Congo

I have not left Nairobi, and yet I feel as if I have arrived in DRC, the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The people waiting in the gate with me are dressed to the nine. Red pants, colorful dresses, white alligator pointy men's shoes, gold jewelry, brilliant head wraps, stripe pants with a paisley shirt, it's awesome. I look down at my black T.shirt, khaki pants, black shoes--drab. But think about it, think if I were to put on striped paints with a paisley shirt, I'd look like a clown. Yet for the Congolese, more then get away with it, they look fantastic, stylish and hip.

The other thing one notes is the volume, it is turned up. Lively discussions, laughter and debates. The first time I was in Central Africa I thought everyone was fighting, but quickly learned the aggressive responses, loud reply and play in language is simply 'how we communicate.' So you quickly find yourself joining in.

We fly three and a half hours from Nairobi to Congo. Congo-Brazza, short for Congo-Brazzaville, which is different than the Democratic Republic of Congo. The two countries are separated by the mighty Congo River and the flight from Brazzaville to Kinshasa, the capital of DRC, is only 10 minutes. The expanse of forest that one flies over in Congo is impressive. The green lung of Africa, the second largest tropical forest in the world, this, along with its inhabitants are what we are trying to save.

Unlike a few years ago, the airport is somewhat seamless. No bribes, no hassle, easy visa and I exit. The new airport has been built by the Chinese, like a lot of infrastructure in Africa. The old airport, is just that, old. It reflects the years of history, with bullet holes, and the years of tropical temperatures, with mold, crumbling facades and just a worn down look.

I was supposed to travel to Kinshasa in September, but there was rioting. President Joseph Kabila, son of Laurent Kabila, has served two terms, but does not want to let go of the reigns, a common issue in Africa. He tried a number of tactics from changing the constitution to suggesting a census needs to be done before the election, but Congolese had enough, so they took to the streets demanding elections. The main road to the airport was blocked, so traveling at that time was simply not an option. The protesters succeeded and elections are scheduled for December 2018. I ask everyone I meet on this trip, so, will they happen, the elections. The common response from the optimists 'we'll see' and others, no way.

I am in Kinshasa for only two days of meetings. Staying at a small hotel with a lovely leafy garden. Two crowned cranes roam the property and gaze at themselves in the mirrored reflection of the sliding glass doors.

We are in a meeting and a young women comes in to bring us tea and coffee. On her cheek is a brilliant blue heart with the Congolese flag perfectly painted inside the heart. Tonight is a football match between DRC and Ivory Coast. I played football, I enjoy watching football, but I don't really follow football.

After our meetings, my colleague and I throw on our running shoes and head out for a run. The air is thick with warm humidity and I am very quickly drenched in sweat. We cross Boulevard du 30 Juin, which is named after the day DRC became independent from Belgian rule, and head down to the river. We run on wide, leafy streets, with big houses hidden behind impressive fences. Passing Embassies and other picturesque buildings. There are people everywhere and soon we see them starting to gather around TVs in windows, driveways, shops and houses, the game is soon starting.

As we wind up our run and head back towards the hotel, I notice the city has vacated. It is as if a nuclear bomb went off, the streets are empty, literally empty. Now, remember, Kinshasa has 10 million people, so empty streets is not an easy feat. Suddenly there is a loud roar, screaming, thundering and blasting. I am momentarily startled, but as my colleague sprints away yelling 'they've scored'--I realize 10 million people are yelling in victory.

Back at the hotel I turn on my TV and there is Donald Trump being inaugurated. I watch in horror for a moment and decide to turn it off and join the Congolese for a cold beer and a game, a much better option. We go to Hotel Royal Kinshasa and outside near the pool they have large screens set up, chairs and a number of beer vendors selling cold beers. The scene is vibrant, all the embassy staff, local Congolese are watching, drinking, cheering and yelling. The match ended a tie, but good enough for the team to proceed.

The next day I head to the airport. The traffic is bad, really bad. We divert from the main road and take side streets. Dirt roads through the belly of Kinshasa. For the first time I start to really appreciate the magnitude of the city and the number of people. People are everywhere, walking, riding bikes, working, braiding hair, carrying water, carrying chickens. Children in uniform carrying oversized back backs. Rivers clogged with trash and egrets standing on islands of rubbish. Fresh bread on the side streets, music blaring, people playing pool. People sitting on tin cans. Shacks painted colors, fun names like Salon de Rose or Patisserie d'Obama painted on the sides of buildings. For 90 minutes we go at about 5 km per hour, watching Saturday life unfurl in Kinshasa. Dodging potholes, children, bikes, goats, people, motorbikes and vehicles.

A wave of despair drapes over me as I think about the effort to catalyze interest in conservation. To get people to care. to inspire pride in a country's natural resources. Here in the back roads of Kinshasa I am unconvinced we will succeed.

Westgate

Yesterday was the first time I returned to Westgate Mall since the terror attack. Westgate is a posh mall located in my old neighborhood, Westlands, in Nairobi. On 21 September 2013, ten days after the anniversary of September 11, the mall was taken over by Al-Shabaab terrorists. Sixty seven people were killed and more than 175 people injured in an event that lasted 48 hours. 

It was a typical Saturday in Nairobi. People were sipping fresh juice on the front patio of a cafe in the mall, kids were on the roof finger-painting. Women were shopping for make-up, teenagers eating pizza in the food court, friends eating sushi in the fancy sushi restaurant. I was in Rwanda, flying back that evening. Our office phone tree quickly kicked into gear. Our staff were safe. 

Westgate was my mall. It was around the corner from where we lived. It is where we had a video store, picked up coffee on a Saturday, shopped for groceries and met friends for a glass of wine after work. It was hard not to think 'what if?' What if I had not been in Rwanda? What if I did my usual thing on a Saturday--woke up, went for a run, ate something, showered and then went to Westgate for a coffee and to grocery shop?

Westgate was a double whammy for the terrorists. It is partially owned by an Israeli and in addition to the hoards of Kenyans that frequent the mall, a lot of westerners living in this part of Nairobi shop at Westgate.

The images of the attack were horrific and all too familiar. A women lay dead under the Dorman's Coffee counter, where we would treat ourselves to a cappuccino on the weekend. An Al-Shabaab masked man with an AK47 points a gun at customers in the cereal isle of our grocery store. People with their hands in the air descend the escalator we rode weekly to the second floor to Mr. Price to get sheets and other household goods. Children lay in pools of blood in the parking lot where we parked on weekends. 

Not surprisingly Kenyans rallied, they always do. On the Monday after the initial attack there were still hostages in the mall. Our staff showed up to work and when released raced to the local hospital to donate blood. Stories of heroism emerged about Kenyans who risked their lives to save others in the attack. Stories were posted on Facebook in remembrance.

The mall reopened in 2015 and the idea of returning to Westgate never enticed me. After the bloody incident shopping or dining in any mall was not that enticing to be honest. One needs to appreciate that in Kenya, shopping is clustered in malls. So while in the USA shopping in a mall is a bit foreign to me as I grew up and lived in towns with shops on the street, in Kenya many stores are clustered in the malls. I found myself avoiding meeting friends in malls and if I had to shop, I would be quick and efficient.

I had driven by the new Westgate before, but again, had never found the need or desire to go in. Sure, it was no longer my neighborhood, so I rarely found myself with the opportunity. On Friday however I was in Westlands for a number of meetings and was meeting a colleague who is based on that side of town, so we decided to meet at Art Cafe, in Westgate. I did not think too much about it except that at some point it would be good to go back, so why not now?

The outside of the mall looks the same, except now, like many places in Nairobi, your car is searched inside and out by private security company staff, you go through a metal scanner when entering the building and a German Shepherd with a metal wire muzzle is held at the front door by a police man in camouflage. The inside looks similar, shiny, new. Busy. Some stores changed but the core remained familiar. People went about their business, people of all ages and walks of life. 

I grabbed a table on the lovely, leafy porch and ordered a Chia Firecracker, a juice made of baobab powder, chia seeds, honey, banana, sweet melon, passion juice and red chili. Hip music played in the hidden speakers, a Chinese business man ate lunch next to me with a Kenyan, a blond European women drank an espresso and smoked a cigarette. As I watched people eating, drinking and laughing, I wondered if anyone was thinking about September 2013. I wondered how life just moves on. Life does move on, and life should move on, but somehow we always need to remember these events as they shape who we are, how we interact with others. They shape our history and our future, and we must always, remember.

Uninvited Visitor

I had a visitor last weekend in Amboseli National Park, a vervet monkey. Clever little buggers. Adorable little black faces. They can wreak havoc and after raiding a sugar bowl, watch out. You know when your child has sugar? Yes, same thing.

Hmm. The guest is in the room.

Perfect. The sugar is right by the coffee as always.

Man, this door is heavier than I remember.

Hey, you, are you going to help here?

Not in Africa

It is 6am. I tip-toe out of the apartment with a towel and a mug of coffee. As I walk down Kaiulani Avenue towards the beach I rub the sleep out of my eye, sip my coffee and watch the morning sun light emerge. Other surfers are walking in the same direction--locals. Tanned, flip flops and carrying a surf board under their arms. Morning surf session. What an amazing way to start the day, a pre-work surf. 

I get to the beach, it is still dim light and the water is already peppered with surfers. The young man renting the boards is tanned, blond, he spends his days on the beach. For ten dollars he sets me up with a board. He tells me to get out there an kick some ass. I tell him, I can go out there and have fun, but I definitely won't be kicking any ass. 

I slip into the warm water and start to paddle. The water is so refreshing and the whole experience of being out, early morning, new place, ocean is delightful. Now, lets be clear. I am not a good surfer. In fact, I would not even call myself a surfer despite having done it a lot, and I mean a lot, so technically, I should be a surfer, but, well, heck, we all can't be good at everything. But I come from the ocean and there is nothing more healing and refreshing than warm salt water.

The waves are long and gentle. Quite a contrast to my first attempt at surfing in Costa Rica where I was literally thrashed for over an hour. Having swallowed gallons of cold salt water, broken the leash, and my friend breaking his board in half we resigned for the day. Here in the Hawaiian waters, the waves a strong enough for a good long ride, but not so strong they wreck you. I am smiling, paddling. Looking at the clear ocean, gazing at the volcanic hills to the mountains that frame the beach, watching the sun rise and embracing the morning. After a long paddle I straddle the board and enjoy the view while waiting for the waves. I watch tall, skinny, large, young and old Hawaiians catch waves leisurely. They do it with ease, like walking or sipping a cold drink, effortless and graceful. Dancing on the waves. After a few attempts I find my self in a wave, standing, riding. I am laughing, saying yahoo. By myself on a long ride, enjoying the morning, enjoying the moment, enjoying life.

 Surfer statue in Waikiki.

The Delta

I am in the Okavango Delta, Botswana. I am taking four days away from work, phones, computers. There is no network. I take a plane to Maun, Botswana, then a small plane into the Delta. I begin to get the anxiety one does when leaving network, wondering if it was really a good idea to sign out for four days with the enormous pile of 'to do's' on my desk. 

After landing on the sandy airstrip, checking into the spectacular, intimate lodge, swallowing a glass of ginger lemonade, I am in a vehicle with my guide Delta. As we watch a female leopard sitting in a tree, I think, yes, yes, this is a good idea. I am reminded of Karen Blixen who once said 'here I am, where I ought to be.'

As if seeing this magnificent female leopard is not enough, as the sun starts to lower, she begins to vocalize. She is calling consistently and gazing off into the distance. She spent the day hunting and stashed her two month old cub in the bush and is now calling her in. Leopard cubs stay in their hiding spot, safe from predators, until their mother fetches them. I have seen this with lions, but surely we would be too lucky to see this two month old leopard cub. This is partially a defense mechanism of mine as I do not like to get my hopes up. Within moments, a tiny, beautiful baby leopard darts out of the bush. She is thrilled to have been released from her hiding spot and barrels energetically into her mom. For the next thirty minutes we are the only ones watching the baby leopard snuggling, playing and rolling over mom. She bats at her mom with her tiny paw, wanting to play, gnawing at her tail and ears, as the mother sits regally. The cub wanders about six feet away from her mom and then sprints toward her as if she is prey, somersaulting and flipping herself over her mom. A spectacular and joyful sighting. 

(Click on photos to enlarge.)

That night the lions roared. It is an awesome, deep noise that signifies wildness. The next morning we are spending on a boat in the Delta, but on the way to the dock, we see two gorgeous male lions. They are resting after eating and one wanders to drink water in a small puddle. Over the next few days, we are lucky to see them at night and eating a kudu. There are three males and one female and each night they let their presence be known with magnificent roars. 

The following evening, we found six wild dogs resting in the tall grass. They looked lean and hungry. As the sun lowered, they got up, and stared towards a group of impala across the grassland. As soon as the impala saw them, they darted into the bush. The dogs then spotted a bushbuck and the chase was on. They sprinted towards the buck who lept into the water. All we could see in the marsh area was its spiral horns moving across the water. Once on the other side, the bushbuck shot out of the water and into the bush. The dogs were livid. They paced and watched as their meal got away from them. 

After giving up on the bushbuck, the dogs kept moving in search of prey. Wild dogs can travel great distances and run up to 35 miles per hour. Soon they found two groups of impala. The dogs kept looking back and forth to decide which to go after, and suddenly shot after one of the groups. As they sprinted towards the impala across a wet, marshy area, we chased after them in the vehicle. The sun was setting. One gets an incredible adrenaline rush watching a predator chase prey. With one hand I held onto the vehicle and my other was in the air as if riding a bucking bronco as we tried to keep up with them. Such fun. Dozens of zebra darted out of the dogs' way, through the marsh kicking up water as they ran. Our vehicle could not keep up with the dogs. The sounds of zebra, antelope and dogs splashing through the water was electrifying. The impala got away and the dogs were back to their search. The sun was now set and so we bid farewell to the dogs and headed back to camp. 

Aerial shots of the Delta. 

Baby elephant learning how to use his trunk.

African Jacana's (a spectacular looking bird) eggs, also known as the lily trotter, because he walks on lilies, or the Jesus bird because it looks like he walks on water. Have you ever seen such splendid eggs?

Baboon sitting on a perch, excellent views.

Above. Red-billed spurfowl. 

Eagle owl. Africa's largest. He caught a frog; thus, is on the ground in the second shot snacking. 

Papyrus below. 

Camp above. Baboon catching a ride below. 

Water Lilies

There is a room at the Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris that I love to visit. It is an oval room filled with Monet's water lilies. There is a comfortable, soft bench in the middle of the room and people are not to speak, silence. The idea is to sit quietly and soak in the lilies. Monet starting painting the lilies around 1890 and gave them to France in 1918 as an offering of peace. There are over 200 in this series and they depict the beauty of lilies and river systems.

I think of Monet and the museum in Paris as I float through lilies in the Okavango Delta in Botswana, one of the largest inland deltas in Africa. I am in a mokoro, a traditional dug-out wooden canoe. We are low to the water and a guide pushes the boat forward with a pole. All one hears is sound of nature. I wonder what Monet would have produced if he were exposed to this exquisite place.  

(Click on the photos to enlarge)