Summer of  ’95     (Feb 1996)

    Zaire.  That name is all it takes for me to gaze away in fond memories and get lost in the myriad of hopes still to be fulfilled.  That is where home is for me.  I love to distinguish between the fact that I am Northern Irish not English, and, well, I’m not proud to call myself Irish at the minute because of the situation this country is in, but I would hold strongly to the days of old gone by and dearly wish that things can be resolved in a way that I can again say that I’m proud to be Irish.

    You only come to realise your beliefs when they are tested; I can say the above because when I am abroad I am constantly asked where I am from.  An example of what it is like explaining that Northern Ireland is different from England, and how people in Zaire perceive what is important; is seen in the time I walked to Chekele.  We were living in a village called Nyankundie, and while there I met a Dutch doctor who told me that  he had a son and daughter in law living in a village about 30km away, and that I should visit them.  So one fine morning about 5.00am I left our house and set off with a guide, she was a student at the local school and was going home for the holidays. 

    What a journey it was!  I saw the real rural life of the African first hand.  At about midway point we stopped in a village where the girl had a uncle; we ended up having tea with a meeting of the village elders.  There was not one person who could speak English - this made things tricky at times, but I reveled in the chance of using the Swahili I had learned.  Three cups of tea later I had explained where I had come from and what I was doing.  They were very interested to know what was important in Northern Ireland - they laughed when I said that it the same as for them - cattle!

    Yes that was fun.  It took me a wee while to get used to all the people coming out to look at this crazy white person every time I passed a house, but I just waved or shouted a greeting and they responded joyfully.  Some of the places I went, the people, especially children, had never even seen a white person so it was somewhat of a shock for them! 

    I learnt more and did more new and exciting things in the three months I was there than I would in three years back here.  Digging roads out of the jungle to make a way to the nearest airstrip, trying to set up an electricity supply over 30 miles, putting a new ceiling in a house, using long distance radios, repelling army ants from our home, learning a new language and culture, tending cattle and planting thorn bushes in the middle of nowhere being the only white face for miles and miles.  The list goes on, oh yes I can’t forget I also learnt how to ride a motorbike!  

    Africa is a place that you either love or hate, the one problem for the majority of people is however, that they never give themselves the chance to find out which is true for them.  Having been before I have been bitten by the bug as they say; very often it is as if it is in your blood that you have to go back.  Almost all of the people I have met who have moved from their own country to Africa, agree with me; only once have I heard of someone never wanting to go back again. 

    I know I will be back, maybe not to Zaire this year, but to Tanzania.  I really would like you to realise how beautiful the country and its people are, also see  how much more wealth, opportunities and life we have than them, and consider the possibility of giving some of it back.  Black is beautiful!