Serendipity

Das Glockenspiel

Another good knight out

Seems like a nice boy

The trip to Munich began at Terminal 5 at Heathrow. Given all the adverse publicity when it opened last year this caused me some concerns but they were groundless. Although very soulless, the airport is an extremely modern building. All glass and chrome. It is dominated by British Airways and their check in took about a minute. All very impressive.

Emerging from baggage claim at Munich I was greeted with a bear hug from my eldest son, Chris. Airport arrivals are a great places for reunions, but whilst I have seen lots of them this was the first time I can recall being a recipient. It was a nice start to a fantastic weekend.

One of my favourite words in the rich lexicon of the English language is Serendipity - making fortunate discoveries by accident. Our first 24 hours in Munich were very serendipitous and shaped our stay.

Having found our hotel, Chris and I set off for food followed by the search for an atmospheric bar. Wandering through the clean streets with no real idea of where we were headed we found the perfect place - the Hofbrauhaus, the best known beer hall in Munich.

This was everything I expected of Bavaria. Men in lederhosen wearing felt hats, a 6 piece oompah band, ladies in tight fitting bodices and flowing dresses holding large pretzels aloft and, of course, gallons of amazing beer.

'Svei beer bitte' brought to us huge one litre glasses of foaming beer. The place was packed and there was an air of jollity and good humour that I have only found in Dublin before. Maybe it was all a bit touristy, but there were certainly a lot of Germans enjoying themselves - dancing to the band and singing drinking songs.

Next morning we gravitated towards the centre again, at Marienplatz, home of one of the world's most disappointing tourist attractions. The square is dominated by the gothic looking Neues Rathaus, or new town hall. Built in 1908 the structure houses a famous glockenspiel, which whirrs into motion 3 times a day.

As the appointed hour of 11 O'clock drew near there were hundreds of people gathered to witness the glockenspiel show. Dozens of people held cameras aloft, desperate to record every part of this fascinating event for posterity.

The minute hand reached twelve and the crowd strained with excitement. Then it moved to one minute past, two minutes past......nothing.

I know what you are thinking - 'Hang on. This is Germany, a land famed for reliability and precision'.

True. But not everything works like clockwork, not even clocks. The glockenspiel relies upon Wolfgang to set it in motion and Wolfgang is not the most precise on men. Some days, presumably after a heavy session in the Hofbrauhaus, he doesn't show up at all!

At 11.05 the mechanical chimes finally struck into action. What a bloody racket. I defy anyone to stand in that square and tell me what the tune is. There just isn't one, only the clanging of lots of out of tune chimes. Throwing the contents of your cutlery draw down the stairs would be more tuneful.

One by one the lofted cameras drooped down. Then, 6 minutes in something happens. The crowd give a collective 'Ooo' as a medieval pageant springs into life, complete with jousting knights representing Bavaria and France. Eventually the French knight falls back and the movement shifts to some celebratory dancers doing a sort of Gay Gordon affair, with the emphasis very much on the gay part.

The grand finale is a golden owl who pops out and spreads his wings. Fascinating.

This is truly the worst tourist attraction I have ever seen. There is lots of footage of it on You Tube. But beware, it lasts an excruciating 15 minutes.

Chris and I never saw the end as we had become embroiled in our second serendipitous event - discovering a free walking tour of the city.

The tour took well over three hours and was well presented by the excellent Sonja - a mature student from Florida who is studying for her masters in comparative literature at Munich University. Together we criss-crossed the city, seeing all the major sights and learning about Munich's history.

Sonja even introduced us to the best of the local beers - the Augustiener, which we drank in a quiet bar at the end of the tour.

The tours are operated by a European company and the free tour was one of several they operated, although the others are not free. One of these is a beer tour - a beer hall crawl round Munich that includes some 'free' beer and jaegermeisters (a weird, alcoholic beverage that tastes like cough medicine). It began at the central station, not far from our hotel at 6pm. Unbeknown to me, Chris arranged to meet some of those from the free tour on the beer tour.

Thus it was that I came to be standing at the railway station with a host of people much younger than me and wondering what I had let myself in for.

I needn't have worried. It was a wonderful, drunken evening where I got to meet so many friendly and interesting people from all round the world - the delightful Claire from Melbourne, Annabelle from Brazil, Varun from Auckland, Cam from Vancouver and others from Russia, Scotland and Canada.

Most of these guys were travelling around Europe and were at various points in their journeys. Varun even had business cards announcing him as a 'roving ambassador'. These enchanting young people were such a contrast to the silver surfers I encountered in Buttermere the week before.

At one beer hall, Cam returned from the loo laughing at the fact that there was a machine in there that dispensed something called the 'Travel Pussy'. Intrigued, I coughed up half of the 4 euro cost and Cam shot back to the Gents excitedly. He returned with one of those little plastic eggs that usually contain novelties at fairgrounds and the seaside. The contents of this egg were very novel indeed.

Cam broke open the egg to reveal a red plastic bag, a sachet of lubricant and some instructions. The bag turned out to be an imitation vagina, which Cam duly inflated only to find that there was no way to deflate it. Our new girlfriend accompanied us on the rest of the tour until eventually she split on us late on. To be fair, I don't think she was the faithful type and it would never have lasted.

At our last hostelry I did something I have never done before - Karaoke! In the circumstances I thought I did a passable version of Coldplay's 'The Scientist', especially the 'Aaaa Ooooo Oooo' bit towards the end, and was joined on stage by my son. Ok, Simon Cowell wouldn't have been impressed, but I was sufficiently emboldened to follow this up later with my Elvis impression - 'The Wonder of You'. Yes, I was drunk.

I had just the best night out, but by the time it got to midnight I knew that I had peaked. After much handshaking and hugs I took my leave of Chris and the other youngsters. They made me smile with their endorsement of what a cool Dad I was.

Leaving my new best friends forever I made may way to the door and encountered two problems. One, I hadn't been paying attention to where we were going, so I wasn't quite sure where we were or where our hotel was. Two, there were two of everything. I picked one of the two paths to my right and staggered off into the night.

Next morning I was headache free, which was a huge but pleasant surprise and a testament to the purity of the Bavarian beer. But best of all, I had enjoyed a brilliant time with yet more lovely people. And that, as I know by now, is what travel is really all about.

Guten Tag

Wainwright and I are home again after a great few days in Munich.

I will reveal what we got up to in a couple of blogs. I'm not very good at history so I hadn't realised that Munich played such a key role in the rise of the Third Reich. Also, my son and I visited Dachau on the outskirts of the city and it is appropriate to divide the blogs into the serious and light hearted aspects of the trip.

Part of being a struggling writer, or in my case, a would-be writer, is the need for self-promotion. It feels so egotistic and pushy. But unless you have a large publishing house behind you it is necessary if anyone is going to actually read your words.

The BBC has a competition at the moment for people to write their story - something that has happened to them - in 1500 words or less. It can be found on the BBC website under 'My Story'. Part of the prize is to have your story published as a paperback book. According to the website, the judges are not too concerned with grammar and syntax, just damn good stories so you might want to have a bash.

I have tapped out my own story and the BBC have accepted it for publication on their website. If you want to find out a bit more about this particular middle aged gapper then go to:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/stories/survival/150149/

That ends my shameless self promotion for today.

Finally, an update on Appa, the boy I am sponsoring at the orphanage near Lake Bunyoni, Uganda. Crystal at the orphanage has written to me to say:

Appa's other name is Paol. When I went to check on him at school I found he is having no school books. I let him know that you have chosen to sponsor him and we are in the process of getting school books and a large size uniform and sweater made for him...he is truly one of our proudest and happiest students because it is his first time ever in school.

I know that a few people who were with me in Africa read this blog and they have kindly expressed an interest in Appa's progress so I'll publish a few lines about his development on here every now and again. Appa is the tall boy wearing the hat on the extreme left of the above picture (click on it to enlarge).

Live long and prosper.

More travels

Don't mention the war

There is very much the air of the seasoned traveller about me as I write this, my last blog of the week.

My holdall, with Wainwright waiting patiently beside it, is on my bed ready to be packed yet again. I'm flying to Munich tomorrow to meet up with my eldest son who is stationed in Germany with the Army.

I've never been to Germany before and it marks the 6th 'new' country to be visited since I left work in July. I'm well on my way to hitting my target of 10 unvisited countries within a year.

Country number 7 will be China when I fly out to Hong Kong next month for a 2 night stop-over.

The Vietnamese Embassy have kindly granted me a visa so Hong Kong will be followed by Country number 8 when I make the short trip to Hanoi and begin and extensive tour of Vietnam from north to south. The bulk of my travel, from Hanoi to Saigon (Ho Chi Min City) will be in the security of Exodus Travel once more as we travel by air, sea and rail between these two epic cities (note to self 1 - stock up on travel sickness pills for the sea bit of the journey).

Then comes the bit that both worries and excites me. Whilst the rest of the Exodus group go home I will remain in Vietnam for another 8 days and so far I haven't booked any accommodation for those days.

I could be bold and see where the wind takes me from Saigon, but in a country where English is not widely spoken this seems a bit dodgy. I did invest in a set of Teach Yourself Vietnamese cd's many months ago, but so far I haven't progressed beyond Xin Chao (Hello) and Tam Biet (Thank you).

'Excuse me, but is this the correct bus to Vung Tau?' looks like being way beyond my grasp of linguistics. Back to pointing and shouting then.

At present I fancy taking the 50 minute flight from Saigon to Phu Quoc, an idyllic tropical island off the coast of Cambodia, and being a beach bum for a few days. I've also been watching a lot of Robson Green's Extreme Fishing lately so the idea of some serious fishing and snorkelling also appeals.

Once I've posted this I'll be on the internet looking for my ideal beach hut to get away from it all and fortify myself for the horror that is Christmas.

I've already been busy on the web today and booked a very eco friendly B&B in Christchurch for the last 2 nights of my trip around New Zealand in February. I am making the 3 week jaunt with my friend Peter (if you've been reading this blog for a while you may recall that Pete and I usually have a boy's weekend away each year where I feel the need to dispel loudly any notion that we are a gay couple, even though we look very much like one. Me more than him, according to someone Pete and I met at Beverley Races recently).

Peter is not one to endure discomfort so our accommodation in NZ will have all the usual amenities, like hot water and beds. To balance this out I have gone for the opposite end of the scale when arranging my 12 day trip around Australia, which I am undertaking alone before joining Pete in Auckland.

Based upon my success at surviving the Youth Hostel at Buttermere last week, all the accommodation I have booked so far in Australia is in hostels. These are all right in the heart of the cities I am staying in and are at ridiculously low prices. Of course the downside is the need to share a room with other travellers (note to self 2 - stock up on ear plugs). I imagine that most of those I share with will be genuine surfers and not the silver variety I encountered in the Lakes.

The hostel I am staying at in Sydney is a disused railway station and I have booked myself into a 4 berth converted railway carriage for my 3 night stay. How cool is that? It also establishes a rail motif which I take up later on with overnight trips on the iconic India-Pacific and Ghan railways from Sydney to Adelaide and then from Adelaide to Alice Springs.

I've still got the last keg of my Australian adventure to arrange - from Alice Springs to Uluru to see the sun rise on this enigmatic rock that for many is a major symbol of the land down under.

So, I can't stay chatting to you all day. I've got bags to pack, Euros to obtain, beach huts to find, buses across the outback to book and youth hostels to evaluate. It's a full time job being a middle aged gapper you know. But please, try not to feel too sorry for me.

Live long and prosper.

African Epilogue

Fly high, fly free

That's it. The African adventure is over.

After meeting the gorillas we returned to our modest hotel and the next day we drove back to Kigali for our final night together as a group.

Kigali was an odd place. I took the opportunity to wander round but if there was a thriving city centre I never found it. There was lots of evidence of investment and outside influence but the city has a long way to go before it can rival the likes of say Cape Town.

A beautiful aspect of the city was the constant presence of yellow billed kite, which were as plentiful as seagulls are over British towns. There are various red kite populations around East Yorkshire and I always count it as a blessing to see one. Above Kigali I saw 8 circling the sky at one time. The photograph you see here was taken whilst I was enjoying a quiet drink at the hotel and two kite were circling the nearby trees.

Taking a break from meandering aimlessly around Kigali, I managed to enjoy a very pleasant lunch at the Hotel des Mille Collines, which is the hotel that the film Hotel Rwanda is based on.

The hotel was a modern one and still undergoing building work. Lunch on the terrace was leisurely and quiet, but soon there were diners everywhere. I was surrounded by people smartly dressed in collars and ties. Many had their plates piled high after helping themselves to the free buffet that was part of some corporate seminar. There was a buzz of office talk and for a few horrible moments I was transported back to the similar junkets that dotted my previous life. Managing to convince myself that I was still a lucky middle aged gapper and hadn't fallen through a worm hole into a boring and meaningless 'away day', I was comforted by what I saw and felt a sense of hope for this troubled corner of Africa.

Back on the street I hailed a pic-pic to take me to our hotel on the outskirts of the city. A pic-pic is a motorcycle taxi. Being whizzed along the busy highways and weaving in and out of traffic was both exhilarating and stupid. Wearing my usual shorts and T shirt I would have been a rare mess had my driver come to grief. I've no idea what speeds we reached along the dual carriageway as the speedo was broken. I dare say I wasn't insured either. But it was huge fun. It also gave me the sense of being an independent traveller, away from the security of the Exodus tour. Paul Theroux will be proud of me.

The last morning arrived and I reflected on my journey. Here is an extract from my journal that was written as I sat on the balcony of my hotel room:

'I take my leave of this land that I love so much, that plays havoc with my emotions.

'Tears well up as I look back upon this wonderful journey. Images of Africa's majestic animals and its fantastic landscape pour into my mind like the mighty waters of the Nile.

'But it is always the people that are so vivid in my memory: barefoot people carrying water in their yellow jerry cans; the Maasai in their bright red cloaks tending their cattle; the women of Rwanda in their bright costumes picking crops of tea and coffee; the men who whistle and jeer at us and raise their hands in salutation. And of course the children - dancing with joy at the sight of us passing by; running to keep up with us; the boys with their crayoned pictures of gorillas; and the sleepy babies warm and secure on their mother's backs; the boy in the orphanage at Bunyoni.

'As I gaze out on this land one last time a regal kite performs a fly-by, swooping under the branches of the acacia tree and then high and out of sight.

'My soul will always be with the kite as he soars over the heart of Africa.

'N'kosi sikele'i Afrika.'

We took our leave of JJ, Julius and Leo at the airport at Kigali. They were already preparing for the next group who would make our trip in reverse.

Together, we had travelled more than 2,500km over land on an adventure that I will never forget.

I hope you have enjoyed my African blogs. I certainly enjoyed writing them. Thanks especially to my good friend and fellow blogger, Rare Lesser Spotted, for his comments and encouragement.

There is one final piece of news for me to share with you.

As you may have gathered, the visit to the orphanage near Lake Bunyoni, Uganda was upsetting for me. As our journey continued my mind would often go back to the misfit child - the boy with learning difficulties, much older than the other children and in need of love and attention. I have a soft spot for misfits.

Since coming home I have been in correspondence with Crystal at the orphanage. I have learned that the boy is called Appa, as this is the only word he has ever spoken. He has been at the school for 4 months. I am in the process of making the necessary arrangements to sponsor Appa.

Someone once said to me that you can't make life better for everyone in the world, but you can make it better for one person. Maybe this is my way of dealing with my guilt over the children of Africa. I'm not sure. I do know though that I feel a lot happier about a misfit boy in a dusty playground above Lake Bunyoni.

Live long and prosper.

Volcanoes National Park

Gorillas in the mist

Unity

Gorillas in our midst

The world has many wondrous sights to offer, but there can surely be few better than walking into a sunlit glade and finding yourself in the midst of a group of mountain gorillas. It is a very humbling experience that is full of a sense of honour at being allowed to share a few moments with such beautiful, intelligent and peaceful creatures.

According to the National Geographic website there are roughly 700 mountain gorillas remaining on earth and half of these are to be found in the Virunga mountains of East Africa - a range of 5 volcanoes that spread across the borders of Uganda, The Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda.

Gorilla viewing is not cheap. A gorilla permit must be obtained at a cost of US$500 (about 350GBP). The permits are strictly controlled and allow the lucky bearer the privilege of just one hour in the company of these majestic primates.

The money goes towards the protection of the gorillas. Our approach to the gorillas was in the Volcanoes National Park, Rwanda. Despite the gorilla being an endangered species worldwide it is the only primate on the planet that is increasing in number and the news from Rwanda is all good.

In the area where we trekked there were 14 groups of gorillas. Since 1985 only one gorilla has died at the hands of poachers. In 2005, 108 gorillas were born in the national park and of these only 9 died.

In a tour that was filled with wonder, the greatest excitement of all came towards the end when we were to visit the gorillas. I awoke at 4.30am with the child-like excitement of Christmas morning. After breakfast Land Rovers arrived and ferried the 16 of us to the national park, where we divided into two groups of 8 for our trek up the volcano.

The staging post was alive with people. Mostly tourists like ourselves but also the game rangers who were being briefed on their duties for the day.

Eventually we met our guides who told us that we were to meet with a group of gorillas known as Peace. The group was led by a silverback called Unity. There were 17 gorillas in total in our group.

Another ride in the Land Rover took us to our starting point - a small village at the foot of the volcano.

The initial trekking was easy as it passed through farmland where potatoes and other crops were growing. Despite being vegetarian, the gorillas do not raid the villagers crops and the villagers have learned to respect their neighbours in return.

As I learned later from our guide, the trek began at an altitude of 2,620 metres and when we reached the gorillas we had climbed to 2,973 metres. That's almost 10,000 feet. Certainly a lot higher than anything the Lake District has to offer.

Despite the altitude it was hot and humid on the climb to meet our group. Beyond the farmland the trail began in earnest among the lush tropical vegetation on the volcano slopes. A huge inch worm lay across our path and a bit further on a chameleon steadily made its way along a branch. Tarzan would not have been out of place here.

Worst of all were the huge African stinging nettles. We warned to avoid these but it was impossible - they stung me through my shirt and trousers. Ouch!

After and hour and half of trekking we met up with the spotters who had located our group just a short way ahead in the dense undergrowth. We lay down all of our kit except our cameras and quietly crept along to our rendezvous.

Two juvenile gorillas tore down the path ahead of us, intent on playing and seemingly oblivious to our presence.

We emerged into the clearing and into the midst of the Peace group.

It was a sublime moment. To see the gorillas lying on the forest floor dozing in the soft sunlight, their young climbing playfully over them was a moment of huge emotion. Our cameras were still as we simply drank in this moment and savoured it. I don't think there was a dry eye among the 8 of us.

My expectation of visiting gorillas was for it to be exactly like this. The group would laze about and we would crouch on the edge and watch them for an hour. I was mistaken.

Within a few minutes the gorillas, led by Unity, began to wander into the undergrowth and were soon lost to sight. Under the careful control of our guides we followed. Here and there paths had to be hacked out for us with machetes.

This is how it was for the full hour. An ever changing vista that brought us near to most of the group. At one point I could see gorillas on three sides of me.

The older members of the group were intent on munching on the vegetation, whilst the younger ones were more playful and engaged in mock battles.

As the hour came to an end we were in the company of Unity himself, sat about 20 feet away with his back to us while he munched on some leaves.

'Time to go' announced the guide.

On cue, Unity climbed up into view and turned to face us, his intelligent eyes looking right though us.

'Ok then, two more minutes', said the guide kindly.

Softly we withdrew from this magical kingdom and I offered silent thanks to Unity for the unique experience of sharing a small amount of time with him and his family high up on the Rwandan volcano. Asante sana.

In the name of sanity!

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - Crummock Water

(click to enlarge)

Wainwright and I had a refreshing few days in the Lake District, never getting rained on once and being overwhelmed by the glorious colours of autumn.

One of the main purposes of the trip was to sample life courtesy of the Youth Hostel Association to assess whether I can cope with similar places abroad.

The hostel we stayed at was at Buttermere, towards the west of the Lake District and not as busy as Grasmere, which we visited in July. It was a grand old building that had 18 bedrooms and at £18 a night for bed and breakfast, represented brilliant value for money.

The reception area was as bright and modern as most hotels and when I was given a key to Room 1 my hopes began to rise. Could it be? A whole room to myself? No. The room housed 6 men, spread around 3 bunk beds. By the time I arrived there were just 2 bunks left.

I made my bed and there was even a couple of drawers for me to unpack into. Looking at my fellow roomies though a thought struck me immediately - where are all the Youths mentioned in the title? I was clearly the youngest person in the room. Indeed, I was one of the youngest of all the people I encountered during my 3 night stay in the hostel.

It is well over 30 years since I stayed in a youth hostel and during that time the YHA has morphed from providing cheap, basic accommodation for the scouting generations, to providing cheap hotel facilities for the baby boomers i.e. the same people, 30 years on.

My stay allowed me to enjoy 2 breathtaking walks around Ennerdale and Crummock Water. The latter was particularly good as it included some tramping on higher ground, a visit to Scale Force and a midday stop-over at the pub at Loweswater for a pint of Loweswater Gold.

The evenings afforded ample opportunity to relax, drink beer and read. And as I began a journey across Europe to Asia with Paul Theroux in his book Ghost Train to the Eastern Star I realised a significant failing in myself as a budding travel writer.

Theroux's book is jam pack full of detailed encounters with fellow travellers, locals and, being Paul Theroux, other literary luminaries. Paul must have a brilliant memory for conversations as they often ramble on for pages.

With me it's not so much a memory issue as a 'can I really be bloody bothered?' issue. Buttermere certainly seemed to bring out the reclusive, Victor Meldrew side of my character. I don't think it was all my fault.

Take for example the bloke who shared my bunk (me on top, him downstairs). I soon gathered that he had made a last minute decision to travel up from London for a few days based purely on the fact that the weather forecast was good. I learned very little else about him though, as our conversations became increasingly one sided and I began to hide whenever I heard him approaching. For example:

Me: Where did you walk today?

Him: The weather favoured a low walk so I set off along the north eastern edge of Crummock Water and then climbed up along Clint Crags. Taking a left through a moderately wet meadow I soon came to Dirty Harry's Hole which was only maybe 452 yards from Magnum Force. There was a lovely bridge that I passed on a compass bearing of 294 degrees west - north - west. I continued in a jaunty manner, despite the small stone that had worked it's way into my 15 year old Brasher boot........the final leg along Unforgiven Pass was every which way but loose.......blah, blah..... What about you?

Me: Ennerdale.

Him: Ah yes, one of the most western lakes, also a reservoir. Volumetric capacity 4.324 squillion litres, although the last time I was there it seemed t be about 3 pints less than that......

Thus it was that I discovered that I suffer from BTSD - Boring Traveller Stress Disorder. A condition brought on by an adverse reaction to people who are only interested in providing detailed accounts of their exploits and feel the need to litter them with as many points of reference as possible.

I know that London taxi drivers have to pass The Knowledge - a test of routes and London street names. There must be something similar for regular Lake District visitors. I find it strange that no one ever appeared on Mastermind with a specialist subject of Encyclopaedic Knowledge of the Lakeland Fells.

Thinking about though it would have been confusing. Imagine:

Magnus: What geological feature divides the mountains in the Honister area, south of Keswick?

Contestant: Pass

Magnus: Correct.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist a version of an old Eric and Ernie routine - put it down to my BTSD).

Ironically, having driven me to sleep during the day my fellow bunker kept me awake at night with his incessant snoring.

In the name of sanity. I do not bloody believe it! Victor screamed silently.

Luckily, the hostel sold ear plugs, so night number 2 was more peaceful than night number 1. And by night number 3 I had the whole room to myself. A simple, peaceful bliss descended on my tattered soul and my inner Victor Meldrew gradually melted away. Until next time.

Live long and prosper.

The Genocide Memorial

The lush vegetation of Rwanda - a thriving country with a dreadful past

It was not only the language that changed when we ventured south into Rwanda. Crossing the border also meant driving on the right and not the left as we had in Kenya and Uganda. The clocks went back an hour too. The landscape became very lush and green. At regular intervals along the road there were fields full of workers picking the precious coffee beans. Often the workers would wave to me and instantly I began to sense that this was a far friendlier place than Uganda has sometimes been. But it was also a place with a very dark recent past.

Rwanda was colonised by the Germans in 1895. After World War One power was given over to the Belgians. They decided to divide the population into Tutsi and Hutu, with power being given to the minority Tutsi.

At the time there was much study of the African races and the white anthropologists concluded that having larger skulls and paler skins, the Tutsis were far closer to the Caucasian races and therefore superior. This led to decades of tension between the two tribes as the minority suppressed the majority and hatreds grew.

These tensions eventually erupted in April 1994 when the Hutus rose against the Tutsis and over the course of 3 months over 1 million Tutsis were murdered.

The full story of what led to the genocide is well documented elsewhere, in far more detail than I have painted here.

It was an atrocity on a par with the holocaust, and yet it is within the living memory of most people reading this. It is certainly an event fresh in the memory of the people of Rwanda and its legacy hangs over the country like a rain cloud.

There is a palpable sense of the need to be forgiven and nowhere is this more evident than at our first stop in Rwanda, at the Genocide Memorial in the capital Kigali.

At the heart of the memorial is a large modern building that tells the story of the genocide. Entrance is free.

The visit was harrowing throughout. It starts by providing the background to what occurred, before giving an overview of the violence itself. The story is told through artefacts, documents, pictures and text. Touch screen TVs play the dreadful accounts of the survivors. The story of these people is always the same - loved ones butchered and brutalised, often by people who had previously been friends, neighbours and work colleagues. A young woman, who lost her entire family, describes how 5% of the Hutus tried to help, 5% were indifferent and the remainder were caught up in an orgy of blood lust and violence. It serves as a gruesome reminder of just how easily the thin veneer of civilisation can be cast off.

A large, round room contained hundreds if not thousands of photographs of people who were killed. They were just the ordinary snapshots we all keep somewhere of loved ones in happy situations.

Another room contained the skulls, bones and artefacts of some of the dead. Personally, I found this area to be unnecessary. The enormity of what happened only 15 years ago was sinking in and it was as if the point was now being hammered home just to make sure. The final emotional twist came when I went upstairs.

Here there were pictures of children aged between 9 months and 10 years, who had been killed. The pictures were all of the children in life and underneath each picture was a brief biography - what they liked to eat, what they liked to do, what they were like and how they died. It was as if the details had been taken from a school report.

Most of the children had died from machete wounds to the head. Sisters aged 6 and 7 died together when a grenade was thrown into their shower.

Sorrow now became tinged with disbelief. An inability to comprehend how such violence could be wreaked upon these innocent lives.

It was proper that our journey to Rwanda should begin at the Genocide Memorial. But it coloured the remainder of our stay. The people I saw and met were just like anywhere else on our journey. At the back of my mind though there was always the question of what these people had done during those awful 100 days of killing.

My impression of Rwanda was of a thriving country. Kigali is a modern city by African standards and I much preferred it to Nairobi and Kampala. But woven into its fabric are shame and guilt that will take many generations to fade.