. Not now, not ever. So do something about it.

This petition is aimed at helping end the violence in Syria.

The goal is to petition our respective governments to use what political tools they have to exert pressure on the Chinese Government. As most of you know China is a major economic partner with Australia and New Zealand. Right now they are one of two countries using their power to veto any intervention in Syria to stop scenes like the one in this photo.

When I was on the ground in Syria working as a journalist, earlier this year, a question that came from many Syrians was, “why does your government not help us?” We all have a moral responsibility as a memeber of the global community to help stop this butchering of civilians and we have not. New Zealand and Australia have a special historical relationship, fighting alongside one another against tyranny and injustice for over 100 years. Therefore it is fitting that we come together now to help the people of Syria.

For me the Syrian conflict is not just another ‘Middle Eastern War’, this is different, this is Genocide. I had little doubt in my mind when I was there and even less now that after the dust settles in Syria, that we will be adding Bashar Assad’s name to a list that includes Hitler, Pol Pot, Jean Kambanda and Slobodan Milosevic.

Join me in writing a letter asking Julia Gilard and John Key to lobby China to withdraw its veto vote against intervention in Syria. I am currently drafting a letter which I will be posting online at http://www.kiwigoingnowhereslow.com and on social media sites Facebook and Twitter as soon as its finished.

It may not bear any fruit but Ill be damned if, when my kids ask about the Syrian Genocide, I have to tell them that I did nothing, that I sat back and watched.

Please add your name to this cause.

Silence is a crime too.

http://www.activism.com/en_US/petition/a-letter-for-syria/43763

Shukran.