miriam's travels

Photos: The Aral Sea

miriamvkenter — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:24:00 GMT

near Moynaq

My Photo scholarship 2010 entry

miriamvkenter — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 22:25:47 GMT

Karim remembers hundreds of fish thrashing about on his dad’s boat. Their tails flicking his suntanned face. It was always hot. He didn’t mind – he’d take a dip in the cool water any time. A normal childhood for kids in his village. Moynaq was a fishing town. Everyone had a boat. Karim learnt the art of fishing on his grandfather’s trawler. Skills handed down through generations – so too was the boat. He knew one day that boat might be his. He took pride in his work. His father knew his son would grow up to be a man of the sea. Karim loved his father’s boat. Although they were working boats, they were grand and well-oiled. Majestic machines of the sea, painted in glossy colours. Theirs was blue, green and yellow, the colours of Karakalpakstan. Karim thought it the most splendid boat on all the Aral Sea. Though he had never seen the ocean, his cousin told him it looked the same. The horizon miles away from the shore, ever so slightly curved. Karim remembers the sun reflecting off the boats. Like hundreds of dancing diamonds. Moynaq was a busy town with bustling markets and stately homes. The canning factory whirred and hummed. If you weren’t a fisherman, there was always work there. Life was good. Children sang and people came from miles around to take their catch. Karim remembers his father talking to other men about irrigation projects far away. No one understood what was about to happen. But he saw his father’s brow furrow and there was less laughter on subsequent trips out to sea... Now the town is quiet. There are no fishermen. The Aral Sea lies 150km from its former shore. Karim watches once proud boats rust amid the dunes. ------ Working with a professional will help me learn to better tell the stories of people and places I encounter on my travels.

Before the day begins.

miriamvkenter — Mon, 7 Apr 2008 09:11:00 GMT

The most pleasant time of the day is before the sun rises. Just that moment, where it's dark enough to be night, but birdsong indicates daybreak. Where the glow over the east contrasts the darkness of the west. Where sound is so still, a branch cracking underfoot echoes through the mountains. It is these moments where the air is cool, there is a feeling of calm and any sign of the scorching hectic day ahead is still resting its weary head among the tukuls and bamboo of the camp. The early morning mist rises off the dirt road. A few women walk effortlessly with their wares atop their heads and as silhouettes move swiftly to their destination. Regardless of the time of the day, women are always busy, always with somewhere to go, always occupied.

The sun has not yet risen, but the streets are coming alive with movement and activity. Men squat with small transistors, news from Sudan, and the world, crackling its way through the speaker. While they listen to the indecipherable English and Arabic, one old man uses a shard of a mirror to check on the state of his teeth. He salivates and then spits while brushing his teeth with a small branch of the local remedial tree whose branches are so fibrous, they get into the hard-to-reach places.

Small children rub their sleepy eyes as they emerge from their tukuls and stretch as they step out to the crisp air. Some gather around a small fire made of burning plastic, rubbish and dried bamboo shoots. The smoke rises like a tall pole. The acrid smell doesn't seem to bother them. Those children who woke up earlier aim homemade slingshots at birds in the trees which are silhouetted like veins against the eastern sky.

Men walk to their place of work, with their tools resting on their shoulders, on the main street of the camp. Local residents share the road. It's a thoroughfare to the popular Orthodox Church which sits on the outskirts of the camp. These Ethiopians have been mingling with the refugees since they arrived, and the two live in harmony.

Small stores open, a barber too, tea houses are swept and their chairs dusted of the pervasive red dust which has settled over night. Soon these stores will be busy with people haggling over prices, and the tea houses noisy with chatter and the clink-clink of spoons stirring sticky, sugary tea. Patrons wait for their breakfast – the bread will arrive shortly from the small neighbouring town.

Women prepare small fires by their tukuls to cook the morning meal. This basic meal is made with meagre rations provided monthly, and will probably suffice for the whole family for the rest of the day. Wheat porridge with a simple okra or lentil stew is the norm. The dried okra is delivered regularly from Sudan to the camp and is sold in small heaps for 10 cents in the camp's market stores. Although tasteless, basic and repetitive, the children are hungry. They crowd around the one pot and expertly spoon the slimy goo into their mouth with their filthy fingers.

The mountains in the distance show the first sign of the morning. A red glow lights up the pale bamboo stalks. The sun's heat is felt for the first time as it rises in the distance. It will only intensify as it rises higher in the sky. The mist has cleared before anyone realises, the street is full of people and this camp, this village, really begins its day.

Repatriation

miriamvkenter — Sat, 8 Mar 2008 23:24:00 GMT

The buses were not overcrowded, but they were at maximum capacity. Jerry cans, sacks of belongings and women and children packed in tight. There were not many grown men. Perhaps they were injured or lost during the years of political unrest? It’s possible. Anything is possible with these refugees, but nothing is impossible. The weary, yet excited travellers disembark from their fifth day on the road. They have travelled from the refugee camp, Bonga, in the west of Ethiopia and stopped each evening at rest stations set up by the UN along the route. These provide adequate simple facilities, including toilets, shelter, food and running water. The journey, made by bus, across hazardous, bumpy, unsealed roads is really only fit for four-wheel drives. It doesn’t compare to the journey they’ve had in their pasts.

The fifth and final rest station, close to Sherkole Refugee camp on the border of Sudan, is yet another place to call home, but this one, just for a night. Within minutes of arriving, their mats are spread out, the children are napping, older children are playing and the women have begun their domestic activities. First, they collect the non-food items provided by the UN. These items will assist them in rebuilding their home. Like jerry cans, pots, crockery, buckets, mosquito nets and plastic sheeting. Using the jerry cans and buckets, they collect fresh, clean water from the two large canvas bladders and re-hydrate themselves, and their weary families. After finding a rock or a smooth piece of concrete, they gather their clothes, soap and water and begin washing their clothes. Within a few hours of arrival, every boundary barbed-wire fence is draped in wet clothes and the women can pause a while to rest. Later that evening, the harsh sun has bleached and dried the clothes. No longer are they stained from the red earth of this dry land - the same colour as the burning orange sunset. These people have stamina. Some have spent their whole lives fleeing. If not fleeing, they have been shunted from place to place by order of one International Agency or another. They are quite possibly the most resilient people ever. No normal single mother of six who owns one sack of belongings and has been tortured, raped and beaten over the years would still be able to wear a smile as she pounds her family’s clothes on a rock on the eve of the arrival to a new place they will soon call home.

___

Their final day of travel starts early. Since the border crossing is scheduled with Sudanese authorities for 7am, all refugees should be ready to board the trucks no later than 5. It is hot, windy and dusty here. Most have been awake for hours and are packed and waiting patiently beside their sacks long before this time. UN staff, in their characteristic aqua-blue vest and hat, stand out among the Sudanese whose dark faces are camouflaged in the blackness of the night. Trucks reverse into the rest station and by torchlight, the trucks are loaded. First luggage is thrown onto the truck, then children – although a little more gracefully, delicately and gently. Many of these children have been removed from their families in the middle of the night before and are frightened but curious when a strange white face comes near. Mothers’ encouraging looks and a smile from the ‘waraja (white man)’ removes any doubt from the understandably cautious child. They are light and limp so are loaded quickly onto the truck. UN staff assist the elderly and guide others with the light of their torches up to the safety of the trucks. Each truck is swiftly loaded in 15 minutes. The convoy is on schedule.

The sun is hanging low above the horizon. It burns through the humid morning mist and sets a stage for the convoy making its way through the small gorge on the Sudan-Ethiopian border. Repatriation can only take place now, during winter. It’s a fine winter’s morning – 7am and 30 degrees. During the wet season, rain dumps enough water in this region for what feels like all of Africa. It swallows up roads and fills the valleys and gorges making the route impassable. For now the gorge is dry and the road is safe. Slowly, one by one, the trucks lug their precious cargo across the border to the Sudanese village of Kurmuk. On Tuesdays during winter, Kurmuk is the place to come early in the morning to meet long lost relatives, friends and loved ones who have been away from their land for so long. Tears, laughter, wailing and screams of joy punctuate the stillness of the morning in this otherwise quiet town. As excited as children, adults run from truck to truck until they spot a face who has been only a memory for years. Although most refugees have suffered terribly whilst fleeing, children have grown up, adults have married and babies have been born giving renewed hope and joy for the future. It is evident in their eyes and their smiles that despite the past, there is no place like home. This is the moment. After obligatory paperwork has been signed, photos captured and UN peacekeepers have given the all clear, the 16 trucks rev their engines and roll forward.

The refugees are forever patient and have amazing survival skills. The roads in Sudan are barely roads at all; just a dirt path hacked away by hand with a machete. Since they are not fit for vehicles, these trucks will meander through as best they can avoiding land mined roads which have not yet been cleared. However difficult this journey is, the refugees are content. With their personal belongings in trucks bringing in the rear, UN vehicles head the convoy. Women strap their babies to their backs and put their children in position on the floor. The excited travellers wave goodbye to UNHCR and to their lives as refugees and peer out to their new freedom that lies ahead.

Bamboo

miriamvkenter — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:14:00 GMT

Sherkole is a hilly area of Ethiopia, and surrounded by bamboo in fields on all sides. Everyone utilizes this remarkable building material.

The bamboo has provided shelter for the 20,000 refugees who have found Sherkole to be their home at some time during the last 15 years. Tukuls are traditional small round houses with a thatched roof. The round walls are built with bamboo struts woven with bamboo and sometimes fixed firmly with mud. Refugees do not have a lot, but they can have privacy. Surrounding a few small houses to make a family compound is a high bamboo fence. Although small, their bamboo homes are quite fine.

One of the camp’s clubs is bamboo furniture-building. Refugees can learn how to create bamboo furniture and then sell their items in a small store. Using traditional designs and methods, bamboo is sawn, nailed and twisted to create shelves, chairs, stools and beds. They give the refugees a purpose and a skill they can take with them when they are gone and are comfortable, practical, and cheap.

To build a courthouse out of bamboo is a feat far beyond any of the international staff here. The local Shurta ,or police, have created this place to trial simple crimes which can be sorted out by refugee elders and authorities. Don’t be mistaken, there is enough crime in this refugee camp to keep the Shurta and the international staff busy. Any simple crime that does not need the higher authorities is tried here at the Bamboo Court House. There are discussions, debates and questioning. If the criminal needs further attention from Ethiopian authorities, he is held in a small mudbrick room with a window (the Sherkole Prison) until they arrive.

Bamboo seats rest a weary bottom on every corner of the camp and our compound, tea houses and stores on the main road have bamboo foundations and walls. Bamboo walking sticks help the older generation and bamboo serves as children’s play things. Firewood is a four hour walk away, so bamboo serves as a quick fire source. Bamboo walls ensure privacy in the UN compound. Bamboo is the material my small home is made from. Bamboo serves so many purposes, without it this camp would be dilapidated and sad. Sherkole, they say, is the ‘5 Star’ refugee camp of Ethiopia. The bamboo helps it achieve this ‘status’.

It is lucky that bamboo regenerates every year.

There will always be bamboo, but let’s hope there will not always be refugees here to use it.

Arrival at Camp

miriamvkenter — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:10:00 GMT

Arriving at a refugee camp after driving on dirt roads for two days was strangely relieving. Four-wheel-driving is only fun when there’s a hot shower at the end to wash the dust out of each crevice in your filthy body. We did not have this luxury, but dreamt of it.

Sherkole is not even a dot on the map of Ethiopia. Its closest town is, but Assosa and Sherkole might as well not exist - dwarfed by the vast Sudan, hovering in the west. Sherkole is part of Ethiopia but bears all the trademarks of Sudan. It’s red soil – dust at this time of year, red mud in rainy season – the burning sun, the bamboo and of course the residents of Sherkole Refugee Camp. 9020 displaced Sudanese persons. Their plights are endless. No home, no clothes, and waiting ever so patiently for their rations at the end of the month. Some have been living here for more than 10 years – some have died here. Many more were born here and know no other life.

One thing is certain - most want to go home. Some can never go home so they await resettlement in another country. They have told their story to so many people, but when there is someone new to talk to they are excited, full of conversation and once again optimistic about their future.

Indian Rail

miriamvkenter — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 23:59:00 GMT

The surprisingly alert attendant directs us to the platform. We are weary, but bright red signs are flashing ‘welcome’ in English and Hindi, so we smile, and perk up. The huge digital clock flashes 5.53. We are three minutes late for our early morning train.

We haven’t rushed, as we don’t expect the train will be on time. It’s coming all the way from Delhi – 12 hours and 18 stations away from Jodhpur.

To our surprise, 100 metres away in the mist, we see a faint light. Is this our train? The bright orb of the train’s headlight travels toward us, the dull engine whistle warns us to shuffle back while the train pulls into the platform. Indian Railway constantly amazes us. It might not be The Orient Express, but it is punctual and efficient. Losing only 3 minutes on a 12 hour journey is only comparable to German efficiency. We watch the twenty long carriages chug into the platform, look at our ticket and wonder which one is ours. We have acquired the cheapest “general” ticket so know to avoid first and second class.

We see that the folk on the front carriage are packed in tight, so assume this is ours. Friendly Indians come to our assistance when we board the train. Grasping the ticket out of our hand, we become defensive, but they babble to each other in Hindi, indicating, pointing and making ‘broken’ motions with their hands. Establishing the train is going to be divided here in Jodphur and establishing we are on a carriage headed back to where we have come from, we stumble off, race to the closest carriage and search for a seat. Regaining composure and hauling our luggage to a safe dry corner we find a seat and wait for our next Indian train adventure to begin.

Cold, hard, wooden seats are the order of the day and cold air seeps through every crack in every window. As expected, toilets are basic, but the water has run out. Peanut shells, pistachio casings and other snack products litter the ground. All is testimony to our very very cheap tickets (even by Indian standards). While we were getting comfortable, our olfactory sensors were aroused. Forty men greeted us, and not with the friendly and welcoming ‘Namaste’.

Locals get comfortable on these long journeys; they have been doing it since they were babes in arms. Not so sweet now, their bodies groan and belch and their snores sound like freight trains whizzing by on the tracks parallel to ours. Although not an official ‘sleeper’ carriage, the locals are innovative and while luggage racks become makeshift beds young boys sleep on the not-so hygienic floor and old men sit cross-legged on any space they can squeeze their bony bottoms on. We take heed of their ideas and climb up onto a hard metal luggage rack to catch up on some sleep. Cotton sheets and down pillows float around my head, I reach out desperately, but cannot grasp them. It is when the train comes to a screeching halt in the middle of the cold, dry desert that I realise I am dreaming. Train travel in India is magical and only 15 more hours to go…

kites

miriamvkenter — Mon, 7 Jan 2008 23:36:00 GMT

Young boys and men throw their simple paper and bamboo kites high above their heads to catch a gust of wind. The winning gust takes their kite on a one kilometer journey into the sky. It is a challenge getting it to catch onto that one breath of air that will take it soaring, and remnants of kites – in the powerlines, on roof tops, on barbed wire security fences are testimony to their failed attempts.

Bassant, the annual March kite-flying festival will have this sky full of kites. But there is one catch to this pagan festival. The challenge is to bring another’s kite down. By adding fine shards of glass to the kite’s string, competitors aim to gently saw away at their combatant’s line. With the last kite flying deemed the winner.

Only in recent times has it become so competitive that kites strings are made of a more sold material. Cables, polyester and even wire instead of the simple cotton twine of yesterday. This is banned, of course, as the lost kite ends become detrimental for motorcyclists and others on the paths, roads and other thoroughfares in the city.

But for now, non-competitive kiteflyers punctuate Rawalpindi’s rooftops and kites dot the sky, while a lone eagle circles us up above.

Rawalpindi

miriamvkenter — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 23:42:00 GMT

The children don't stop playing, they take advantage of the empty streets.

Games of cricket are set up in every other empty alley and street. The sounds of laughter, cheers, makeshift cricket bats whacking makeshift balls echo off the closed facades. These activities are not representative to the events of the last 12 hours.

Not far from Saddar Bazaar and ten minutes from our hotel, Benazir Bhutto, Pakistan's famours liberal ex-primeminister, was assassinated after a political meeting in a public park.

When news spread quickly yesterday evening, the flurry which ensued was frantic. Shops closed, families rushed home from their evening stroll, restaurants dragged their equipment and food to the back of the store and lights were extinguished across the city.

Within one and a half hours of the assassination the streets were cleared. Like a ghost town; a post apocalyptic waste town. Only an odd man walking through the street, walking swiftly and wrapped tightly in his blanket to keep off the chill which had suddenly arrived.

The evening was quiet, only the sounds of a low helicopter woke us... and the morning call to prayer.

But kids keep playing cricket in the streets, keep flying kites on the rooftops, the muezzin keeps calling and the city waits...

first days in lahore

miriamvkenter — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 22:52:00 GMT

A wrong way walk down the ganda-nella highway (the open-sewer highway) was frustrating and confusing mostly for me - but also for the hundreds of rickshaw, car and truck drivers, and especially the police roaming the side of the busy, stinky road. 'What was a 'farange' (foreigner) doing walking (rather - trudging) on the side of the road?' Having no map of Lahore and with the sun blocked out by means of pollution, i had no sense of direction, and I was carrying only a few measly rupees given to me earlier that morning. Only slightly concerned about finding where I needed to be, the stench was getting worse and the view getting less and less familiar. Having disembarked from the bus at the wrong stop, I knew I just had to keep walking. Finally after establishing whether I was a 'boy' or a 'girl', the also confused policeman told me that the only bridge crossing this foul highway was the one I'd crossed about thirty minutes before.

Happy that I could turn around and get on my way, I wondered where all the locals were walking to and where they'd come from. I only ever have to walk this stinking road once, but they walk it every day... The exhaust from the two-stroke-rickshaws lining their lungs; the noise deafening. The open-sewer cholera-water flowing down the middle of the road produces a smell, I guess, you'd get used to.... after time.

As a woman, and one of a very few non-pakistanis in this city, trying to blend in is a challenge. Lahore is man-heavy on most streets, especially closer to the city, where they trade in everything and anything. The weather's cold, so rugging up under local long woolen pashminas and cozy beanies means we look local....ish. Curious and friendly, the locals spot us, welcome us in, note our hunger, ensure that we are well fed and later insist we try the local 'pan'.

A concoction of sweet syrup, coconut, beetle nut shavings and other (un)desirables wrapped in a local green leaf painted with a chemical-activating bitter solution, pan is as as common as gum. This big mouthful of sugary goo sat rather uncomfortably in the side of my mouth ('do NOT swallow the leaf' he insisted) while I waited for the tasty surprise. It made a good mess of my mouth, teeth, and the pavement once I decided it was time to spit it out after the surprise never came. Lahore pavement is one big spittoon for these treats. Our 'child-size' treat was not even comparable to the 'adult-size' pan which can consist of several different strengths of tobacco, beetle nut and the hallucinogenic catalyst - that oh-so-yummy secret bitter paste painted on the inside of the leaf. Many locals have a curious brown colour staining their teeth and the local 'pan' store has workers with hands of the same colour from constantly painting the leaves and wrapping up the treats. Funny though, their mouths are not stained... for they know this local delicacy is really ...not very good for you at all.