Trips
Baboons – Who'd ‘ave ‘em?
The Naucluft National Park is an area of chocolate layer cake escarpments. Weathered, steep-sided high rocks are formed from layer upon layer of sediment compressed into bands of pastel browns and greys. The rivers that form in this area in the rainy season have long since created valley floors of boulders and rocks that make walking an arduous and ankle-threatening task.
We had decided to camp in the National Park Camp Site. The site was small with space for about 12 campers, most of whom were South African families with every camping accessory known to man. Daunting 4 x 4s with tardis trailers that unfolded into mansions left us with a definite feeling of inferiority. We pitched our toy tents and shielded them as best as we could behind the bulk of the rented, chunky, hire vehicle. As the sun began to retire behind the high sheer wall of plant garlanded grey-black rock on the other side of the small shallow stream, we breathed that deep sigh you experience in the perfection born out of the fusion of mood, place, scene, light and company. This was heaven for an evening. As the sun drew the curtain, leaving us with the glow of the cooking fire and the uncomprehended sound scape bouncing from the high rock wall, I made up my mind to do the 17 kms walk the very next day. My comrades were unimpressed. They were on holiday and had suffered enough with the endless drives through moonscapes on unforgiving gravel roads. The closer natural pools would do them fine.
At 5.45 I was up and cursing my way through the piles of camping equipment archived by four sets hands and God knows what systems of thought into a gordian knot of tent pegs, cooking utensils and apple cores. I mentally shooshed myself as the more I tried not to wake anyone, the more noise I generated. My mood became even more taut as I took too long to eat and pack. The sun was already up and was only going to get much, much stronger as the walk progressed. Nevertheless, it had to be done.
“Empty your tent and leave the flap open” they warned us. “And put everything in the car.”
This added even more time to the preparations and the sun was already mocking me. At last I began to walk, only to notice that I had left out the gas cooker.
“ Oh look, its getting late and they will be waking up soon. They will put it away.” I walked guiltily on.
Some fifteen minutes later, I later heard, they sure enough did awake. They opened their tent to receive a morning greeting from a sizable baboon holding the borrowed gas stove above his head pulling bits off to find out where the food was. Others, unable to unscrew the now sour milk in the coke bottle tore at it with their teeth, eventually hurling it into the stream. Later, it transpired, one South African family found that all of their bedding had also joined the coke bottle in the stream.
I, meanwhile, was several hundred metres down the avenued riverbed leading to the first of the narrow steep sided valleys, blissfully unaware of the mayhem I had left behind and the futile curses aimed at me from afar. A small troop of baboons scampered across the path in front of me and disappeared into the forest. At the far curve of the riverbed, I caught a fleeting glimpse of three large deer and as I came to the bend there, high up on the steep slope was tiny dik-dik velcroed to the steep rocks. This was just the appetiser for a wonderful day's walk. I began to wonder how one got a job as David Attenborough.
Predictably, I walked for quite some time without sighting another mammal, although the scenery was stunning and some thumb- nail-sized frogs did their best to entertain me. Childhood jungle picture books always showed jungles packed full of the most wonderfully exotic creatures. There was a different one behind every tree, bush and rock. Wildlife films compounded this fantasy by showing the most elusive of animals, as easy as you please, in the most intimate of poses. To this day it still leaves me feeling slightly cheated when I walk for a long way without seeing anything breathtaking. Oh well at least here is the sociable weavers nest.
The sociable weaver is the tower-block builder of the bird kingdom. Whilst the anti-sociable weaver builds a nice, thatched nest on top of any electric or telephone pole it fancies, the sociable weaver takes the whole process to extremes. These little yellow and black feathered friends found a neat communist solution to the problem of affordable housing. They all work together to build an enormous ball of grass, twigs, mud etc into a shaggy block of nests that covers the small tree chosen as home. Presumably they share household chores and babysitting. As I wondered how these little creatures without a GCSE to their name managed this feat of engineering, whilst I can't even change a light bulb, I heard a sort of snort above me. About two metres above me on a ledge stood the most magnificent Kudu stag. It must have weighed two tons, a brown and black beauty with distinctive back stripes on its side and huge antlers. It could have jumped down and squashed me flat. But somehow it was scared of me, fear radiating from the single glassy eye fixed on me. It slithered and then leapt from the rock and was gone in seconds. Phew what a rush and what a pity I hadn't thought to bring a film crew with me.
Some distance beyond, and there were about twenty kudu of all shapes and sizes. I had to walk across the flat grassland they were grazing. They panicked. The stag ran to my right; a mother seeing her young sprint to the left momentarily thought about saving them and then decided to save herself, bounding after the stag. The young were, within seconds, high above me on a steep path, the adults further along the valley. To this day I wonder if I was responsible for family breakdown in the kudus of Naukluft.
Most you will know that when you rather arrogantly announce that you are going to do the long walk, you have no idea whether you are up to it. I was now about ten kilometres of boulder walking into the 17 kms and the sun was very hot. I had to admit I was tiring slightly. Still, the valleys had widened, and the stream was flowing more strongly between the trees on the dappled flat bottom of the valley. Only one problem. As I came over the brow of one side of the valley, there, way below me, on the only path, a bloody great baboon. Not just one baboon, but the whole troop. Not just the whole troop but they were spread out across the slope, feeding from the trees close to their high shelter. Whilst babies did hair-raising manoeuvres at terrifying heights and others picked fruits from trees the dominant male patrolled over a hundred metre length of the stream. After some minutes he looked up and saw me. I was a little unsure. Surely, he must see me as a threat to his spread-out family. He moved towards me and fixed me with a stare. I trawled my memory for an image from a Tarzan film. What would he do? I decided I had to behave like a baboon. I sat down and pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms round them, hoping I was not giving out a mating signal. Sure enough, after a while he decided I was not of much interest, and I decided I was not interested in finding out whether I could walk through them on the path. Another half hour was added to the walk as I slowly climbed higher up the valley side to get around them.
Having convinced myself that I was now an expert on both kudus and baboons, I was beginning to fancy that I could do more than be a wildlife documentary presenter, game warden was surely not beyond me. By now I was getting noticeably slower in my gait, but in good spirits. Then it happened.
I was now in an area of high grass and outcrops of rocks with caves. I had come down from the highest part of the walk that had involved a long climb to a plateau that gave breathtaking views of what looked to an untrained eye like the bowls of two long dormant grass covered volcanoes. Now it felt that I was on the last leg of my adventure. I climbed up on top of one of the outcrops of rock and I heard something; a cry. I stopped still and listened. There it was again. It sounded as though someone was calling. I tried to make out where it was coming from and headed away from my path towards it. It was slow going, but as I came closer it became clear that someone was shouting
“help” it was loud and insistent.
I was moving painfully slowly but getting closer. I shouted
“hello” several times. The cry stopped and then called out again.
At last, I saw a clearing in front of a climb that led to a cave about ten metres above me. Someone must have climbed up and not been able to get down. I called up. Strange – no reply. I tried to get up to the cave but couldn't get high enough. I called again several times. After a time, I decided I must be in the wrong place, or perhaps the person had managed to get down.
I walked on to a wide bend. Opposite was a very high valley wall. The cry echoed down the valley again.
“help”.
I scanned the rocks until, at last, I could make out a figure – it came into focus - another bloody baboon calling down the valley.
Somehow, I think that maybe I'm not cut out for this wildlife stuff after all.
The Malawi Shopping Revolution
Only six days to go to my long-awaited return to Malawi and I open my emails.
‘There are riots in Malawi and VSO strongly advises you not to go. There are deaths reported and the VSO office in Lilongwe has been closed with volunteers told to go to safe houses.'
I turned to the main newspaper website to find more and explored the cost of postponing my ticket.
As I expected the riots subsided within three days – not only does Malawi have little history of prolonged violence, but people have to eat and a day not selling is a day not eating. In spite of Namibian VSO jitters I was sure it was safe to go.
My arrival at the airport was curiously normal and very familiar. Almost immediately I heard my name called, a VSO office person from my time in Malawi was at the airport to meet her husband, who, as I later found out, was under threat as a civil society leader. The talk amongst ex-pats on the plane was of fuel shortages and the astronomical cost of taxis from the airport. Warned, I approached two women and asked for a lift to town, 15 km away. Their talk was all about the danger of going out at night and the unpredictability of the next days. By the time I left them in the centre of town I was a quivering wreck, watching every movement of groups of youth with suspicion. I sought refuge in a new supermarket. What? Malawi, that place of cheap food and affordable prices was more expensive than Namibia. It started to fit into place. Fuel shortages, almost no foreign currency, donor funding nearly all frozen meant that all of the goods imported from South Africa cost a fortune. Added to that the President had taxed basic food items to try to cover the lost donor money. People were hurting and life's struggles had intensified.
As my first days passed, I understood a little more of what had been happening in this place that I had left some four years ago as a poor, but steady country. I had been struck by the reports in the newspapers of the growing irascible and erratic behaviour of the President. He was accused of becoming dictatorial and there were plenty of stories of people arrested, crack downs on media and decrees. The newspaper headlines were full of talk of war on the civil society leaders, who had, in his first term, helped him to make big strides in economic progress. My first thought was ‘this man is trying to be Robert Mugabe'. He had already expelled the British High Commissioner, triggering the freezing of the donor budgets, which was a third of GDP and his speeches were focussed on the evils of western imperialism as the source of all of Malawi's troubles. His government was backed by God, whilst opponents were the instruments of the Devil. One day civil society was to be squashed, the next there were to be talks, the next war was declared. The stories of heavy drinking seemed to strike a chord.
I soon found my way back to CEYCA, my home for more than 3 years in the past. There was a joyful reunion and as excitement gave way to chatter we began to talk about their experience of the riots. As a human rights organisation it had a prominent role in the demonstrations, organised by civil society. Aware of the growing number of people power revolts, they embraced the idea of leading demonstrations to demand changes in the President's approach. They had ten demands and wanted a response. However, they did not appear to have thought too deeply beyond that. The demonstrations organised simultaneously in the four major towns all came up against an edgy and untrained police force with guns. The Government had used private individuals to obtain a late injunction to stop the demonstrations. The police were ordered to stop the marches. The result, nineteen people shot dead, politician's houses burnt and shops looted in poorer districts (sound familiar?). Close to where I stayed in Lilongwe a police post was raised. Things became even more tense in the Northern town of Muzuzu when a soldier's child was shot, almost provoking fighting between the police and defence force. The burning of some police houses provided the required blood-letting.
Against this background Neddy had his own tale to tell. He was in the CEYCA office on the edge of the old market site. There were large groups of youth in the main market area and police were firing live rounds sporadically. Opposite, sits a scrap yard of old cars stripped for parts. At one end is a hut used by youth vaguely attached to the business. On the day before the marches someone attached to an unnamed politician came to see the boys. They were given MK2,000($100) and a panga knife (machete) to frighten people in the streets. In Blantyre this had caused a stir as youths roamed the streets in pick-ups, but in Lilongwe they were too few to make an impact. Instead, they resorted to stopping people passing, some 100 metres distant from the main trouble. One innocent boy was taking a beating and Neddy walked over to remonstrate. He became the object of their fists and feet and was beaten to the ground. As the police arrived he was given over to them to continue the beating. Things looked serious, but a group of boys, seeing the police started to throw stones at them in spite of the guns. As they were distracted, Neddy was able to escape and made his way to hospital to patch up his wounds. When I arrived at CEYCA I was hailed by two of the youths opposite and had no idea of previous animosity. Strange to say the whole affair seems to have been put aside by both parties.
Meanwhile, Desmond was in town in his car. He wanted to join the march but was scared by the turn of events. He decided to try to get across town to his home in one of the low-income areas. He tried to get fuel, but there was none in town. He decided to abandon the car, a move that proved fortuitous as several cars on his route home were set on fire. As he approached the market close to the CEYCA office he saw a group of youths run towards a now isolated policewoman. She was stripped of her clothes and assaulted as she was paraded in a distressed state around the market by the jeering youths. Eventually, he gave up the idea of reaching his home and sought refuge in the teacher's union office next to the market. He did not get home until the next day.
Rodgers, the Director of CEYCA, was heady with his roles as activist and leader in the revolution. Wisely, he had forsaken the streets for the operations room deep in the CCAP church complex. Suddenly discussion was interrupted by the noisy arrival of a police squad. They began to rough-up these self-appointed leaders and started to herd them into a police van ready for transfer to a police station, where they feared worse was to come. In the nick of time a senior officer showed up. He had enough on his hands without these marginal figures causing him even more trouble.
“go straight to your homes” he ordered them.
In the streets people immediately recognised the opportunity for a shopping spree to show their disapproval of the President. Just as in UK a few weeks later, tyres were set on fire, large rocks were used to stop police vehicles from getting to the poorer areas and shops were looted and set ablaze. During my stay I heard from countless people how it was impossible to use the roads to get home. One poor young man standing in a neighbour's garden was shot dead by a stray bullet. Others told me that fear began to take over and distrust smothered normal African hospitality causing people to turn away requests for shelter.
The troubles went on for two days, with more houses and mini buses burned, but by the time I arrived just a few days later it was possible to walk in the low-income areas without any feeling of tension or threat. Just the signs were there, a blackened shell of a store, a wrecked mini bus by the side of the road, a rebel song played over and over in the bus, but life goes on.
LGBTI
My organisation, Positive Vibes, had long provided office space and support for a Namibian Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Intersex organisation (the term at the time). Although being gay was not illegal in Namibia there was still a huge prejudice and stigma that even led to death threats. In South Africa, next door, a lesbian had been recently murdered and there was a known threat of ‘corrective rape' with the underlying idea that forced sex with a man would change sexuality. In this atmosphere the organisation worked to set up and train support groups for gay people across Namibia.
European donors were becoming increasingly keen on human right support for marginalised groups and Positive Vibes was able to set up a support and development programme for, what was then, LGBTI groups in SADC (an organisation for cooperation across 10 Southern African countries). Skilled and experienced facilitators were recruited from South Africa alongside Positive Vibes staff.
I was asked to support groups in Swaziland, Malawi, Zambia and once in South Africa. The groups were at very different stages of development and sophistication, but all had managed to set up in politically and socially hostile environments.
My first initiation was in Windhoek, Namibia, where our resident LGBTI group had managed to persuade a big club owner to let them hold a gay evening of dance and performance. The atmosphere was electric as younger gay people had gathered in their camp finery and make up to have an evening together without fear.
The evening built up to the main event which was a performance by what would now be labelled as a drag act dance troupe led by a tall, muscular and lithe professional level dancer. The audience went wild with delight and my eyes filled with tears as I realised that no one in the club had the freedom to feel this abandon in any other part of their lives. They were free to be themselves.
Later, I spoke to Linda a lesbian leader of the organisation to gauge her response to the evening and to congratulate her on her huge success.
“Yeah, it was great, but we can't use the club again next time.”
“Why not?”
“He complained that the toilets were blocked with condoms.”
We ran several workshops and training events both with all of the groups across SADC and with individual country groups. There were often harrowing tales. One woman who identified as trans told of how they were forced to take their clothes off at school by teachers to prove they were a boy; another had tried to commit suicide twice as a teenager because he thought he was the only person with same sex feelings. He was saved by finding a book nobody knew was in the school library talking about gay people and meeting an older gay man in his later teens. It was common for people to be ostracised by their families and lived in fear of being exposed as being gay.
It was interesting that in spite of severe laws and oppression of gay people that many governments created space for groups. The rule seemed to be that they were given sympathetic treatment as long as they were not too threatening. In Zimbabwe, there were two groups that exemplified this rule. One was an explicitly gay organisation that fought for gay rights and was often raided by the police, whist a second group set up as a sexual health organisation and was left alone. In Malawi, the mature and successful organisation even had its own radio programme with high profile guests. In Swaziland, Uncle Xolile, a charismatic lesbian woman, was a member of several Government committees. One official explained to me that they supported the group but it had to be careful not to make public statements as king Swat the autocratic ruler with 36 wives had pronounced against homosexuality as a threat to male virility. Zambia had the most fragile situation. In spite of their young, professional and highly educated leadership, secrecy was essential. One young man told me of the hypocrisy at the heart of Zambian life. In villages ‘feminine' flamboyant men were often popular and in demand for sexual activity by ‘heterosexual' men. A strong church and politicians seeking public approval made life difficult and I was sad to read, after I had left, that the whole leadership had been outed on the front page of the National newspaper, a story that had international coverage.
Publicly, church and state claimed that homosexuality was an import of the corrupt, immoral West in spite of colonial era punitive laws, words in local languages of gay people and early missionary accounts of gay men. It is a vote winner.
Since that time Positive Vibes has developed its role with marginalised groups, a much needed service.
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