Had to go to Togo!

This blog was really only an excuse to use the title...I love writing that -- to go to togo!

But seriously, we got back from a fabulous vacation in South Africa and the next day I was off to Togo to participate in a Media Foundation of West Africa/International Media Support mission to assess the media needs regarding training etc in Togo. It was an interesting few days where I also got to visit a number of radio stations and newspapers. If North American journalists ever feel they've got it bad they need to make a visit to Togo (or almost any other African country for that matter). I visited radio stations where their on-air board pots were held in place with bits of ratty cardboard thus enabling the pot to stay in place...thus enabling the sound to actually go out on the air.

Reporters write everything long-hand, there are usually only a couple of computers, ancient tape decks (ok, and a few Nagras), most newspapers don't have an office or a printing press (and yes, that does beg the question of how they manage to stay in business etc...well, a lot of them don't!)

It's a pretty dire situation but what impressed me the most was the passion and the commitment and energy of some of these journalists - they believe in what they're doing, in the fight for press freedom and remain optimistic. Pretty incredible.

Boda-Bodas in the Morning

Kampala, Uganda

Hanging on to my seat for dear life I wrack my brain trying to remember whether my Saint Christopher is on my person or not. I can take a deep breath (though I continue to hold it) when I remember it’s somewhere in the bowels of my pack. I continue hanging onto the seat, thinking how my sister would call me the biggest hypocrite being on a motorcycle. I’ve always sworn I would never get on one of these two-wheeled machines. Let alone without a helmet. Let alone in the crazy traffic of central Kampala. Yikes. I continue to hold my breath as we squeeze between cars on one side and matatus (mini-buses – really aged vans of various makes which are ubiquitous in most of sub-Saharan Africa in which they squeeze as many people as possible (usually around 16 though it’s clearly written on the side that “holds max 11 pax”). There are mere centimeters between my leg and the vehicle we pass. I still hold my breath. And my backpack in which is my recording gear and my laptop – normally I’d call it my life, but in this circumstance it’s very clear to me what my real life is. And it’s almost passing before my eyes.

The boda-boda thing started out of desperation. I had only arrived in Kampala late the night before and knew only that I had an interview with the deputy mayor the next morning at 9am. I figured I had a 50-50 shot as to where the interview would be – either at City Hall or at Makerere University, where my contacts worked who had set everything up. I went for Makerere. I lost the bet. So I ran across campus and not seeing a taxi but beckoned by a helmeted motorcycle driver. I hesitated for a second, thought about the interview, threw my pack on my back as I nodded at the driver. I threw my leg over the bike, held onto the driver and asked him (very nicely) to please go slow. I had no idea how far we had to go. I hung on. I prayed. I thought of Saint Christopher, my sister, my husband, my family, my dog, my life….well, you get the picture.

But what I didn’t bargain for was how exhilarating the ride would be. And so each morning after my 45 minute very squishy matatu ride to the center, I’d hop a boda-boda, ask the driver to go slow and listen to the amused mutterings of Ugandans as they pointed to me, a clearly crazed (or crazy?) muzungu, skirt hiked up, hanging on for dear life, straddling the day’s boda-boda.