Sarah's contribution
Describe a place – 3 a place I like to return to
A river runs through it. And around it, and between its various neighbourhoods. In fact, two or three rivers, and
numerous canals and basins, particularly in the port. It is a city built on the water, or infiltrated by the water, and
that is a good part of its charm. The largest river, which goes to the sea 450 miles or more downstream, is however
completely at the edge of the city, and serves as a national border; in former times this area was so marshy and so
much a mass of little waterways and small frequently flooded land masses that it would have been disastrous to
attempt to build on it, and so the city was constructed two miles inland. Two or three centuries ago, the only way to
cross this great river at this level was partly over a pontoon bridge, that is, a series of connected flat boats, that
supported what must have been a rather wobbly carriageway.
But the water is not the only charm of this historical city. Along the winding quays to the south-east of the central
island, tall ancient houses crowd together, their steeply rising roofs lined with rows of dormer windows, their
pastel-coloured façades contrasting with the more homogenous cream of the larger, more elegant stone edifices on
the opposite bank. Along one of the quays, several barges serve as floating cafés and bars where you can read a
newspaper with your morning coffee or have a drink with friends in the evening. Farther west on the central island
lies la Petite France, a quarter of half-timbered houses, less tall, that cling to the water's edge and house restaurants
and hotels. The centre of the island is dominated by the great cathedral with its late medieval statuary, its stained
glass and its astronomical clock, surrounded by old streets with houses from medieval and Renaissance times, or the
17th and 18th centuries, and other old churches and institutions from former times, not the least of which is the old
Customs House.
Just across the river from the Customs House is the old hospital with its massive dormered roof and its half-
timbered pharmacy. This part of the city, just south of the central island, is the old faubourg called the Krutenau,
originally a swampy area crossed by little rivulets, gradually tamed to become the place from which the town got its
vegetables and fish, and then, when the town began to expand in the 18th and 19th centuries, to include military
barracks, now transformed into schools, and the former tobacco manufacture. To the south of this quarter runs the
canal de la Bruche, part of the old port, that with other waterways continues round the west and north and east, so
that the city centre is surrounded by a second circle of water.
That is the old city. To the north-west of the central island is the Neustadt, or “new city”, built a hundred years ago
by the Germans, with its imposing palaces in imperial German style: the university, the library, the theatre, the
police headquarters, the treasury devoted to collecting the taxes, the former Emperor's Palace, now devoted to
managing fluvial affairs, the court house, and beyond these, dozens of streets constructed in such a way as to afford
views of the cathedral and its spire from unexpected points of the city. These streets are lined with stately four- and
five-story apartment buildings, many of which sport decorative balconies, and smaller structures in Art Nouveau
style. Here there are several green parks, one with an art nouveau bandstand (though I have seen a band playing
there only once) and another with tall trees colonized by a nation of storks and a small lake where you can hire a
boat and row around a fountain and a miniature waterfall. On the other side of the central island to the south of the
Canal de la Bruche, is Neudorf, or “new village”, also constructed by the Germans, as a more homely residential
area. And in all these parts of town, the centre, the Neustadt, the Krutenau, one hears a multitude of languages,
spoken by the student population , the representatives of various foreign consulates and the tourists: French,
German, English, American, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Chinese and many others I wouldn't be able to recognize.
But the town has not stopped growing, especially in recent years. To the east, towards the present-day port, the city
now resembles something out of Star Wars, with hyper-futuristic buildings fifteen and twenty stories high,
constructed mainly of glass and vying with each other to show off the most startling shapes. That is not my
favourite part of town, though I do go there sometimes, for practical reasons. My favourite spots are the central
island, the quays, and the Neustadt, where I have my flat, far from the bustle of the centre and from the harsh
modernity of the port area.
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Patrice
The juniors, forgot to turn the light off before opening the door. If Jake can figure out who it was there will be hell to pay and I don’t want to be around to hear it. I can see movement off in the corner and a round, firefly of light wafts across a small space as if in flight, where it brightens for a moment and then makes its way back to its starting point. Shit, I’d put money on it – Roseanne is smoking again with the cute new boy. More hell to pay.
The swish of clothes, the murmur of voices, the rustle of paper, begins to increase in volume. My butterflies are waking up. I scrape at the floor with the front of my shoe – there's a slippery spot here that has caused trouble before – I put spit on my heel, then jump up and down without actually taking my toes off of the floor.
I crane my neck to see the glow in the dark clock in the corner. Four minutes .... If we start within two minutes of our time I win the bet – if we go longer, I lose. I so do not want to spray the vodka tonight – I want to be out of here 30 minutes after lights out and I've got my fingers crossed. All of sudden it becomes quiet; it feels as if there has been and inhale and no exhale. And then, it all begins and I have won the bet.
Where is this? (just before a theatre production)
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Annemarie
Kampala
The city I have visited most often always sent a thrill of excitement when we went there. It was the centre of a vibrant social scene, intellectual hub, a city of colour and of diverse people.
Built on seven hills, Rubaga, Old Kampala, Mulago, Kololo, Kibuli, Namirembe and Makerere) topped by distinctive landmarks of religious, cultural and colonial significance, the city provides magnificent views of evergreen trees, gently interrupted by red-tiled villas, bungalows with roofs of corrugated iron, cathedrals and churches. A little more than a mile from the lake (Victoria) and linked by rail is Port Bell operating ferries on that lake. So let me take you on a short tour of the city.
Our first stop is Katwe market, a centre of African ingenuity, where artisans, craftsmen and technicians repair electronics, automobiles, refrigerators and all kinds of appliances. The more ingenious of these craftsmen would improvise and "manufacture" imitations of the original articles. We leave one of our passengers here to spend the day with his friends. A cacophony of sound, a kaleidoscope of colours accost us. The women are adorned in long cotton dresses, puff sleeves and cotton headwraps. Baskets of fruit and vegetables are displayed on the ground, bunches of small canary yellow bananas and large green matoke bananas hanging from the sun shelters. After a walk through the market, clutching baskets of fruit and avoiding the 'shenzies', those errant, pitifully thin dogs, we are on our way to the town centre.
The main shopping thoroughfare is dominated by Draper's department store. Clothes, haberdashery (does anyone still use that word?) and shoes but best of all coffee or Pepsi Cola and delicious cakes in their cafe. If you prolong your visit until sunset a gorgeous perambulation of Indian women in sumptuous saris of scarlet, saffron, sapphire, all the colours of the rainbow take their evening walk with their children and sometimes their more plainly dressed husbands. In the park on Sundays the grass is sprinkled with families picnicking, playing and parading. The evening ends with a meal at Chez Joseph where at the age of ten you can really feel sophisticated and French with a mushroom omelette. I understand it is still there, possibly in the form of a bar/eatery.
Visible from downtown are the twin towers of the red brick Catholic cathedral dominating Rubaga hill. The seven hills boast buildings dating from the late 19th, early 20th century which have remained despite civil war; the university, once considered the best on the continent, the Hindu temple built in 1954, and perched on Kibuli hill a magnificent gem of a building, white minarets gleaming in the encircling abundance of green palm trees and opened by Prince Ally Khan.
On yet another M’engage hill is the Kabaka's (king's) palace. Since I last visited the palace has been vacated due to dark events which took place there. A special torture chamber was built by the president Idi Amin Dada, where an estimated three hundred people were murdered. About four miles out from the palace are the Kasubi tombs. Previously the royal hilltop palace it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. It was converted to a royal burial site in 1884 containing four royal tombs and is recognised as one of Africa's remarkable buildings. The main building of the complex, is circular in plan with a domelike overall shape. Massive in size, its interior extends to a height of 7.5 metres, while the external width is 31 metres. There is a low, wide arch entranceway. The whole is covered by durable thatch roofs extending all the way to the ground; the interior funereal chambers are separated by partitions of bark cloth. Lemon grass and palm leaf mats cover the floor, while spears, drums, shields, medals and photos of the kabakas cover the walls and other surfaces. All the buildings on site are constructed of entirely organic materials such as wood, thatch, reed, wattle and daub.
Five minutes from the centre is the highest of the city's seven hills, Kokomo Hill. This residential area has some of the most beautiful and luxurious houses as well as more than a dozen embassies and ambassadors' residences. The area is green and lush, lined with jacaranda trees, the lilac blue florescences dripping their petals onto the pavements.
And in complete contrast away from the city centre the roads are dirt and dust, skirted on either side by higgledy piggledy dukas (shops). Gone are the colours of the centre… here are greys, blacks and grubby beiges. Men sit treadling away on sewing machines, their bare feet in constant seesaw motion; men in holey vests and patched shorts tinker on old motorbikes; piles of old tires await transformation into utilitarian sandals, barefoot children offer oranges, bananas for virtually nothing, a key can be copied in minutes. These little shops are crowded with goods , toppling on shelves, suspended from a hundred hooks.
This is the city as I remember it sixty years ago but I am sure is quite, quite different now.
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Jackie
I’m surrounded by grasses, lying face down, tall soft grasses with green stems and golden shoots that look gigantic from where I am on the ground – there is a fresh and beautiful smell of Spring and birds are singing their hearts out. There are ordinary grasses and ornamental Grasses that are soft to the touch and fluffy at the tips. They’ve grown tall in the garden and surround a fine lawn, the kind of lawn which only exists in a damp humid climate, meticulously maintained and carefully cultivated
I’m 8 years old still wearing my school uniform of pleated navy skirt and checked navy blue and white blouse, I’ve taken off my tie and thrown my panama hat on the nearby deckchair. For this I shall get told off for getting it dirty.
I’m watching an ant climb a grass shoot and it’s taking its time – the ant feels its way then inches up the thick stem – as the stem sways the ant stops, looks around and sniffs the air. It wipes one of its hairy wiskers, then the other one, and licks its paws, as keeping clean is a must for ants – up again he climbs, a few inches and when it finally gets to the top, I smile as he looks really surprised that he can’t go any further and has to turn around and go back down again. I spend hours watching the insects come and go dipping my licorice stick into a tub of sherbert .
My imagination runs wild; I am the newly coronated Queen of the garden – surrounded by Princess radish and my lady in waiting Mrs lettuce, Prince runner bean twists up a bamboo pole, my subjects are golden marigolds with equisite perfume.
It’s feeding time. I have 6 angora rabbits. These rabbits have long white hair and you
can regulary brush them to recuperate the fur – my mother knitted me a sweater from my rabbits hair. It was so warm and cuddly. I won first prize once with my rabbit at the local garden fete – The prize was £5 and her name was Jennifer
White Cloud and my photo was in the local newspaper the “ Bournemouth
Blank Times” .
Dishes clash in the kitchen and then I hear the sound of my fathers vespa coming up the road. Its 6 o clock and Dad is home. Tea of fishfingers and baked beans will be ready in half an hour and then we listen to our favorite radio program with Mum as television was not yet in our house as it was just coming into fashion.
There was a small path through a little forest near my home and my favorite pastime was to take a notebook and write down all the number plates of the cars that go by on the busy road. The path was lined with rhodendron bushes a particular bush that thrives in the damp acid soil produced in this part of the world. There were tractors, single decker green buses but by far the most popular car was the Austin Morris or the Morris minor.
I enjoyed making lists of all these numberplates methodically for some reason. To no purpose I might add. Once I set up a stall selling Sunkist lemonade for twopence a glass –.
We did have a car it was a Vauxhall Viva and our numberplate was
BRT 210. How is that for memory. This should give you some clues as to where I am talking about
Where am I? family home in Dorset, England in the 1960’s
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Paula's story
From our hotel room on a shady street, I could hear horses’ hooves, faintly at first, then louder, a clop-clop-clop cadence that was almost musical. I opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside into the sunshine to see a vast parade of ornately uniformed men and women on horseback, flag-bearing lieutenants marching steadily alongside, an empty steed-drawn Cinderella coach in the very center of the action. The procession went on for blocks.
What we were watching was an elaborate dress rehearsal. The next day was the opening of parliament, and the king and queen would be traveling in their ceremonial glass coach to the Hall of Knights, to perform the obligatory duties of the head of state. And as our hotel was just across the street from the palace, we were in a perfect position to watch the spectacle, even if it was only the pre-game. Luckily, we would be leaving early the next morning, and would avoid getting trapped by all the pomp.
We turned back inside, returning to our breakfast tray of pastries and mimosas to plan our last day in one of the most fascinating and energetic cities we had visited in the past year. Within a few minutes, we put our plan into motion. A stroll downtown brought us to a tram stop, where we boarded the streetcar for a 10-minute ride to the end of the line: a vast beach lined by a boardwalk and ringed with boutiques, bars and hotels that ranged along the high dunes. We walked out onto the main pier, a wide, wooden structure filled with shops and restaurants, but decided that we would amble down the boardwalk to the far end, looking for a more out-of-the-way waterfront restaurant for our lunch.
We decided to take a gamble on a large, tented building with a huge deck facing the sea. Now, we have learned through years of travel that most waterfront restaurants with above-par views serve sub-par food. But halfway through our first round of ice cold beer, we were pleasantly surprised to find our meals at this beachfront bistro, delivered with a smile by a young woman in a tight T-shirt and fraying shorts, were delicious and delightful. After lunch, and a walk along the beach, we headed back up the hill to the tram stop.
Thirty minutes later, in the opposite direction from the beach, we alighted from the tram in a perfectly preserved canal town, whose claim to fame boasted two things: the birthplace — and grave — of a certain famous artist, as well as a particular form of pottery. A busy central market square was filled with adults drinking aperitifs, children chasing balls, dogs chasing each other. The sun was shining, the air was crisp and clean, and we chose a table where we could watch all the action. Then we ambled along the canal, admiring the small, narrow houses, as well as the ducklings clustered around their mothers in the water.
Heading back to the tram, we were back in our (so-far) nameless city, hungry for dinner. We chose an Italian restaurant just off the main canal, where the candlelight was dim, the music was soft, and the food was incredible.
Early the next morning, we walked to a small pearl of a museum in the center of town to be first in line as it opened. There is a certain girl there that we desperately wanted to see without crowds of people gathering around her, taking selfies. She rests on the top floor of the old three-story mansion, alone in a hushed room. We call her simply, The Girl.
Then we got into our car and drove the six-and-a-half hours home to Flavigny.
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Geraldine'sstory
SOMEWHERE
We were to meet with Alain, Michel’s old pal and forever friend at the Airport.
This year, we weren’t going to be home for Christmas -it’s December 21st-. We are going to test a tour somewhere that Kevin is organizing as he is creating a travel agency and a few of his friends and ourselves would be the guinea pigs for the « tour ».
The flight took off at 11 p.m. and the excitement of discovering something new took over in our stomachs. First stopover in Marseille from which we were supposed to catch a flight at 3.40 a.m. which got postponed till 7.30…. Another stop in another town and after flying over a large sandy desert, here we are at destination.
After such a long trip, we got off the plane and were walked into the smallish airport on a « Red Carpet » ! Waouh ! What a welcome for a few passangers ! As we went through the passport controls, we asked why such a welcome and were told they hadn’t had time to roll the carpet back since Jacques Chirac’s visit 24 hours ago. Well, we would have to find out what type of welcome was expecting us.
Kevin and his friend were there to greet us. It was hot. They took us to a 4wheel drive car and introduced as to the guide « Chicago ».
A quick look at the town : a very big Mosque where I was allowed in… but shown the place on the side where the women were to pray, the unclean ones remaining outside. It’s very impressive to see how these big places built in earth bricks resist to the climate. Chicago took us up on the roof with a breathtaking view. A deep blue sky and your eye catching the desert, long sandy waves going for ever. He explained this was the place from which the camel caravans went up North hundreds of kilometers to fetch the rock salt : the slaves were the ones used for this tedious task. Ank even yet today, it’s the way the poor pay their debts to the rich in the City : they’re still get sent North to gather the rock salt that is extracted in large quantities. Modern slavery !
We then got a look at René Caillet’s house : this was the man who discovered this town in 1830 and came back to France alive. He was considered as the first « africanist » respectfull of the men and civilizations that he discovered and who denounced both slavery and the condition of the women there.
Finally we got a look at the well that is still maintained by a woman, with a few vestiges and objects of the neolithic .
Then came the moment when we joined the pinasse that was going to take us on the river for three days to reach the point where we were having a 2 day rest before pursuing our journey.
Very « confortable » with a toilet at the rear end. Well, the loo, is above the engine with a little curtain for your privacy, but completely open behind. So, you certainly don’t stay there for long…
We lit a charcoal fire in the middle of the pinasse and cooked a few bits of meat and a few vegetables for dinner. Then, gently sliding on the quiet waters, the mosquitoes came to visit and it was night. We all slept in the boat, under the stars, very unconfortable and a bit too small. Tomorrow, we’ll put the tent up and split the sleeping.
It’s all calm, the sun rises very quickly at the rythm of the animals sounds and hearing a variety of birds chirping. The world comes back to life and so do we, with a nice breakfast served in the pinasse with warm buns and cheese.
The trip carries on along the slow river, sometimes crossing other pinasses carrying goods , wood or bulks of rice. They bear a sail made out of big jute ricebags with a crooked wooden mast attached by rough ropes. We stop in a small village to buy 2 chicken at the market, live of course, and our guide makes it his job to kill and pluck them and prepare them for our meal. Termite mounds and villages unfold at a slow pace and we stop along the river in a sandy spot to have a bathe. It’s really hot !
Then our guide realized he’d taken the wrong meander on the river during the last three hours, which means we are going to turn back for another three hours before we take the right branch of river again. There is quite a bit of water vegetation that slows us down a little…
We stop again in a village along the riverside to buy some fish and Alain decides to buy a live goat that will be our Christmas meal !!! He knows how to kill animals as he has, in another life, had a few goats, his wife making and selling their cheese… As we start off on the river again, the goat cries and cries and cries, as he had just been separated from his mother he had always lived with and brother and sister goats… It was really heartbraking, but these consideration seemed so strange to our guide ! An animal is an animal, bread to feed humans and that’s it !
We reach a large Lake that we will cross, the river flowing in the same direction. We came upon of few fishermen’s huts among the reeds. There are loads of very colourful singing birds living there. You think you’re in the desert surrounded by nothing and then you find out all this river and it’s banks are full of living creatures, human or animal.
As we are ending this third day, we realize we will have to sail at night because of the lost hours….before reaching the point and town where we are expected that evening.
Little by little, the banks are changing and more and more vegetation appears. We seem to be leaving the desert behind. Then, all of a sudden shrieking monkey cries reach our ears : the river is now very wide, so looking on the far apart banks, we can spot large colonies of medium size brown monkeys gathering together. The sunfall is quick, the birds louden their calls as the skys turns scarlet red. Five minutes of fire on the river in the deafening dim of the birds and animals getting ready to sleep, then all is quiet, just the noise of the engine and the water along the pinasse’s hull.
Another three hours sailing quietly along the river will get us to the place we were aimaing at since we left. We stop along the wharf and take all our stuff : rucksacs, luggage without forgetting the goat. There is a Bar just round the corner and we all stop there for dinner, without mosquitoes as they have the fans on ! Bliss !
Then, goodbye to our guide and off to Kevin’s house where we will be celebrating Christmas tomorrow and more adventures will be to come.
Jackie suggests the Congo, Anne marie says Timbucktu and everyone says Africa but not sure where. ?
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