LETTER FROM MBANDAKA: NEW LIGHT ON THE HEART OF DARKNESS

 FEAR is not putrid, nor is it black like a perilous void.

The day, the hour, the second one smells fear is a moment in a place called ‘fear’, but it is, in reality, the moment just in advance of it (to be or not to be).  It is a place of anticipation, expectation, deliberation, prevarication but mostly it is a place of dreaded premonition; the last moment of now.  

Flowers never smell so fresh nor fragrant, nor do colours seem so vibrant nor the faintest sparkles of love so intense as a time to decide; to walk towards the unknown;  the present moment - a moment of high definition  - before the plunge. There lies the colour of fear;  as though orchestral strings pull through a lingering refrain, where a viola follows and somehow metal and wood and human blood conspire to pull the diaphragm close to the core of hurt - of things past and known - and tears rise like distant final kisses; the moment before a sigh of almost eternal resignation.

There are no accidents in a universe in which planets circle as they spin  by the billion, by the unfathomable zillion.  What could be more unknown or unknowable than the universe?  Yet, why do we not cower in fear when we look at the stars?  In the infinitesimal diminutiveness of our humanity lies a truth.Fear is not about what is out there, it is about what lies within.

In the baking heat - upon a parched broken apron, staring into the fusilage of a small over-serviced aircraft, propellors revving, the earth shaking, that man’s hand pressed against my chest (“ wait!”), heads stooping, sweat, heat, fuel, the carcasses of old planes broken into the weeds and earth - my only thought was - how beautiful, even this place - yet, how potentially, beautifully final; this Heart of Darkness.

I remembered Sundays and Jonny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan and Cheetah and black and white cliffs and black ‘sherpas’ carrying head loads over broken rope bridges and terrible cliff falls (before ever Sylvester Stallone took to rock climbing).  I remembered  the ROAD TO . . .   with Hope, Lamor, Bing.  But this was nothing like that.   I remembered rohdodendrons (is that how you spell them?). I remembered falling into water; cerulean, deep, silent (my first lesson in vulnerability (and rescue).  I remembered sparkling things - bright turquoise, purple, deep blues, and Red - like my first toy sports car. And, I remembered the pitch of sorrow, losing my friend. Why? I remembered flying around my room in a cardboard plane (was it this?). Alone.  I remember sitting in my superman tee-shirt in warm sunshine, it hugging my skin like a shell.


As the plane was about to land, I remembered how I had held hands with my eyes, though mine were full of fear. I offered a biscuit (biscuits make even a thumping heart go still). The dark viridian sheen of jungle loomed until an orange streak of earth appeared and we ditched towards it, engines roaring.

Later, in the suffocating water-drenched air, my eyes lurched about. In Darkness. Black. Blinding blackness.  Even the crickets had died. No shadows. No ghosts.  The sky was drained of stars and hope; or so it seemed.  Yet, even here, I learned, hope does rise and it rises early.  Before the sun lifted, voices began to sing.  Somewhere in the shadows, while another generation of Conrad’s men lay in the crucible of fear, dying, the morning air filled with song. Others gathered and the voices sang on; sweet, low, chanting, rythmic, flowing like the river, thick, deep, eternal, scattered with the debris of broken things. Layers and layers of melodic incantations spiralled into the morning dew, inviting the dawn, outsinging the myriad birds. 

The chorus was tuned to the debris of broken lives; aware, conscious, alive to all their starvations, sicknesses, poverties and desperations - no place to bury the dead (too many to remember), - no place to go for the educated (they risk death anyway), no future for talent (what is to eat today?). Men mourn with brutality and women just grow into old men.  And yet, these voices float like silken veils, haunting adagios on every sunrise.  So it seemed, in those first hours, in the Heart of Darkness, mankind looks to the universe but does not cower with fear.  Here too it is the soul, not the eyes, which looks to the stars.  And it is not weeping, hopelessly, but awaiting rescue - patiently.  

Words and Images (C) Colm V Fahy 2012
(MBANDAKA; DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO, DECEMBER 2011).

As an adjunct to the above scattering of diary notes from my first days in Mbandaka, Western DR Congo, Province of Equateur in 2011, I realised that my long held suspicion of Joseph Conrad's much heralded "Heart of Darkness" was well founded. Apart altogether form the fact that it is poorly written and often unreadable, it is the product of a fantasist and a rascist, from the mind of a man who may have claimed to have experience of the Congo, but is more likely to have observed it form the safety of a a colony enclosure and bothered little to have any contact with those beings on the ground who happened to be suffering humans.

IN NOMINE AVE, MARIA, PAELLA, AMEN.

There is a nifty new(ish) station at the end of the Madrid-Valencia rail line built (when there was money) to house the relatively recent AVE extension to the Mediterranean port city.  Alighting from the sleek white bullet train, you will find a connector bus to the proper train station (which was built over a hundred years previously and to which all other trains go) only 500 metres away!  I am sure there is a perfectly logical technical explanation for this oddity, but I am inclined to believe that the seeming duplication was to provide for a necessary safe-stopping-distance in the event any future potential runaway AVE might be doing the troublesome speed of 300 kilometres an hour.  If ever such a thing were to happen, I suspect that it would be too much of a risk for any city centre to bear, not least the centre of Valencia with its cocktail of pricey medieval and Roman architecture and the bloody prospect of overcrowded tapas bars being shot through by several thousand tons of steel doing the sort of lightening pace at which Wall Street bankers turn economies to ruin (if  am wrong the other explanation is probably only entertaining for train spotters). (BTW, I use the banker metaphor deliberately as it has a certain, pathetic relevance to Valencia)

As it happens, we were staying  out to the east of the city towards the coast and so  instead of hopping on the connector north to the city centre station, we strolled eastwards in the direction of our hotel. Valencia is a city at once one of the most surprising, exhilarating, unsettling, dysfunctional, over-dressed yet entrancing cities in Europe.  How on earth has the Mediterranean become so famous for everything but Valencia?  It is a bit like forgetting to mention to invited guests that your dithering granny is staying for dinner, but forgetting to mention that your granny was the Duchess of Alba. (Who? - a troubled woman with alot of class (and cash)!)

To the novice visitor, Valencia  is somewhat of a lost soul and the recent economic meltdown has done nothing to detract from that niggling impression.  It is bad enough that its resplendent coastline with over six kilometres of wide sundrenched beach (a rarity in the Med) is separated from the historical core by three kilometres, but the yawning gap is also compounded by a landscape blighted with decaying city apartment blocks and commercial units falling to ruin with dilapidated signposts (“Alquiler” (to rent)) making for an ominous gauntlet.  The signs of the explosive and catastrophic property boom are scattered all about.  Towering mirrored office blocks (many tenanted by low grade chain hotels) and half completed apartment towers stretching all the way from the  east side of the city to the coast stand witness over dusty streets to significant economic and environmental trauma.  Half completed roads and abandoned commuter rail lines reflect what happens when greed and planning corruption conjoin just as the financial well runs dry.   The palms trees fan the streets in brilliant sunlight.  Nothing moves.  It is as though the world has been transformed into an Havanna-esque parallel universe vacated as a set for some new Sergio Leone movie; The Good, the Bad and the Downright Incomprehensible.   

On the wharf, huge warehouses, hangar’s for the world’s greatest yachts (in another era), stand empty.   Had this been the scene of an apocalypse? Did the Day after Tomorrow happen yesterday? Did the Mayan’s prediction for 2012 have a certain specificity to the port of Valencia, in April?  Only the fading Prada, Breitling and Hublot signs remain as evidence of the hyper-indulgence of the America’s Cup which launched here in 2007.   The odd stripped hull remains among the clattering perspex sheets and invading pigeons. The wind whistles and for a moment you can hear the thumping Mediterranean beats, the raucous partying crowds, the popping champagne, the slamming cash registers. But it is just water lapping on the peer, loosened decking creaking under foot, wooden beams that sway and clank.

Once there was optimism that things might last, that things which had not happened yet might yet happen.  The Valencia Tourist Office at the AVE station handed us maps with streets that do not exist.  I kid you not.  A magnificent flyover bridge stops as its eastern buttresses hit the ground: the tracks it carries for some intended light rail transit terminate in a brick wall.  To its flank, 1970’s apartment clusters, broken, half abandoned or squatted surround pavement-less streets, pitted with potholes.  Bitter oranges hang in the trees whose roots break the asphalt.   In an adjacent lot of about three acres to the front of us but beyond which the trumpets of a docked cruise ship sounds, a large sofa sits idly, dust spouts whirling about its broken coasters.  Buses roar out of sight whirring sea-faring tourists to and from the old city via some indirect (less disfavourable) route.

At the beach front, fewer than half the optimistically oversized restaurants are open.  It probably is packed in summer.  The beach is large, clean, wide, white and empty.  Ironically, we have passed through a hell to get to a haven.   The marina is empty bar the last remaining flottilla of yachts yet to be impounded by the London Sheriffs (or maybe the Russians own them: who knows, who cares).  They rock and bob side to side tethered, adrift.  We stop in one of the less than half empty restaurants and order Paella Valenciana.  What else?  It is poor.  We should have known better. So here is a place where Spain excels at undermining itself, as though it needed to, allowing a proliferation of poor quality establishments charge over priced menus for poor quality produce.  Quite sadly, they have done what even Los Indignados failed to do: they have anchored themselves permanently on some of Spain’s primest real estate.  One can only hope that the optimism which built so many goliath eateries will NOT prevail. We look beyond the sand back toward the city, over the roofs of abandoned cranes, over the walls.  The city beckoned.

Just as it seemed there was only the rotting carcasses of dinosaurs to  wander through (imagine winning a trip to Jurassic Park after an outbreak of myxomatosis) we happen upon the Arts and Sciences Park suffused with turquoise light under a dusk sky.  Here we found not only an abundance of evening strollers but a wealth of startling architecture and feats of engineering that really make the eye pop.  Could Logan’s Run have been filmed here? West World? Star Trek?  Necks twist and crane to understand, see, scope and investigate what must be one of the Europe’s neatest architectural secrets.  Having survived the post apocalyptic landscape of the reckless builder’s Valencia, here we tumble into something by far more visionary, captivating, ethereal, subversive; a thing meant to last, a place meant to say something about Valencia and Valencians. The City that gave the world ‘the bridge builder’, Santiago Calatrava, also has something to say about its love of art, music, science, nature and culture; and it does so in grand style housing centres for the arts and sciences in buildings which themselves are feats of science and works of art.  What this says about Valencia is that it is a city which was raided by speculators and prospectors and contractors and bankers and greed and recklessness, but these are not the character traits of the people of this city.  If this sounds naive then the city itself, immersed in eons of mediterranean cultures, remains a fitting testament to the true nature of Valencia and its people.

In every nook and cranny of its labyrinthine streets, the old city speaks about the civility and culture that underpins the place which is synonymous with paella but not so synonymous for the intensely alluring architectural heritage, refined artwork,  handsome streetscapes and wonderfully preserved historical legacies.  One need only scope the exquisite ceiling of the Silk Market with its tens of individually sculpted representations of traders and noblemen of the early medieval period.   Elsewhere, the city is filled with ancient churches, gateways, terraces and monuments, including city ramparts at the remaining gates of the old city walls.  At night, the street lamps cast a pale yellow glow about the pink stone walls rendering a timeless mystical quality of old Arab street scapes not unlike parts of central Jerusalem. In a place such as this, it is not all surprising that religiosity and ceremony feature as anchors in a cultural calendar. What is surprising is that these ceremonies are still of an intensity  and authenticity that  harp back to the frenzied send-offs that must have heralded the departure of crusaders to the east; thrilling and chilling in equal measure.

Their eyes dart left and right. Though it is Holy Thursday, it is not Christ but Satan who comes to mind at the sight of the rtiualistic spectacle:  hooded types the likes of which I have only seen in Rosemary's Baby, Stigmata, or some other film of sacrificial nastiness, perhaps even more lately in one of the Harry Potter movies.  One of the “penetants” spins.  His sleek cloak twirls after him as though he were a fleeing vampire lifting on the breeze, He disappears behind the church. It is mid evening about eight o’clock.  The blazing sun that earlier set fire to the clouds above our heads is sinking and the crimson light is fading to lilac and quickly then to grey.  A full moon dances behind the scattering clouds.  The spire of the church is drenched in a silver light. The air is thick with the scent of frankincense; the smell of the dead.  In the courtyard, families are gathering.

At the front of the church, a street leads to an open square.  The sound of drumming suddenly fills the night air; a throbbing,  slow, deep, deliberate, bass  like the beat of a pending war or the signal of a looming darkness.  The sound gets ever greater, more vigorous and menacing. The crowds swell.  On the plaza, hundred of 'penetants' gather in cloaks, gowns and garments of every imaginable colour and combination.  They stand aligned holding silver and golden staffs, some of them with candles alight on top.  Each group is separated by a uniformed drumming marching band.  The drums pound in unison. Dum dum dededum. Dumm dumm dededum.  The pounding excites the awaiting crowd.  A buggle hails.  The drumming stops.  The hundreds and hundreds of penetants stand to attention. Suddenly the buggles hails again. The drumming starts fiercer than ever and then the march begins.  They file past us in hundreds, possibly a thousand or more; hooded penetants, marching to the beat of the drums. The crowds stand silent, obedient, watching, chests pounding. 

Are the chevaliers leaving? Is there a war?  Do gallions await at the port? The staffs hit the black street with the deliberacy of anxious spears. Feet pound in unison. The passing out parade of a battalion of storm troopers could hardly be more startling if such a thing were real. On and on on it goes, like the a prepared invasion. Not since I first saw Zulu Dawn and my own upper lip felt as wet as Michael Caine’s have I felt so exhilarated and yet unnerved. For here, unfolding before my eyes is not just some traditional homage to the fate of Christ some two thousand years ago.  Here is the the seedling of Christian fanaticism which purged Spain of the Moors and Islam. Here is the oppositional statement of  Christian victory on the Iberian Peninsula played over and over year in and year out.  Is it benign religious practice and remembrance of is it a reminder of victory, feverish determination?  

It is hard to come away from such an experience and not reflect at how determinative culture especially religious culture is; how wondrous but potentially intractable; how uplifting, ecstatic and unifying it can be but also how damning, cruel and divisive. The parade marches into the night, into the early hours, drums pounding.

____________________

Valencia is a place far removed from the simple delights of saffron, rice, mussels, chicken, beans and rabbit. It is a city of a people unashamedly replete with all the paradoxes of human nature;  driven by desire to be creative, expressive, joyous, full of hope, endeavour and survival and yet surrounded by and infused as much with the injuries of its own follies and obsessions as the expressions of its own enlightenment. For my money, any city that awakens the senses to the complexity of the human condition, is a city not to be missed.

Here are a just few reasons to visit Valentia;

Valencia Aquarium; Ok I do not agree with the whole dolphin thing, but apart from that this is a really quite magnificent.

Valencia market (in the old town);  It is fairly traditional but also bloody huge. Some lovely tile work under the domes.

Sagradi; It may be a chain serving Basque style pintxos, but its clean, fresh and the food is totally yummmmieeee

Barrios; check out the traditional barrios between the city and the coast, which shelter some of Valencia’s most charming neighbourhoods and architecture with echoes of cities like Montevideo and Lisbon. Great food to be had too!

The Beach; One of Valencia’s best assets is a 20 minutes bus ride from the city centre.

The Old Silk Market; Take the guided tour for 3€ to get a fuller appreciation of this heritage site.

Ice Cream; How does smoked salmon take your fancy? If that sounds too fishy, then you might like the violet or marietta biscuit flavours of authentic creamy style italian ice cream at

Easter parades;  Seville is gone commercial and too hectic. See the real macoy in Valencia and hide amongst a predominantly local spectating crowd.

Opera; Valencia is up there with the top Opera destinations in the world regularly hosting leading performers, performances and conductors in several world class venues. What could be better than Opera followed by feed of Paella?

ISRAEL: Shine a Light

Being Irish and, therefore, infused with a strong sense of the antiquity of Irish culture, it is sometimes easy to be dismissive of that which other nations conceive as the seniority of their heritage.  ‘Bah!’, you’ll often find, is how an Irish man or woman will cut shrilly through foreign notions that there is any greater ancientness out there to the tombs at Newgrange, which, incidentally, make Stonehenge look like a recent city council installation.  Our Pirate Queens (well, one of them at least) were out dining with Elizabeth I ever before the notorious Blackbeard was even a truculent sperm stalking the stormy waters of his mother’s uterus.  Irish Monks Christianised Europe (and, GodS, help us, Scotland).  If that were not enough, we have more Norman forts and castles than any man from, well . .er . ., Normandy can count on all the tapestries in Bayeux. However, there is one place that quite possibly does put the autochotonous vanity of the Irish boaster back in its Celtic box: it is the annoyingly historic and de-la-Fressangestically stunning Israel.

In a land renowned for strife, where the overwhelming obsession at times seems to be the struggle with freedom of expression, and where (not so long ago ) sending gullible, often intellectually challenged, youths onto the local bus services locked and loaded was as popular an outing as bashing Jewish politicians over their West Bank policies, (no, I am not talking about Ireland), Israel, almost miraculously, defies every conceivable consequence of dysfunctionality and, somehow, has become not only one of the best places to visit on the Mediterranean coast, but quiet possibly, one of the best places to visit - period.

The tendency of commentators on the ever-surprising little State of Israel is that they cannot help veering off down the political route, hurling stones and diatribes at all those well documented issues of land grabbing, blockades, the West Bank, Nuclear menace, militarisation etc.  But, in a world where, let’s face it, all of our politicians have failed to live up to the promise of transparent and respectful governance then, frankly, nobody should be too surprised Israel, like all countries, has its own dirty bib.  There is plenty of under-qualified ranting about how Israel is the beast in the belly of Palestine; I’ll reserve my own considered views on that for a different article.  Today, I want to talk about the part of Israel that emits, believe it or not, a light; one of freedom, democracy and possibility; a land of incredible warmth and welcome . . . Yes, that is the other Israel, you probably have not heard too much about.  Allow me to illuminate the path!

The one thing you cannot take away from the Israelis is that they have managed, despite huge odds, to make their tiny country open and available to all who wish to come and enjoy it, peacefully and respectfully.  This stands in marked contrast to the overwhelming majority of the nations immediately surrounding Israel, (with the exception of the undemocratic state of Jordan), where travel is restricted or advised against because of war (Syria), political and civil unrest (Lebanon, Syria, Egypt) and threats of kidnappings of westerners and general lawlessness (Lebanon, Syria, Egypt).  Thankfully, notwithstanding the significant immediate border menaces and regional chaos, you can, in Israel, still do all those things that you might do, for example, in squishy, cuddly little countries like Denmark, New Zealand, or Bhutan.  From one end of the holiday to the next, be it from your first Baklava in the Arab quarter of Jerusalem or that first frappuchino on the Maritime Dock of Tel Aviv down to your last sundown at Masada, you are hardly likely to cross a checkpoint, never mind be made aware of the fact that you are in the land which one famously, and bravely, welcomed the only shower of scud missiles launched at a third country. But why let that ruin the party?

Israel is a small country by European standards, barely bigger that the Island of Sardinia in fact!  Not surprisingly, therefore, it has one main international airport (Ben Gurion), which happens to be conveniently located midway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem (that is an hour by car each way).  We took the “Sherut” or shared mini bus- taxi service to Jerusalem to start a seven day trip, which was fast (brace yourself) but economical (about 10 - 15euro pp).  We opted for a small, privately run hotel (see below) a stones throw from the old city and it proved an excellent location for our 3 days stay in the Holy City.

The ancient walled city of Jerusalem is like a multi layered, three dimensional tapestry better explained by reference to one of those “impossible staircase” images reminiscent of the work of Maurits Escher. The key to enjoying the delights of Old Jerusalem, is to simply get lost in its myriad of twisting, puzzle-like lanes, weaving through layers of rocks and blocks and history, cutting across aeons of culture and religions, as though once flooded now barren rivers and tributaries had cut deep through this ochre canyon and into whose walls, stragglers, merchants, nomads, proselytisers, warlocks, cooks, thieves, wives, lovers, charlatans, sooth-saysers, wizards, nuns, chemists, card- players and all manner of wanderers, now somehow found themselves stapled. Unable to escape the labyrinth, they cast their old cloths across alleys to shelter from the scorching sun and carved their homes into the whispering walls of Jerusalem.  It seems natural that in such a place, where all but the oddly shaped clientèle of those extraterrestrial outposts into which Luke Skywalker was occasionally cast to find a needy bounty hunter, all manner of believer or hustler has settled.  There are times in Jerusalem when, contrary to the omnipresent waft of religiosity, the fervour of devoutness and the solemnity of all the waiting in the shadow of eternal greatness, in defiance of the humility of black dresses, chained gowns, covered faces and black caps, (the unlikely trappings common to Christian , Muslim and Jew), one feels at though one has entered a room of another breed of uniformly attired competitors - that of duelling pirates who have all happened upon THE treasure, in that tiny cave, all at once. Gulp!

Indeed, Jerusalem is at a permanent stand- off.  At its Wailing Wall, the devout Jewry, men and women (separated by a high wall) pray devoutly, tipping forward and back (the men that is) reading the Talmud, feverishly nodding, leaving only little pleadings of notes in the wall of holiness, managing, by mastery of the ages, to avoid banging their pale foreheads. It is a good thing too, for all the thousands of years of such nodding would, by continuous impact, have surely dismounted the holy seat of Islam that sits just over the top of the very same wall: the Dome of the Rock. 

The entrance to the Dome of the Rock is off limits to anyone who is not Muslim, but its is possible to enter onto the Temple Mount, which houses the gold plated Dome, through several of the arched entrances from the old city.  Jews are prohibited from accessing the Temple Mount, a prohibition which is clearly demarcated, not least by an enclosed bridge, which swoops over the Jewish holy site.  The Christians and the Armenians and a multiplicity of other faiths have all speculated sufficiently with history to find their comfortably close settlements within the walls, those same walls, which house (literally) their tomb of the Risen Christ, a trifling few steps from the point of his cruxifiction.  And here then is another of Old Jerusalem’s surprises.  Calvary is now up a staircase! I bet not too many Christians knew that, or that the Christ’s entombment was as proximate to his place of death as 50 metres.  It is here then, in the company of Moses, feet from the tomb of Christ and in the shadow of the point of Mohamed's assent to the heaven’s, that the unifying force of religion and its paradoxically co-existent divisiveness, is most stark.  It is here where the intolerable infractions and conflicts in modern history are so vividly laid bare.  How then to absorb the weight of such a mesmerizing place? A place where the faithful of several faiths gather each night and, in scenes which recall the sealing of the Pyramid Toms, seal themselves inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre as the protectors of Christ's tomb.  Perhaps, oddly enough it is a late night stroll through the infernally dark alleys of Old Jerusalem, after the echoes of calls to evening prayer have evaporated from the minarets into the night sky amd where only the distant bark of a dog or the occasional shuffle of an Hasidic pilgrim whooshes by, penetrating the truly mindful silence, in a place where the phantoms of history fill the torch lit alleys like shadows preying.  

To bare witness to the mysticism and cultural kaleidoscope that is Jerusalem risks overwhelming any other possible event or observation.  But leave the ghosts of Old Jerusalem to themselves you will and you must for there is much more to the city than its faiths, hard as that is to believe.

Beyond the stops-you-in-your-tracks streets of the Old city, the iconic and essential tribute to the Holocaust at Yad Vashem is an experience that calls for humility, contemplation, prayer, forgiveness and enlightenment of all comers. Gracious, immense, foreboding, captivating, solemn, sacred and profound, there are few places where the soul and the senses are likely to be more stirred than in the remarkable Hall of Names: an admirable feat of remembrance and architectural appropriateness.  Although, you are unlikely to have much of an appetite on the way back to town, you can still balance the Yad Vashem experience with a stop off at one of great Jerusalem institutions; the giant, bustling, ebullient, chaotic market at Mahane Yehuda.

Unlike the tourist mobbed ‘Shuk’ in the old City or the high end Mamilla Centre near the Jaffa Gate, Mahane Yehuda, an established traditional market (a short bus ride from Old Jerusalem), is predominated by the resident mix of cultures with endless stalls selling the very best of traditional foods and ingredients crossing all traditions from Africa to Russia, from Bishkek to Bishopstown, making for an exhilarating feast for the eyes and senses - four words - not to be missed.  And, now that we are on the subject of food, one other essential delight of Jerusalem is an eatery boasting cuisine from a land the other side of the top of Africa.  “Darna”, situated in the quiet leafy Horkanos street outside the Old City, delves deep into Moroccan culinary traditions and, though not a cheap night out, is unquestionably one of the best restaurants both of its kind and in Jerusalem. The food is prepared with an attention to balancing spices worthy of a Swiss clock makers dexterity.  If Darna happens to be better than anything you might find in Morocco itself, this should not be a surprise - in a word - exquisite.

Feasted on the divine of all kinds, the rest of Israel now beckons.  The drive from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv is a good two hours, but the excellent roads and safe driving conditions make hiring a car really worth while, affording the opportunity to stop here and there and appreciate the transitions of the landscape from the mountainous deserts surrounding Jerusalem to the green cultivated pastures and Olive groves on the slopes into Tel Aviv.  Take the chance to marvel at the herding of cattle, sheep and goats in scenes, which echo biblical imagery with tired bare-footed boys with staffs, crouched on rocks, their heads bound in red Kuffiyah or hatta, as a scalding red sun sinks over the hills into the Mediterranean.  Such are the lives of ordinary Israelis, not fighting wars, or stealing lands, but, Muslim, Christan, Jew and non-believer all doing what most other humans do most of the time - eeking out modest existences as best they can, hoping and dreaming.

Across Israel, the plurality of society is evident.  Tel Aviv is no less a fine example of the co-dependency, inter dependency, shared existence and mutual accommodation of Israel’s many cultures and religious and non-religious identities.  Some call it the Mediterranean Miami. It is not hard to see why. Tel Aviv has all the gleaming skyscrapers, the mega hotels, the sparkling waterfronts, the exuberant marinas, the sun drenched beaches, terraces, cafes, night-life and no shortage of the beautiful people (OMG, and they are stunning!).  It has enough Bauhaus to make Miami look like an Art Deco pretender, thriving flea markets to make London’s Portobello or the Madrid Rastro look positively amateurish and enough art and architecture to fuse the right side of even a Berlin art dealer’s brain.  But, if Miami has the Cuban Street Party, Tel Aviv has Purim (the party to beat all parties)! If Miami has Fort Lauderdale on one side, Tel Aviv has Gordon Beach Strip on the other.  Miami may have Ocean Drive, but Tel Aviv goes one better with Lillenblum Street and Nachalat Binyamin for all the cool club hopping and bar cruising with the beautiful people of course (did I mention them already?).  And Tel Aviv has something else Miami does not have. . .

Jaffa (or Yafo) is the old Muslim neighbourhood that marks the southern end of Tel Aviv’s superlative promenade (which, by the way, makes it way along the Mediterranean several miles to Tel Baruch beach at the North end of Tel Aviv). So, when you are done combing the quaint topsy turvy streets and the port area, AND you have done your day trawling the countless junk and antiquity dealers at the extraordinary CARMEL MARKET AND have had your last glimpse of the sinking sun beside local fishermen and boys casting their lines on the pier, THEN you can set off north along the promenade in the warm breeze and marvel at the jungletastic symphony of human kind that passes you by on your stroll.  Miami? Schmiami . . .

If Jerusalem is the Israel’s librarian, then Tel Aviv is its Dance floor Diva.  Few cities, not even mad Madrid, can claim such enthusiastic socializers, where people are as friendly as they are edgy.  The city is awash with creativity and energy, with numerous neighbourhoods exuding specific personalities and distinctive charms. Whether you want an old clock, a life sized model of Tin-Tin, eggs in tomato stew, good coffee, cracking cocktails, super cuisine, or just a whole new world to wander at, then a few spots worth looking out for in Tel Aviv are a) Cup O’Joe for excellent coffee in the company of friendly locals on the corner of Gordon and Dizengoff, b) Sherkin Street for that Camden Town on a summer’s day feel, c) Bar Mezizims at the Marina for that evening cocktail at sun down with cool tunes, d) check out TAOOS on Tizon Street in Yofa for there amazing collection of giant collectible cartoon sculptures e) Bauhaus architecture f) Rothschild Street g) best ice cream in Tel Aviv has got to be the glorious Vaniglia on IBN-Barbol.

There is probably no other way to wind down from the highs of Tel Aviv other that with a dip in the ocean, but since you’ll have done the Med (before breakfast of course), you’ll need something else to float your boat.  The good thing about the trip to Ein Bokek (a small Dead sea resort north of the busier and more popular Ein Ghedi), is that you can take in so much on you’re way to the Dead Sea.  Three hours from Tel Aviv is a perfectly manageable drive that takes you down spectacular winding highways, through the desert, to your first stopping point at the sea level marker.  It is worth getting out here to have a photo taken and admire the wonderful views over the turquoise Dead Sea, another 2000 metres down! Apart from the floating in the dead sea, which is one of those things, that goes beyond explanation, like explaining yellow or the flavour of strawberries, there is one site that simply cannot be missed. OK, when you are passing sites which revive all those legends of the Bible its hard to pin down one that you need to get too, but assuming you have not moved permanently to Israel and afforded yourself the luxuries of seeing everything, MASADA must top your list. Herod’s legendary fort is famous for so many reasons from engineering, to warfare, to opulence, to mass suicide, it is almost impossible to measure its importance. Suffice to say, if you don’t have a ticket on the first manned flight to Mars, then a visit here should satisfy the thirst for adventure.

So there you have it.   Irish pride dented like my Christian faith by the legacy of King Herod.  Who would have thought it?  And, as though adding insult to injury on the Emerald isle, a land whose raison d’être is inescapably linked to swilling pints and having a great ‘oul time altogether for no reason whatsoever, Israel, I learned is inhabited by a population whose appetite for a party can make an Irish night on the tiles look like a Quaker’s picnic. And, apparently they have been at it since, well, since Herod went up a hill.
Heading off on our eastern adventure, I was hard pressed to decide what exactly it was Israel was most famous for: Being the land of the Jews? The persecutor of Palestinians? Lamb? Winning of the Eurovision song contest (three times)? With a tranny? Moses? Wine? The Dead Sea? Being the land of milk and h(m)oney? The Ark of the Covenant? Bauhaus? Gaza? Houmous? Jesus, Mary and Joseph?  

The truth is, Israel is all of those things and more tied up into one giant geo-political, socio-cultural falafel.  Having discovered such is the great deliciousness of this unfathomably stuffed vine leaf of a country, with its multitudinous ingredients of humanity, vegetation, landscape and, er . . .alley cats (the second largest ethnic group in Tel Aviv), I now know that travelling to Israel was the second best travel decision I have ever made (The first one, by the way was travelling to Israel in late March for perfect climate and Purim!).   I am also a richer person, for I now know that the early Irish must have made their way to Israel and settled there.  It is true, I swear.  L’Chaim.

Our Hotels
Montefiore Hotel (Jerusalem) : Three words 1) Convenient 2) Clean 3) Quiet .http://www.tripadvisor.es/Hotel_Review-g293983-d320674-Reviews-Montefiore_Hotel-Jerusalem.html
Hotel De la Mer (Tel Aviv) Three Words 1) Breakfast 2) Location 3) Value for Money http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g293984-d534329-Reviews-Hotel_de_la_Mer-Tel_Aviv.html
Le Meridien (Ein Bokek)
http://www.tripadvisor.es/Hotel_Review-g488154-d310223-Reviews-Le_Meridien_Dead_Sea_Hotel-Ein_Bokek_Dead_Sea_Region.html

SPEAK RWANDA

Ms. Hickey was a fine thin slip of a woman and, somehow,  responsible for my travel bug. During my secondary (high) school days, she managed to generate enough spittle on the wings of her slim lips to convey a genuine enthusiasm for her subject (Geography), garnering more than an occasional attentiveness from her difficult audience. In September, when she would return from her summer break, the combination of scuffed boots, tightly fitted knit jumpers and her orangey tan gave her a certain 'foreign-ised' aura, as though she were a character from some documentary like ‘Twiggy does Nepal’. Or something.

“Where was she?” I wondered one September afternoon as I prodded Michelle’s bum with a compass tied to my shoe.

“Colm Fahy!”
Ms. Hickey’s voice pounced on me like an unexpected clap of thunder on a summer’s day.

“Immediately, give me an example of a drumlin topography!” came a swift and onerous demand with all the humanity of a gun shot over the head of a limping duck.

“A Wha . . ?” I thought, struggling to unhitch the compass from my sinning shoe as the spittle on Ms. Hickey’s lips bubbled to a froth and her cheeks blistered to baby-rash red. A stinging silence was broken only by the sound of Michele clawing through her jeans at a mildly wounded buttock. Then,  a resolute yet scarily constrained Ms. Hickey - like an executioner who had suddenly discovered their blade was blunt, interjected the nothingness. 
“Clew Bay, Colm Fahy . . . Clew Bay!” she quipped through her pinched lips.

My compass dropped to the ground with an unmistakable leaden clank. I think I muttered a faint agreement; something bumbling like 'oh, yeah'. I might as well have quacked.  
My punishment was an essay on Drumlin topography.  (For more on Drumlins, (if you are mad), do pay a visit to  http://www.geography-site.co.uk/pages/physical/glaciers/drum.html).  ‘And what’, you may ask, ‘has all this got to do with Rwanda?’

Rwanda, as the Belgians christened it, is the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’ (Le Pays des Milles Collines). The global capital, potentially, of drumlin landcapes. Now there is an right old basket of eggs for you! The first person that came into my mind, when Vibeke, (the Danish colleague with whom I was boarding later in my journey), told me this, was none other than Ms. Hickey. And, I thought about her boots too, dusted in red soil and wondered had she been here.  Hunting maybe for recalcitrant teenagers? 
Rwanda, set high in the east African heartlands, is a tiny bumpy country of rich green vegetation, innumerable hills and valleys (despite what the Belgians say) and a rich sienna red soil. Its people (without wanting to understate a serious and pervasive poverty) eat relatively well on a land that - though overpopulated - yields bountiful crops of almost everything. Rwanda stands on a crossroads between several states of former Anglo and Franco colonial Africa and between multitudes of east African cultures making for a country (and a capital city, Kigali) that is a unique, exciting and vibrant and one of the more accessible and fast developing places of the region. In fact, Rwanda is a bit of an economic jewel in east Africa. Despite a tortuous history of colonisation, suppression and conflict it is now in a period of (relative) peace and stability. It has a long way to go, but in an African landscape so often shrouded in the fogs of war and hopelessness, there is ample reason to be hopeful for a bright future.

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It is difficult to escape mentioning Rwanda and genocide in the one sentence. Yet, despite the devastating failure of the international community to prevent a wholly avoidable catastrophe in April to July 1994, in which almost one million people were brutally slaughtered, Rwanda is recovering and the bright, friendly, inquisitive and welcoming nature of its peoples and tribes (for whom wholesale murder is an aberration and not a national characteristic) is once again beginning to shine through.
In 2003, I met a lady called Sandra who had survived the genocide. A tall elegant woman with slim facial features said to be characteristic of the Tutsi people. She invited me and my travelling colleague to her house for maracuja juice and conversation. She was only too delighted to engage with us, interested in our world and news of life, politics and culture from Europe; an opportunity to exchange ideas and debate development issues. She talked to us frankly and philosophically about her life, work and experiences while her niece and nephew, two shy teenagers with timid engaging smiles dressed in their Sunday best, sat politely; living evidence of the unthinkable depravity that had befallen them and which Sandra went on to recount.  Though their father (Sandra’s brother) had married a Hutu woman, rather than the fact affording a possibility of refuge during the 1994 blood-letting, the entire family was victimised. When the genocide began there was no escape. Both parents and nine of their eleven beautiful children perished. 
The older child, a girl of 18 by 2003, smiled shyly, her head bowed over her glass of juice, as Sandra went on to explain to us how her niece and her baby brother had survived. The eight year old girl strapped the infant boy to her back and ran into the corn fields as the rest of her family was being butchered.
‘It was a miracle escape’ Sandra proclaimed clasping her hands in a prayerful gesture at which point she then blessed herself.  The teenagers followed suit. For a moment there was silence. A small lamp flickered under a familiar picture of the Scared Heart of Jesus, reminding me of the tranquillity of my grandmother’s kitchen; another place of refuge for agonies of a world far removed from this kind of anguish.
The boy took the brunt of the machete blows to the back of his head as the little girl trundled forward into the undergrowth for safety. The thick long scars were evident along the nape of his neck. He survived five months in the forests. They both did.  A Miracle indeed as all that remained of the entire extended family, some thirty people, was this tightly knit group of three survivors.
With the help of UNICEF, Sandra found the surviving orphans in 1996 and had reared them since in her small homestead on the outskirts of Kigali.
“They are strong and beautiful” she beamed confidently, to which they lifted their heads slightly and smiled as only children who are loved can.
“And to talk is to heal”, she continued, striking her long slender fingers through the girl’s hair.
Sandra eventually snapped her glass on the table. She had to grab her bicycle to finish her afternoon duties as a  community nurse; cycling up to fifty kilometres every day except Sundays. As we went to leave, she lamented the lack of resources and facilities, but hoped that things would get better; there was so much to be done. We exchanged warm embraces.
“Things can only ever get better” Sandra said to us, holding both our hands tightly and walking us to her garden gate. I left humbled and wondered how we in the 'North' can ever be forgiven.
As in all post conflict societies, hurt is never far from the surface. The circumstances of my being in Rwanda were somewhat particular and enabled me to get in close contact with many local people.  Generally, though I would avoid talking politics unless you know what you are talking about and to whom you are talking. There also remain deep institutional suspicions in the security forces in Rwanda (this is not just a hangover from the 1994 conflict, but also stems from Rwanda's extended military interventions in neighbouring Congo and elsewhere) so, while the police are disciplined, keeping a low profile is advisable and this includes being discreet with taking photographs. 

A very fine portrayal of the 1994 Rwandan conflict is Terry George’s gripping film Hotel Rwanda (2004). A deeper insight and a very rewarding read into both the history of Rwanda and the genesis of the genocide is French-Canadian journalist Gil Courtemanche’s brilliant A Sunday by the Pool in Kigali (2000).
                         _________________________________

Rwanda is not all war of course and, while the healing goes on, the genocide is now already nearly twenty years past. Kigali is now one of the safest cities in Africa and in the countryside crime is virtually unheard of. Except for regular mild earthquakes and more significant road traffic issues, Rwanda is especially attractive to foreign tourism for those who want to get into the sub-tropical heart of Africa and it is a great little country to start in. The first port of call will be the main entry point - Kigali. Here, highlights must be the covered Kimironko market on the eastern side of the city or the extraordinarily packed Nyabugogo Market where you can haggle for everything from a plastic bucket to a tractor tyre to an avocado and then some. And the locals love a good old chat. They tend to be tactile, so do not be shocked if they give you a good solid old pat on the shoulder or you find yourself stuck in a five minute hand shake. The women traders are great also for a good old bear hugs and, no, it is not a distraction to get at your wallet - that is done the traditional way - by driving  a hard bargain.  You will also be able to browse plenty of stalls selling excellent quality traditional masks, musicals instruments or even the very Rwandan Imigongo (cowpat art), (which to my mind gives Mark Rothko a run for his money).  One of my biggest regrets is that I did not have enough space to come away with a sample of this brilliant art work. Alas, another time perhaps.


My room at Jambo Beach, half a day’s drive north of Kigali, had a sample of Imigongo on the wall; just one of the many delights in this haven of tranquility on the banks of glorious Lake Muhazi.  There is in fact no beach, but that is no skin of the back of manager, Michael John (who opts for the anglicised name rather than Michel Jean (he is a local Franco-phone by birth). M.J., (which he also finds appealing), wants Jambo to have all the airs of a quality  Zanzibar style beach resort so, as he says, if that is what you are aspiring to, then why hold back (and who are we to argue with such a  notion in a land locked mountain state?).

This might be a perfect place to pitch your surfboard, were it not for the trifling issue of the absence of the sea.  However, the open air bar is a perfect spot to don your Rip Curl gear anyway and watch the blazing sun sink in a crimson sky. The bar gets lively in the evenings with a blend of dated euro pop and contemporary African rhythms and the locals are not shy to get down and gyrate with you either ('the locals' including several giant Crested Cranes which are the hotel’s mascots and free roaming pets (and the national bird, as it so happens). All that should be good enough for any beach bum! So, after a long day doing the beach thing Rwanda style, what a pleasure it is to retire to the individual traditional thatched hut with its completely modernised interior! Plastered painted walls, sparkling tiled floors, crisp white linen on comfy bed, tea and coffee facilities and hot shower and the whole delight is topped off with that special touch; M. J. himself personally delivering brekkie on a tray, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, like the ever so nosey Crested Crane who has followed him into the room! But then, this is a "beach resort" so why would that be an issue?

To cut matters short and spare you my ramblings here are my top tips for Rwanda.

1) Mountain Gorillas. . . please, if you must, only visit with legitimate tour operators. But are they not better left alone???

2) Public Transport . . . er, make a Will if you must. I strongly recommend car and driver hire rather that using public transport which is a very serious health hazard for travel in Rwanda.

3) Do not come to sub-tropical Africa looking for Mandarin Oriental style accommodation! Accommodation is mostly basic except for the three top-tier hotels in Kigali which will burst your bank account. But they are not real Rwanda anyway and put you at a distance from the unique experience of travelling in Africa. Smaller hotels and convents (often running B& B style inns around the country) provide perfectly adequate bases to stay, which are clean, secure and will give you a bed with a net, and a 'Bidon' of water to wash (showers tend to be a luxury in many places.  Do bring 'fresh wipes' if you bring nothing else, they are great for freshening up when water supply is limited).

4) Save your attitude. Try working all day in 100% humidity and 35 Celsius if you think Rwandans move too slowly. Many restaurants and eateries around the country (except pizzerias and tourist hot spots (like Kigali and Kivu) require a day's notice for dinner orders!

5) Look out for - groups of people chatting on the road in the pitch dark, astonishing lightening, traditional dancing, views across the Akegera plains, Imigongo Art, Mount Kivu volcano and lake, Crested Cranes eating off your plate, fresh charcoal grilled tilapia with boiled "Irish" potatoes (a real treat!).

6) Lose the perfume if you are unhappy being called 'Muzungo' (chemical man).

7) Bring a Torch and batteries.

8) Learn about Gacaca (prn; Ga-cha-cha) (the sometimes controversial traditional tribunals which have played a key part in Rwanda's recovery from the Genocide.

9) Do not eat in public.

10) If you can afford an extra €30 a day, hire a student translator from Kigali University. It will make your experience far richer. 

11) Recommended in Kigali: Hotel Umubano (Pricey european 4 star quality but a but out of town) or Alpha Palace (2 star level and perfectly adequate if you are not a princess). Outside Kigali: Jambo Beach (Lake Muhazi east of Kigali).  You can also get good basic and cheap accommodation  through many religious orders who run B&B style inns (with good home cooking!) around Rwanda and you will also be assisting income to orphanages and schools run by them if you choose this option!

If east Africa is a region you have thought of visiting, then Rwanda, for history, culture, art, music, food, but most of all its wonderfully friendly welcoming people, is I think, all told, the place you need to to start.