HARAR- THE LAND OF CHAT AND HYENAS

While the world was reeling from the killing of Muammar Qaddafi, I was dodging hyenas and dabbling with Ethiopian narcotics in one of the ancient Ethiopian cities. Harar is a city like no other; it is more than 1000 years old, walled with a labyrinth of narrow alleys and flat-roofed houses- quite reminiscent of North African countries like Morocco. It is full of Muslim women clad in brightly coloured head scarves. Their dresses distinctly resemble the Punjabi dress of India, while the men’s skirts transport you to distant lands of sarong-clad Balinese. Indian made Tuktuks and henna-dyed hair and beards add to the mystery as one tries to pigeonhole Harar. The land surrounding the city looks scorched. Dusty-footed shepherds guide cattle and sheep to stony barren-looking hills dotted with struggling Acacia Abyssinia, cacti and chat, while tired-looking women lead knackered donkeys buckling under huge loads of firewood, sugar cane, yellow water containers and crop harvests.    

The main street running through the fortified old city buzzes with activity: people haggling over vegetable prices; women pounding spices; blood smeared butcher men cutting chunks of meat from fly-swathed cow carcases for kitfo (Ethiopian famous raw meat dish); young women exchanging latest gossip; dazed old men sitting in circles chewing chat; old women having a coffee fix on three-legged wooden stools, half naked kids chasing after old motor tyres; and annoying young men asking relentlessly if I am from Jamaica.  If you take a detour from this main street at night, there is a high chance that you will be walking around in circles for hours trying to find your way back or will run into someone trying to defecate discretely on one the numerous dead ends, or will have a too-close counter with a wild hyena.     

Initially, I had planned on staying in Harar for one night. But the magic of the land, and the fact that I had nothing to look forward to back in Addis Ababa, other than boring job applications, seduced me to stay one more night. Stirring stories of wild Ethiopia where proud and fierce-looking warriors brandish Kalashnikovs and trophies of shrivelled penises cut off from the loins of their enemies were part of the reason. Unfortunately my guide flatly refused to take me to these far-flung villages for the fear of his dear family jewellery. So I had to make do with what Harar itself had to offer.  

The one peculiarity to this city is the excessive consumption of chat. Chat is a mild stimulant- apparently milder than alcohol, which originates from Ethiopia. It is widely used in the Horn of Africa and the Middle East. Men, women and even children seem hopelessly enslaved by the drug. Old men seem to sit around all day in small groups chomping chat in a rhythmic stupor, rather like a small herd of sheep chewing cud, except for the fact that these ruminants laugh and make merry.  Young men with bulging cheeks jam-packed with chat vegetation, wonder aimlessly around with a stash of the crop pressed to their armpits. Their toothy smiles are usually peppered with debris of green chat specks, which I find quite diabolic.   

In the main markets, chat dominates the scene; men and women chewing, plucking, sorting, carrying, buying or selling chat. The whole floor of the market is carpeted with chat stems and leaves.  Goats and sheep seem to be equally addicted to the drug. A long line of trucks wait to ferry the high quality chat to Djibouti. There are even charter planes at the airport that courier chat straight to the Arab world. Growing chat has become so lucrative that most farmers have uprooted their coffee plantations in favour of this wonder crop. Since chat is not illegal here, my fellow travellers and I had a go at it on one of the nights in our home stay. Basically you pluck out the tender leaves from the chat twig, stuff them in your mouth, chew the leaves to a fibrous paste, and swallow. The leaves are rather long and I was half gagging the whole time. Expert chat masticators keep the leaves to one side of the cheek and munch them in a small amount at a time, hence the bulging cheeks. To have the desired effect, you are supposed to chew chat for an hour or two. We lasted ten minutes. The taste is very acerbic and the chat juice leaves your mouth extremely dry; it felt like I was chewing a mouthful of powdery bitter tea leaves. The only excitement I felt was chat leaves churning uncomfortably in my stomach. On another trip to Hawasa I was a bit disconcerted to see our m’dula moyo (a minibus that moves at a crazily dizzying speed and leaves you hanging onto to your seat; desperately confessing to God over and over again that if you make it through alive, you will never sin again) driver chewing the stuff for hours. The grubby hands of conductor would periodically relieve the stems out of their leaves and stuff them into the waiting vacuum of the driver’s mouth.  We barely made it alive. 

Hyenas are another fascinating feature of Harar. The main attraction is the feeding of the hyenas, a tradition that has apparently been passed on from one generation to another. The feeding ritual is incredible, if not a tad reckless of the man who feeds these creatures. It involves giving scraps of meat, mostly raw hide, on a short stick raised in the air. The overexcited and giggling hyenas then have to jump up to catch the meat. To entertain the tourists, sometimes the Hyena Man feeds them from a stick stuck in his mouth so it looks like the hyena are feeding on his mouth. A brave few souls, including me of course, tried our hand at feeding them. It was a bit intimidating but fun. What I hadn’t counted on was having a face down with one of these wild beasts on the famous Harar narrow streets. After a long night glued to BBC to catch the latest news on Qaddafi, I insisted on walking home alone. My guide, who obviously knew better, disregarded my protests and accompanied me anyway. My annoyance evaporated as soon as we turned into the alley leading to my guest-house and we came face to face with what I initially thought was a dog, except for the tell-tale sloping of the shoulders. I am proud to say that I didn’t scream this time but did make sure that my guide was always between me and the hyena. He chased it away and to my relief it slunk away into one of the dimly lit alleys.

The one thing that I found unusual about Harar was taking photographs. I was warned that in some of the far-flung hinterlands- like the land of the tribe fond of relieving other people of their private bits- the excitement of taking pictures of painted wild people can result in having five AK47s staring you in the face. In Harar however, people were begging me to have their pictures taken. It was actually hard to take pictures around Harar without the extras. While people all over the world are now posing with an abandon never experience by the human race before, for the rural poor, taking pictures is still an extreme luxury. It was the poses that struck me the most. They are ‘poor-people’ photographs; of those unable to risk wasting pictures and where one feels privileged to be invited in a picture pose. While a modern man puffs up his chest and gazes defiantly into the camera, rural people still stand in serious X-ray stiff. Taking ‘normal’ pictures- (people doing very day stuff) in Harar elicited the same deep sense of betrayal I get when I sneak up and snap a picture of Uncle Luke in his bright yellow torn trousers weaving his famous reed mats. Understandably, rural poor do not want their pictures in their everyday working clothes and doing their everyday things. They would rather be in their best Sunday clothes and position themselves on better backdrops.

There is one thing that I was curious about but was didn’t have a chance to explore…… During a guided tour, I was beckoned to enter a small dim mud hut in the centre of the city. Inside, a beautiful kohl-eyed woman reclined languidly on a low couch. The floor around her was carpeted with soft fluffy meadow grass you normally find in traditional coffee houses, but I didn’t see any coffee pots. She called out to me as I was passing by. “Hey Rasta! Come in and chill out with me”….or something to that effect. She was obviously stoned. Although I find it extremely vexing, I do occasionally answer to the name ‘Rasta’ when it suits me or when curiosity gets the better of me. I was already on the door threshold when I vice-like grip of the guide steered me away. I didn’t resist. The hyena incident was too fresh on my mind. When I inquired about the woman, he just shook his hand. The following day, I tried to retrace my footsteps back to this exotic woman but after an hour zigzagging hopelessly lost in the Hararian maze, I gave up. I will never l know what kind of ‘chilling’ this exotic woman wanted from me. 

My next quest is to hunt for the fierce and greatly feared tribes whose only Western clothing accessory is a Kalashnikov. I did look up the penis-collection story on the Internet just to make sure my guide was not pulling my leg. Guides do love to string crazy stories that keep tourist’s jaws hanging down and starry eyed. Apparently breasts can be severed as trophies too! Although I am flat-chested, I will have to be on my best behaviour just in case. I will be sure to keep you posted.

A BLACK ALIEN LOST IN CHINA

FIRST TIME IN CHINA
 

Being forced to learn English, French, Latin, Greek and other obscure African languages permanently scarred the part of my brain that is responsible for learning new languages. In the last two months of travelling in India and Nepal I at least managed to pick up three words: hello (namaste), thank you (namaste), and goodbye (namaste). That gives you a taste of how advanced my language skills can get. But when you are in China with a brain that is incapable of learning anything beyond namaste, you are in trouble. I landed in China after mid-night with a pre-paid hotel and a mandarin phrase book. Still, I do not recommend taking cheap airline like Airsia, which will get you to China in the middle of the night armed only with a booked hotel and a phrasebook. The Chinese girls sitting next to me on the flight were curious about what a lone African girl was doing in China. The immigration officers seemed curious too. I was the last one to come through immigration- nothing unusual about this, everywhere Africans are treated like refugees. The immigration officer serving me called his colleague, who called his other colleague, who called his supervisor, who called his supervisor and soon there were 10 officers looking at my passport, passing it on from one hand to another, turning it over, thumbing it through and rubbing the main page to see if the writing would come off and a nervous me asking what was the matter. They eventually did let me into their country without a single question, but the silent thumbing was enough to leave me rattled. 

My newly formed Chinese friends who had waited the whole time the immigration officers were giving me a dose of a Chinese welcome, suggested writing down my hotel name in Chinese characters so that a taxi driver would be able understand where to take me. My faith in China rekindled until one of the girls pointed out that my hotel was actually 400km away! This was now 1.00am by the way. I had actually made an effort to book a hotel and even made sure that it was linked to the airport, and now this? As it turned out my hotel was only 40 minutes away on a shuttle bus. The location of the hotel shares the same name as a provincial town which is indeed 400km away, hence the confusion. The taxi ride from the shuttle bus station to the hotel involved going round and round Shenzhen city and several stops by the driver to ask for directions. With each loop I got more and more worried that maybe he could not find my hotel because it was 400km away after all. Half an hour later he pulled up at a huge monstrosity, which he claimed to be my hotel. I refused to get out of the car. I could not see any Pinyin letters anywhere suggesting that this was indeed my hotel or that it was even a hotel at all. And I was not going to be dumped at some African-butchering place at 2am in the morning. I stayed put in the taxi- better to be butchered by the devil you barely know than the one you don't know at all. He did finally convince me that I was at the right place and I eventually did see small English letters confirming that it was Shenzhen Hailian Hotel. He then asked for the paper with the hotel name in Chinese characters and solemnly corrected one character, which explained why he could not find the hotel. Just this one wrong character completely changed the name of the hotel. 

I stayed in my room until 3pm the next day. 'Stayed' - a better word than the more accurate description: that I hid in my room with dread hoping China and its language barrier would go simply away and leave me alone. I lay in bed until hunger drove me out of the room. Finding a restaurant required me writing down the word 'restaurant' on a piece of paper and the receptionist entering it into her own version of Chinese Google-Translate to figure out what I was asking. Fortunately Chinese restaurants have pictorial menus, so it should be pretty easy to point and choose. But there are always unforeseeable complications; like pointing to a picture of dumplings and being asked, in Chinese, if you want chicken, egg, dog, or pork dumplings. In my case the issue was the size. And since I did not understand what I was being asked I just kept pointing to picture of the fish, saying yes, yes, yes, and nodding my head vigorously to bring home the point. So you can imagine my embarrassment when a huge fish, large enough to feed a dozen people, showed up and worse, I ate it all. 

By the late afternoon I had gained enough confidence to explore around and look for a tourist information centre that the Lonely Planet insisted was at the train station. I looked for it for two hours asking around in English, in Chinese, and showing them the Chinese characters for tourist information office. Nobody knew where it was. I went up and down the station until David, a Chinese entrepreneur who is interested in being an agent for Africans looking for Chinese products, especially furniture, helped me out- I have his business card if any one of you needs his services. He took me to the bus ticket office where I bought a ticket for my next destination. What a nice fellow, I thought, until I found out later on the sleeper bus that I had paid $10 more than everybody else. That was the first lesson in China: everything, even a bus ticket, is negotiable. By the evening, I had hooked up myself a Chinese date! The only problem was; only one of us was aware that we were on date. And that was not me. This second night in China turned to be one of the most bizarre nights I have ever had; so bizarre I think it deserves a Blog of its own. Suffice it to say that my date asked if he could use my toilet and the next thing I knew the guy was having a shower, while I was left standing in the middle of my hotel room in total bewilderment and a slight panicky feeling; thinking if things turn ugly here, which communist Chinese police officer is going to believe me that this guy came up to my room to use the toilet and get my email address. Nothing bad happened. 

You might think that with a phrase book I would have learned more Mandarin by now, but I have only managed to learn Ni'hao (hello) and xiexie (thank you), shi (yes)- although my tongue keeps on confusing things by saying cha (Khmer for 'yes'). The rest of the other words take leave as soon as they are registered in my brain.... and don't even get me started on the tones! The phrase book has proved to be extremely useful however, not in learning Chinese, but in pointing out the Chinese characters to people so that they can read for themselves what it is I want to ask. 

HOW I LOVE HATE CHINA

I think I love and hate China in equal measure: the language barrier being the thorniest issue. You get a hernia finding your way to the hotel each time. You ask a taxi to take you some hotel and he says no; mostly because he doesn't want your 'I speak no Chinese, I have no clue where I am going, and I don't know the Chinese name for my hotel' problem to become his problem. Then you get those who will just smile, and smile even more when you repeat the hotel name louder and louder, each time with different pitch trying to guess where the tones should be without sounding panicky with desperation. The worst are the ones, like my-first-night-in-China taxi driver, who will simply say yesi, yesi, put your rucksack in the boot when they have no idea where to go. Two clueless people in a taxi, speaking different languages, in the middle of the night while it's pouring with rain is not fun. One thing that I really hate here is when Chinese people physically react to me, a black person, which is expressed by a gasp and an involuntary jump backwards as if recoiling from a snake! Although this rarely happens, it still leaves a deep disturbing impression on me. If I get kicked out of China, it will be because I have punched someone in the face after this reaction! I also can't stand the vocalised clearing of the throat, especially when the person doing this is right next to me on a bus and I am already feeling queasy from motion sickness. They dredge up the phlegm and spit it into a clear plastic paper and my eyes, despite repeated protests from the brain, stay glued to the yellow goo. 

Chinese communal toilets are as legendary as stressful. I am OK with the ghastly, stinky toilets with fumes so powerful they make your eyes smart and keep you high for several hours. I grew up with these. Actually, the first time I saw a flashing toilet I refused to go, I was so sure I would accidentally fall through and get flashed down the pipes, so I would sneak out to the bushes when no-one was looking. But in China going to the toilet is an adventure. I still I don't know how I can calmly walk into a room where one or several Chinese derrieres are raised above squat toilets lined up with no doors, pull down my jeans, and engage in what the rest of these bums are doing. If you are lucky, some toilets are separated by low partitions, which come up to your waist when you squat. People are talking and laughing over the phone and actually having conversations with their fellow toiletors while doing their dirty business! In rural areas, the toilet rooms have no doors at all, so anyone passing by outside can clearly see the straining effort on your face. These toilets get me e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e time. I walk in, unsuspecting as usual, and as soon as I see a butt, I stop short in shock, stammer my apologies, and sprint out of the room as fast as I can. When I really have to go, every Chinese woman will try to find an excuse to visit the toilet at that particular time; people will even try and peer down to see what I look like down there. I don't know about you, but I really cannot go if my bottom is exposed to anyone who happens to walk in or is just standing there and staring. I heard a very stressful story from a travel companion, a pale, blond Swedish guy, who, when he went to the bushes to relieve himself, had the whole bus descend to the spot to inspect the colour of his pooh! 

But China is also just as fascinating, as is hateful. I just can't get enough of all the Chinglish. 'Free cheap air tickets available here' -I am still trying to get hold of these elusive free cheap tickets! Or 'slip carefully' (caution, slippery floor). And I am actually using toothpaste called 'Darkie'. I am also fascinated by the hunger that the people here have for English and they will take every opportunity to practise it. When I am reading my novel, people will come and look at me and the book, with the type of admiration you only get from a 9 year old seeing her older sibling, made up and dressed up for the first time on a prom night. I don't know if they are fascinated because I can read a western book or the fact that I am African but can decipher western text. I will never know. I once was asked by a taxi driver, while waiting for the hotel to pick me up- since it was too complicated for me to find the place on the narrow streets on my own with only 'xiexie' and 'ni'hao'- if I had a book. Amazing how much you can communicate with gestures hah! He flipped through it, running his fingers over the words for about five minutes before handing the book back to me with such solemn gravity on his face like it was a book of wisdom. In China it is perfectly OK for strapping young Chinese guys to carry the dainty little Louis Vuitton bags for their girlfriends. Wish all men were like that! The famous Beijing Peking Duck is to die for. It absolutely melts in your mouth. The tourist sceneries are incredible, even if I have to share them with 3000 other Chinese tourists chattering and screaming at each in Mandarin. I love the fake 'ancient' cities of Yunan- old towns that were torn down by the government in favour of modernisation, only to realise their mistake and rebuild them anew using the old architecture- I don't care! I love them all, right down to the fake red Chinese lanterns! I must also add that I have been pleasantly surprised by how helpful Chinese people are, right from the moment I stepped on the plane bound for China. People will even walk you to the place you need to go to if you cannot understand the directions. Taxi drivers, who can also be great white sharks, will even call your hotel for the hotel to explain to you why he can only take you to a certain place. I found these moments of kindness extremely moving. 

HIGHS AND LOWS

The highest moment has to be shared between Yangshou- Guilin and huffing and puffing up and down the Great Wall of China. Although I wish someone had warned me about how steep and slippery the wall is. I may have cracked my coccyx in a fall! The most embarrassing moment was accidentally locking my host in her home in Beijing while I went touring the Great Wall. A few shameful facts that I can actually mention here: despite lugging around 2kg fake India and China Lonely Planets, I have no clue which dynasties shaped the history of China or which different empires occupied India, or what that recent Nepali civil war was all about. I only used the Lonely Planet as an emergency service when I landed in a new place with no idea where to go. After using the name RMB (Chinese currency) around for three weeks, I only found out two days ago what it actually stands for. The most shocking moment: finding underwear, condoms, dildos and massage oils for sale in hotel rooms- I thought a communist government which is capable of banning Facebook would never allow this kind of stuff to happen! And of course the 'shower date'. Most worrying thing: I am still coughing a month after the high altitude sickness in Ladakh- India; I hope it’s nothing serious. Highest achievement: I almost conquered my fear for the subway, almost. I am, was, absolutely petrified of the metro. My fear for the tube developed way back on the London Underground and I do not talk about it. But the straight-forward Beijing subway allowed me to travel around without breaking out in sweat each time. 

As I wind down my trip, and start looking forward to all the things I have missed in Phnom Penh, not to mention the panic of not having a job, I can't help but reflect on how truly blessed I have been to have travelled and experienced the ghastly, horrid, stinky beautiful, serene, incredible India, Nepal and China as a fumbling clueless traveller.

HOW THE HIMALAYA CHEWED ME AND SPAT ME OUT

Enough of the pure rarified air of the Himalaya!!!! I should have been satisfied with the leeches and the rain in the Nepali Himalaya, but no, I had to see the Indian Himalaya as well! I was going to see the snowy peaks from Indian side and I was going to have great trekking in crisp clear mountain air. Well, I did see snowy summits, but the crisp thin air almost killed me. I was supposed to write up about Kathmandu and my endless quest to have my camera fixed and being politely told each time that the camera was too old to repair, but the altitude sickness meant I was not going to be anywhere near a computer for a long time. The only things I remember vividly about Kathmandu are: sweet adorable little Thida (long story), a glorious grilled fillet steak, falling into a flooded street on my way home, and showing up at my host’s house stinking of raw sewage.

I knew I would get some symptoms of altitude sickness, or Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) when I left Nepal for Ladakh, but this was not what I expected. Maybe I was naive in some ways. First day I was obedient to Lonely Planet recommendations and stayed in my bed for the body to acclimatise. I didn't feel anything, except for remnants of a flu fever I had had for two days before Ladakh. By the second day, I was bored of lying around doing nothing and so, stupidly, I decided to go clambering up to local Buddhist monasteries- why are they always built on top of freaking hills? By the end of the day I was coughing like a TB patient and attracting a lot of stares in the restaurant. But taking comforting from hearing others wheezing about and knowing that you are not the only wimp around. I swear things were rattling in my lungs, which, I found out later, means that fluids were accumulating in my lungs. If pink foam had started frothing from mouth, it would have meant being put on oxygen and immediate evacuation to a lower elevation or face possible death. All I could think was how I am going to cough up $10,000 for evacuation, if things do get worse.

I guess in some ways I had it coming. The terrible flu I had just before coming to Ladakh meant that most of my lungs were probably in tatters and the monthly flow could not have come at the worse time. I must have been losing the precious red blood cells as fast as my body was making them to make up for the rarified air. I was walking around the streets of Leh in Ladakh stoned from lack of oxygen. I could not focus; even reading a book was hard work. For four days I was in bed, just managing to drag myself out for lunch and dinner before collapsing back in bed in a fit of coughs. No appetite and constant threat of throw up all over the restaurant table. The most common dinner table discussion was of course comparing notes on the mountain sickness. I have never seen so many pale, dazed, coughing and wheezing tourists in such a small space. Even the cows and yaks seemed to be in some kind of stupor. Maybe I was hallucinating; it is after all one of the AMS symptoms. By the way AMS has got nothing to do with fitness, age or gender. Two people had to be evacuated from Leh while I was there and so many people were sick for as long as I was or even longer. Of course there were the occasional odd ones who puffed way on cigarettes and felt absolutely fine. One of my travel companions found out about AMS the hard way when she went trekking one day after arriving in Srinigar and had heart palpitations so bad she had to be put on a donkey. She could not walk.

I realised that I was in a bad shape when one of the shopkeepers I had to pass by everyday on my way to the restaurant suggested that maybe it was time I went to see a doctor. Then my hotel owner suggested the same thing two hours later. I guess I must have looked quite a sight with grey peeling lips from the dry mountain, peeling nose from the flu and the uncoordinated walk. Was I scared? Naah, except for the two really bad nights that I made sure I was wearing my filthy pajamas in case Ladakh woke up to find an African cadaver stiff in a hotel room. The bloody snout did cause me great deal of stress. I could not work out if the stuff was from flu or sinus irritation from the dry mountain air or if it was a sign that all was not well with the lungs. The scariest, was when I became aware of my own breathing. The first time it happened I completely panicked. I mean breathing is unconscious thing, you never think that I now have to breath out and breath in, and so when the lungs forget to do this natural job and you have to jump-start the breathing in a gasp, it's very unnerving. The worse was when it happened while you are just falling asleep.

When I could finally manage to walk up five steps without feeling like I have just run a marathon, and when the words didn’t seem to jumble and dance around the computer screen so much, and when I was emotionally stable enough not to cause panic I emailed my mother that I have been sick. Of course Ladakh being so close to Pakistan, and India being so neurotic about Pakistan, meant my phone was without network the whole time I was there and my scared mother could not call me. I finally decided to risk it and visit Nubra Valley and Pangon Lake. What is the point of coming all the way to Ladakh if all I was going to do is lay in bed eh? This required going up to a loft 18,300ft; highest motorable mountain pass in the world. Ladakh, which was causing so much havoc on my lungs and brain, is a mere 11500ft. The drive to Nubra Valley turned out fine. Seeing people building snowmen and having snow ball fights on the pass while they gasp for air, was quite surreal. Coming back three days later, my travel companions and I were jerked gasping every twenty minutes for air, except for the only smoker in the car. We went to the army medical clinic that is stationed on highest pass for some free oxygen but sadly I was told my oxygen levels were ok. I was disappointed. I thought being put on oxygen high on the mountain would be a great story to tell one day.

I survived the Indian Himalaya. Was it worth it? Absolutely, Ladakh is one of the most beautiful places I have been to in India and I intend to come back some day. Hopefully Himalaya won't finish me off next time. For now I am so glad to breathe in the dirty polluted air of Delhi, at least I don’t have to think about how to breathe it in.

Mighty Tasty Rats, Finger Nibbling Rats, Smart Sneaking Rats

PART I: Mighty Tasty Rats, Finger Nibbling Rats

They say we are never more that six metres from the nearest rat. So what is it about rats that reduces level-headed people to quivering jellies and screaming banshees? Is it the thought of those scalpel-sharp grains of teeth sinking into our flesh? I understand that rats gnaw through at anything softer than their teeth, and that includes metal. Or could it be the possibility that the fanged monsters come down from their high abode at night and take a close scrutiny of our slack drooling faces while we sleep in total oblivion? Or perhaps it is the beady eyes that seem to know everything that goes on in the house. They probably know who we brought home last night and how lousy we are at it too; giggling, clutching their furry tummies, howling at the clumsy embraces going on down below. According to an article I read recently, rats give ultrasonic chuckles and chirps when tickled in the right places. Like human babies, they will actually start to bubble up with laughter in anticipation before the tickling hand has even reached them. And that’s what they do in front of humans. Imagine then the shrieking when we are not watching while they hurdle together over a hole in the roof watching from above. Whatever the reason for this fear, rats have been popping up in different discussions over the last few months. But it is my recent encounter with them in Indonesia that prompted me to write this article.

I don’t know why I am quite nonchalant when it comes to rats. After what they did to me when I was a kid, I really should be traumatised. We had live-in rats; they were uninvited members of the household. My poor uncle Daniel tried everything to rid of them. Mouse traps, DDT on nsima, DDT on utaka- there was no temic poison in those days- but all to no avail. We would often wake up excited in the middle of the night, after hearing the trap snap, only to find a severed tail twitching on the floor and the offender long-gone. Rats are smart. Not only can they get a kick out of being tickled; the little critters can self-amputate their own tails too in self-defence. Taking pity on us, someone brought a cat to solve all our rat problems. But that didn’t work either. My aunt was soon doing everything in her power to bar the nameless cat from entering the house. She had discovered, much to our horror, that the little fellow preferred to dig up the maize flour, which was kept in a bamboo basket, and do its defecation business in there. My unsuspecting aunt scooped up the gooey mess as she was preparing to cook nsima. Worms were still twitching and wiggling in the sodden mush. The cat wasn’t so bad, initially. I used to play with it once a while, but it should be understood here that in African villages, the personalities of cats or other pets are never investigated or encouraged. Pets are recruited to do specific jobs. Then cat started vomiting and coughing up live worms. It was absolutely disgusting; I never touched that cat again.


Before I continue with the Indonesian rats, we should not forget that mice are also a good protein. Mice, therefore rats, are a delicacy in many parts of Africa and even here in S.E. Asia. Uncle Luka would, of course, be greatly offended by this lumping together of rats and mice. To him, mice on a skewer qualify as organic haute cuisine but rats are a definite no-no. They may be different species, but rats and mice look the same to me. In Malawi, marriages have been dissolved over mice; passionate songs have been composed about mice (mbewa zanga); Kids’ foreheads and limbs have accidentally been harvested by hoes in uncoordinated digging up of mice; hands have been bitten by snakes in holes mistaken for mice liars; millions of insects and crawlies are annihilated each year by fires started in search of mice; during famines, stupid foreign journalists have even aired pictures of Malawians eating mice as people’s desperate resort for survival. What a laugh. Mice are a desired meat that no-one ever admits to eating!

My recollection of rat meat is rather vague. Not because I am being vain, but mice were a taboo in our household, which was heavily governed and ruled by the Old Testament. My uncle Luke obviously was and still is a prodigal son. In my quest to taste mice, I was once lured into the headmaster’s smoky kitchen where his daughter reached for the thatched roof, pulled out a row of skewered roasted mbewa and solemnly snapped off a tail for my first taste of mice. To a protein-staved little girl, it probably tasted like heaven. The temptation to gobble up the whole thing was great but her mother knew the exact number of mice on that skewer. This clandestine initiation into forbidden meat could probably have carried on had someone not reported me to my grandmother. The thrashing delivered to the little sinner’s bare buttocks was enough to convert her back to ‘thou shall never touch eat mice’. Despite my little dabbling with mice, rats held different terrors for me. They were the one thing that I dreaded the most every night.

You see, at the age of nine, little girls have no patience to properly clean crusts and scabs of nsima sticking to their hands after a meal. That in itself didn’t present so much of a problem. In my case, however, the trouble came when the meal in question was fish or, on extremely rare occasions, meat. On these occasional feasts, I would go to bed on a full stomach and a satisfied smile on my face. The rats above too would grin and sharpen their tiny molars; for in the dead of the night they would descend onto my bed and take their turn in banqueting. They ate my hands. Well, more precisely, they nibbled on my fingers and nails. What was the most disturbing was the fact that I was totally oblivious to the devouring until the following morning when I would wake up to find jagged rows of teeth-marks crisscrossed all over my finger tips with fraying bits and pieces of skin. Apparently, it is pretty normal for tamed rats to nibble the fingers of their owners. It is a form of grooming; their way of expressing affection. But this was no petty grooming; it was a downright eating spree with real biting and drawing blood. I would then have to spend the whole day trying to hide the shameful evidence from other kids. Once the secret was out, the teasing was merciless; ‘ihhhi eti tamuonani uyu makoswe amudya’. Since then, I have been fortunate enough not to have many close encounters with rats. That is, until my last holiday in Indonesia.