The Vagabonds

What will the next global battle be over? Received wisdom deems it will be a war between an ailing American and a rising China. Some point to a resurgent Russia instead, or those oil-rich nations with immense Sovereign Wealth Funds. Others, such as Tony Blair, expect strife to occur not over ideology, but over values, notably of the religious variety.

Perhaps they are all wrong though. The next global battle may be peaceful. It is arguably already under way. With the globalisation of markets being the main paradigm through which countries plan their economic strategies, communication is pivotal. And what is communication without language?

So maybe the next global battle will be over the way in which countries strive to maintain their uniqueness within a framework of global sameness.

As a case in point, take Rwanda where I am currently stationed. A former German and French colony, in 2008 English was made an official language alongside French and Kinyarwanda. This is evident in the capital, Kigali. Older generations by and large only speak fragments of English. Younger people on the other hand deftly speak English with ease and comfort. If you ever need a reason to visit Rwanda, let it be this: you will be helping to fight the war against le franchise Francais.

If you want further evidence of why English rules supreme, it is not necessary to take my word of it. This is Eric, an erudite and eloquent 21-year old I ended up speaking with for a couple of hours in a café overlooking Gitarama’s bus station in Rwanda.

 

So, in aid of this switch to English, Paul Kagame, President of Rwanda, I salute you:

 

 

Before arriving in Rwanda, I went on safari in Tanzania with Oli. The safari was booked through our venerable tour operator, Peter Meela. It comprised of Lake Manara, the Serengeti National Park and the Ngorogoro Crater.

Our safari guide and driver was Emmanuel, whose knowledge of the surrounding wildlife was as extensive as his imagination – quite literally. When asked a question, the facts he uttered were not only blatant fallacies, but inconsistent. For example, the lifespan of giraffes increased from 26 years to 42 overnight. Who knows: had we asked again he may have espoused Buddhist liturgy about how they never die but reincarnate.

Joining us on the safari were two Germans, Cornelius and Timote. They were the type of people whose idea of good conversation was to remain silent over dinner. Without wanting to resort to crass national stereotypes – but I will anyway due to a certain compulsion in this case – they were rigid, methodical and about as entertaining as uncooked chicken. That said, they did have some compassion: in one of our very few conversations, they told us that they booked a Kilimanjaro trek which treated the porters with dignity – it later materialised they tipped the porters and guides less than £1 each per day. Every little helps.

The wildlife spotting on the safari itself was as expected: enthralling and engaging as we saw a spectrum of animals. In one case, a lion casually sauntered around our jeep. Similarly, an elephant lacking scruples washed itself in mud mere metres away from us in the Serengeti. Unfortunately we did not manage to see any death in gladiatorial battles of malice and might, although I was entertained for ten minutes in the Ngorogoro Crater as a sluggish hyena chased a wildebeest across a vast expanse in an epic marathon which the hyena was always destined to lose, yet it remained hopeful throughout.

As with Kilimanjaro though, the pictures are the best indication of what we saw and between Oli and I, we took close to 250 photographs. You can view them via the link above.

 

After the safari, Oli and I returned to Arusha, Tanzania’s second-city for our last night together. Arusha was a sprawling mess with no discernible centre and we spent the better part of an hour looking for somewhere suitable to eat before capitulating and trying our luck in a hotel-restaurant overlooking the salubrious sight of the bus station.

The following day we woke at 5:10am and after hurriedly eating breakfast, walked to the bus and went our separate ways: Oli to Mombasa in Kenya before his return flight to England four days later, myself to Kigali.

 

Now, briefly back to a specific point on language. There are two interpretations of the word ‘classic’. On the one hand it may signify something that is tried and tested; something so reliable that it is etched onto a national psyche. Conversely, it may refer to something antiquated and by extension, sub-standard, flawed and best to be forgotten. Guess which category my first bus en-route to Kigali was.

The tone was set within 45 minutes of the journey as the ‘Classic Mohamed’ broke down for the first of four times. That flamboyant Tanzanian music was being played throughout the journey – even when the bus was stationary – only added to the misery. Finally, another dimension was added after 2 hours and 15 minutes when the roads began oscillate between paved concrete and bumpy, red, raw dust.

Things could have been worse, however: I could have been in Oli’s position. In his very own words:

“Ive just got to Mombasa, Tahmeed Coaches Ltd and I have spent the day hiding from the police. It turns out the bus wasn’t road worthy and they didn’t have ‘papers’ so we got word of a checkpoint and basically had to wait until it shut down for the night. Not sure how late we are but something like 4 hours and I’m giving serious consideration to jumping on an overnight vip bus to Nairobi (its also chucking it down here).”

Poor soul.

Oli aside, I should also add that I was not wholly certain about where I was going. I had booked a bus to a place called Kahama which is notable only for the fact that it is on the map yet features in no guide books or travelling websites about Tanzania. I was told that I would easily be able to catch a connecting bus to Kigali from there though.

As it happens, this was correct, although, I had to spend the night in Kahama as the bus left at 6am. This was not too bad within itself as Kahama was much more sedate and obliging than Arusha. I was even assisted by a bus salesman called James who took it upon himself to guide me to a hotel and internet café, the latter at which he enthusiastically sat down next to me and peered over all my emails and facebook messages.

The journey to Kigali was relatively seamless. The only real issue involved having to wait 2 hours at the border for the guards to arrive to search every bag on the bus; it was a job they enthusiastically endeavoured to complete, barely glancing at my bag before giving me the thumbs up.

Arriving in Kigali at 6pm, I initially took a taxi to a budget hotel. However, upon arrival I had a change of heart and directed the driver to the other part of the city for a slightly more expensive but ‘backpacker’ option. Let the following words be a guiding principle to all those who travel: if the Lonely Planet recommends somewhere, avoid it like the plague. I should know this by now, but I was tempted by the fact that I would not be the only ‘mugunzu’ (foreigner) staying there. However, upon arrival I was told the One Love Hotel has recently increased its rates to close to £20 per night for a ‘basic’ room. Exasperated but tired as I had not eaten all day, I took it. That is, I took it until I saw what basic entailed – it looked like a prison cell. Needless to say, thirty minutes and a motorcycle taxi later, I was back at the first budget hotel which is a 1/3 of the price and dare I say, nicer (relatively, of course).

The prices of the hotels are indicative of the overall costliness of Kigali in general though. Indeed, paying £7 for the most rudimentary of accommodation is more expensive than Sydney or Buenos Aires. The reason for this can be added to the list of noble causes with unintended consequences: expatriates and NGO works. As mugunzus have flocked into the city – and indeed, the country – inflation has accordingly risen due to fundamental supply and demand dynamics. So, whilst the altruistic mugunzus live in their central gated communities, the local population in many cases (but not all) suffers. But they are here to help the country develop and Rwanda is a thriving African economy. Whoever said life is simple?

Kigali itself is tranquil. It is all too easy to invoke the 1994 genocide, but really, I have never felt safer walking around a foreign city at night. There was not much to do but the speckled lights dotted around the surrounding hills were reminiscent of Damascus, whereas the sloping streets harked to San Francisco.

In a broad sense, everyone was friendly too. When bartering with a taxi-driver, I asserted that he was charged me a ‘mugunzu’ price. Deeply affronted, he retorted that in Rwanda, I am a Rwandan too and that he was charging me the local price. He was, as far as I know, telling the truth.

As aforementioned, there is little to do in Kigali but roam around. I visited the Genocide Museum which was absorbing but predictably saddening. Most of you will be aware of the Rwandan genocide, if only due to the movie Hotel Rwanda. Here are some uplifting UNICEF statistics regarding the percentages of children affected by the genocide:

• 99.9% witnessed violence
• 79.6% experiences a family death
• 69.5% witnessed someone being killed or injured
• 61.5% were threatened with death
• 90.6% thought they would die
• 57.7% witnessed killings or injuries with machete
• 31.4% witnessed rape or sexual assault
• 87.5% saw dead bodies or parts of bodies

If you would like to know a bit more, watch the following trailer for ‘Raindrops over Rwanda’ at www.facebook.com/explorerwanda – it will also help contribute towards a $50,000 fund for the museum which will be granted if 50,000 people watch the video.

 

On a less serious note, I subsequently visited Huye (formerly known as Butare) where I met a Belgian student who had been to the Democratic Republic of Congo with a contingency from his university to conduct research. It seemed like a torrid and terrible place; almost as if it was a thousand miles from the peacefulness of Rwanda. I had tentative plans to visit the DRC. These have now been abandoned.

After Huye I went to Kibuye via Gitarama where I met the affable Alex who features in the video above.

The journey from Gitarama to Kibuye was woeful. With my two bags pressing anchored over my thighs, the sweeping road twisted and turned and rose and sloped like an interminable rollercoaster. It was so bad that above the volume of my ipod, I heard what I thought was a woman weeping. Only I was wrong. She was not weeping. She was wretching, and she eventually wretched over the back of my shirt and shorts. Thus I sat with a sodden and stinking shirt and shorts for the final 45 minutes. I subsequently discovered that this journey was notorious for people puking. This would explain why it seemed to me as if I was more apologetic to the culprit than she was to me.

Kibuye was bliss. Lake Kivu engulfed the island with its rich, azure colour. In my guesthouse, once I had showered, I spent the evening sharing a bottle of banana beer (which has a 14% alcohol volume level, but is distinctly sweet and quite thirst-quenching) with Kate and Steve, who were volunteering for America’s Peace Corps in Uganda. They were impeccable ambassadors for their country and it was fascinating to hear about their experiences within the Development sphere.

I spent most of the following day with Kate and Steve. The former’s language adroitness proved particularly helpful as she negotiated for a boat to drive us around the circumference of Kibuye. Kibuye can be epitomised as thus: a place to write a book in seclusion.

This can be contrasted to Gisyeni, Kibuye’s coastal neighbour. Slightly larger but with equally little to do, it lacked Kibuye’s quaintness and thus was fairly banal. Some good news did materialise from my time there though, involving a tourist office – that is for the next blog post though.

6km from Gisyeni lay Rubona which was more picturesque at least with its dainty harbour and fickle fishing boats.

But now I am back in Kigale, waiting a couple of days for the next big part chapter in the trip. Earlier today I bumped into Team America again, where Steve was kind enough to buy me a celebratory cupcake for passing my exams. Here is a hint as to what is upcoming next:

Some Selected pictures

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the link for all of the pictures (you can also click ‘Africa Pics’ at the top of the page):

East Africa

Hello all,

For one last time, I would just like to thank you for all the support you gave me. I met my target by running the marathon in under four hours by finishing at 3:59:19. Considering that I am usually late for my appointments, it was nice to be on time for once.

The beginning of the marathon was disconcerting. For starters, even before the race began, there appeared to be a devout group of people whom are best referred to as the Bin-Liner Brigade. Even if there was a possibility of rainfall (which fortunately did not materialise), I still cannot comprehend how wearing a bin-liner over your body would make any difference whatsoever whilst running a marathon.

More seriously though, three minutes into the race I tripped over the pavement. I fell no more than three inches away from the sharp corner of what I think was the ornamental base for a row of plants. Without exaggerating, with less fortune I would have been concussed at best and suffered brain damage at worse. The fall took a great deal out of me, but there was no time to wallow.

The route was pleasant enough, passing through the usual attractions: The Nou Camp, Sagrada Familia, Casa Mila, Las Ramblas and so forth.

My actual run, on the other hand, was not quite so endearing. Disappointingly, my legs began to tire at 25km (a marathon is 42km). This was not a good sign. However, at no point did I hit the sensationalised ‘wall’. So somehow, I managed to keep on moving throughout, never stopping to walk – although, quite like John Terry in his best-mate’s house, the temptation was always there. If anything, what I experienced of ‘the wall’ was more like running with cramp for two hours. You should try it some time.

At 35km, the situation became more acute. This was not necessarily owing to fatigue. Rather, whilst running through the Old Town, the organisers of the marathon had an enlightened idea: to have a heavy-metal band entertain the runners. Not only did I almost lose the will to run, but I almost lost the will to live too.

So, to rejuvenate myself, I needed a mental stimulus. By this point lurid images of Carol Vorderman were losing their allure. Similarly, picturing neon law books chasing me from behind, as one friend suggested, no longer seemed effective. I needed something uplifting and inspirational; a shot of morphine interlaced with haribo into the arm. And so, by the lowest common denominator, I was left with the Wombles’ theme tune.

It worked like a treat.

Thus, for the last 5km or so, I was singing “Remember you’re a womble”. I probably looked delirious, but it was worth it.

During last stretch, with the finish line visibly ahead of me, the overhead timer stated that the marathon started 4hr 4min ago. Utterly dejected at having missed my target, I began shouting obscenities. But then I remembered that I had not actually crossed the start line until after six minutes into the race.

Without meaning to dramatise the final hundred yards in any way whatsoever, it felt like watching the ending of Armageddon, only that I was not wearing an orange jumpsuit, nor had I just saved the world. In another way, it was akin to the finale of An Officer and a Gentleman, except that I was not Richard Gere, and rather than carrying a beautiful woman, I was just about carrying my legs.

Now I feel like a pensioner after rediscovering how to do the Twist: elated, but in absolute agony.

More importantly, with the marathon aside, just under £700 (or well over, if including Gift-Aid) has been raised for the Disaster Emergency Committee. This contributes towards vital resources for rebuilding communities, lives and infrastructure. Even as much as my legs are expressing regret, my heart and mind are saying thanks.

So: Thank you!

P.S. Remember you’re a womble: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EP7CDvQULXw

Travelling overland through China, one encounters an array of bathrooms.
Do not envisage thrones replete with trinkets or sinks with saps, sanitizers and moisturisers. A sink is a luxury; soap, a myth reserved for Western movies. Yet, despite the disdain in having to clench your fists and discard your dignity, there is often no alternative.
This is egregiously acute on long-distance bus journeys. The problem however is that hygiene abruptly becomes subordinated behind other concerns in such circumstances. Bulging bladders are placed on a pedestal of priority, yet, even such discomfort cannot conceal the horror – the sheer moral degradation – which emblazons like a fire of debauchery upon these establishments. As nothing more than mere huts situated on the side of roads and mounts, privacy was incorporated into their design plans when constructed.
Imagine this: A row of squalid squat seats.
Add this: A row of, yes indeed, people squatting.
And finally, to complete the composition, take a deep breath and try to sense the aroma of pungent urine and unfettered faeces.
My discrepancy is not with this per-se. No, rather, this experience - seeing men agonising in the state of nature – came at a cost. Not a personal cost as such (although, my dreams have since been mired with images of men dressed as wolves), but a monetary cost.
Yet life must go. Somehow.

Xishuangbanna lingered with a tropical milieu. Palm trees leafed the streets, the pace of life was placid and it appeared to owe its demeanour as much to neighbouring Laos and Burma than to China. Unfortunately, with the tropics comes rain. In the capital, Jing Hong, this only proved a minor hindrance as the downpours were sequenced and predictable. Thus, in the evening when I indulged in an outdoor massage by the Mekong River (provided, seemingly, by a string of rural migrants), the appeasing summer breeze removed any remnants of rainfall.
Whilst Visiting nearby Menghan however, it was as if the Gods were attempting to extinguish Dante’s inferno as water dropped from the sky as if from a hosepipe. The experience of the ‘Dai Minority Park’ I visited (for academic research) was consequently affected by the weather. What can be noted though is that this ‘park’ exposed Chinese tourism at its crudest. Essentially, a gate has been constructed by the periphery of an area where the local minority Dai people resided. An entrance fee is now charged, and, included in the ticket price is the feat of witnessing a wholesale appropriation of a local culture.
The most remarkable sight was renowned (at least within China) ‘water splashing festival’ which enabled the fleets of Chinese tourists to wallow in pools of water and drench each other in a façade of frivolity.
As the sun sank into the sky that , I remained and resided inside the park with local family. An altruistic family of three treated me to supper, which, like an abundance of Chinese experiences, was a humble yet endearing encounter despite the language barrier. And then, the locusts began to stir, the mosquitoes hovered, and it was just me with the solitude of the surrounding wildlife.

More ‘minority’ masquerades subsequently ensued for my research. The plan was to visit Lijiang, Dali and ‘Shangri-La’, each which had been transformed under the auspices of ‘eco-tourism’ to attract eager crowds of (predominantly Chinese) tourists.
The old-city of Lijiang (that is, the area saturated with mundane tourists shops selling local goods manufactured in monolithic coastal factories), was akin to Disneyland. Indeed, that is not my own observation but that of every tourist I interviewed for research. Lijiang’s old city did possess an essence of serenity, particularly when oberserving the stoned, sloping roofs from afar, walking through the central streets was like swimming against the current of a belligerent ocean.

My most propitious, and possibly memorable experience emerged from Lijiang however. Determined to see the surrounding scenery and even authentic villages, I rented a bicycle early one morning and sought to reach the village of Baisha before continuing onwards elsewhere. Within fifteen minutes of setting off, ostensibly with a bewildered complexion, a Chinese man approached man on his bike asking if I needed assistance. His ‘English’ name was Bear, although, this could only pertain to the Paddington and not the black-bear variety.
First, he guided me to his abode where I interviewed him and we sat around wistfully discussing life and Chinese politics. Bear’s English was flawless; a gift nurtured from his years as a Shenzhen businessman. Three ears ago he decided that he abhorred the corporate lifestyle. Hence, he packed his bags moved to Lijiang where he has since been working on a guidebook for Chinese people hoping to master the English language.
During the evening I met with Bear again, but in the intervening period I continued my
expedition to Baisha, from which I cycled for two more hours, eventually reaching the village of Yufengsi.
The journey was largely uphill, yet, the panoramic view subdued the pain in my calves.
Returning back, I met Bear in the ‘ancient’ town of Shuhe which bore a resemblance of the ‘ancient’ city of Lijiang only that it was quaint, unencumbered with swathes of tourists and bliss. There, he took me a guesthouse owned by an acquaintance, Mr. Lee, who, I was elusively told was the son of a senior People’s Liberation Army commander. Mr. Lee was no daunting figure though; he was a pensive and modest character, unable to speak English, but perpetually smiling and gesticulating.
The setup of his guesthouse was remarkable. He, like Bear, had fled the city life and the guesthouse was his refuge. Situated away from the central core of Shuhe though, he did not attempt to market his rooms and fill the vacancies – he simply found people whenever he felt an urge or desire. And amongst our distinguished guests for that evening was an eccentric American who Mr. Lee found, and became infatuated with, despite his inability to converse with her. Yet this all accumulated towards the feat of the evening.

And now for the rest, before (dare I admit that it is too late), I bore you, oh faithful reader.

From Lijiang I embarked on a day’s journey to the world-renowned ‘Tiger Leaping Gorge’. Despite its fame, the sheer scale and magnitude of the sight entranced me in awe. Juxtaposing the Gorge’s size, I was joined by two affable Brits, Becca and Laura, who knew a friend from Durham. Thus, the cycle was complete: small world, colossal sights.

Hitherto, China had treated me well. Excluding minor ailments, my health had remained prime and proper. This changed when I reached Dali. A minor malaise overcame me the prior night, but it was only once my feet stepped off the bus that a torrent of helplessness plagued my body. Auspiciously, I found an immaculate dormitory connected to a Korean restaurant that was bereft of other guests. Once checked in, I attempted to eat a sandwich at a local restaurant, but the sight and smell of food was nauseating. Thus, I then staggered to a chemist of medicine, purchased coke and Snickers bar for later consumption to maintain my sugar levels and then finally returned to the dorm. IT was 17:00 when I passed out; I awoke at 8am the following morning. The sleep proved an ample antidote for my health, but, with a dissipating timetable, I left for Shangri-La that afternoon.
The name ‘Shangri-La’ is somewhat of a misnomer. Although it refers to an ‘autonomous’ prefecture which annually annexes more and more adjacent towns and cities, the name primarily refers to what used to be known as Zhongdian, the capital. Only, now, Zhondian is Shangri-La.
But how?
In 2002 the Chinese government decided to rename the city (and region at large) and package it as the ethereal and mystic paradise depicted in James Hilton’s novel.
Maybe it was the distance, maybe the altitude, or even, possibly, the history, but Zhongdian was different to the places I had hitherto visited. A brisk wind swept through the streets which were straddled by local Tibetan women plying their trade, selling fruits, cheeses and savoury snacks. There was a sense of community. That is, apart from when, as I walked from the bus station to the hostel, I heard a chant echoing behind me.
I turned around.
And then I saw it.
Not a regiment, but a phalanx of soldiers was marching towards a square where locals had gathered for a communal dance, no different to the congregations pervasive throughout China. The gathering was innocuous – I had walked past it moments earlier. Yet the army marched through the square, drowning the music with their vitriolic voices. They gathered and lingered in orderly lines before finally withdrawing thirty minutes hence.
Throughout this, despite hauling my cumbersome rucksack and backpack, I danced around the scene taking photographs. Eventually a stern officer wearing a white helmet and brandishing a truncheon instructed me to stop.
The purpose of this conspicuous display of force still eludes me. One local claimed that it was a celebratory day for the army. I doubt it. With the Olympics approaching and ‘Shangri-La’s’ concentration of people belonging to Tibetan descent, the demonstration was more likely an admonition against form of dissent. Unfortunately I could not clarify either conjecture as somehow, I did not anticipate that an army general would confirm my suspicions.
In Shangri-La (the region, not just Zhongdian), I also visited the Meili Snow Mountain which purportedly proffered mesmeric views. From the lofty heights though, the cloud cover was too viscous to truly witness the spectacle.

And finally, back in Beijing. In case you forgot, the city was hosting an inconsequential event, best known as the Olympics.
I returned specifically for the night of the opening ceremony, hoping to see rampant Chinese nationalism personified through flag waving, anti-Japanese hysteria and cacophonous chanting. Exasperatingly, the Chinese Government’s trepidation of public gatherings affected what ought to have been a ‘harmonious’ occasion. Most ‘public’ screens were conveniently ‘broken’ and hence celebrations were constrained to indoor venues.
At least I managed to obtain tickets for the first round of the tennis, watching Andy Murray lose in the Singles but resurge to win in the Doubles with the aid of his brother. Oh, and I also saw Federer and Nadal compete (unfortunately not against each other) in the Doubles tournament.

Chinese culture, life and society have continued to grapple my attention and admiration. The longer I loitered in the country, the more my zeal accentuated. Despite its disparities with Western customs, the gregarious and sincerely hospitable vagaries of the populace, augments the primacy of shared values. Let’s hope that as it continues to grow, develop and modernise, it retains this charm.

Next up: The Middle East.

Lijiang’s rooftops

Bear & Mr. Lee

Tiger Leaping Gorge

Rank and File

Rebel without a cause?

Tibetan food is delicious

Pepe at Meili

Rog

Goodnight Beijing

Take me back to Thailand.
At least there, the buses played Western movies, regardless of how crass (Terminator Three was particularly popular whilst I was there in 2005).

In China, different rules apply. Maybe it is because tourism is catered towards a domestic market, or perhaps, that they believe their own movies are of a permissible standard. Indeed, the ones which I have been exposed to are professional productions, replete with suspenseful scores, climatic sequences and astute directing.
The problem however is that the Chinese media always appears to be imbued with a strong sense of nationalistic self purpose.

Most buses, even the small and scarcely functioning ones, are equipped with a television screen. Excluding one, all six other buses which I have boarded (I am omitting local journeys), have played the same movie, presumably about the Sino-Japanese war.
It is graphic; unsuitable even for the experienced. The Japanese are portrayed as ravaging vultures. They are virile, sadistic and malevolent. Never do they smile. Words depart their lips in monotone, staccato syllables.
The Chinese troops on the other hand are endearing. They often falter (in one scene a novice throws a grenade at his own company), but that only exposes how human they are. Tears are perennially welling up in their eyes. Camaraderie abounds, as they resist the Japanese tyrants.

Similarly, in Xishuangbanna, the television in my room contained the CCTV football channel. The premise? Simple. Football matches, 24 hours a day.
Great? No.
The games were divided into two categories. The first was from the German Bundesliga which was about as enthralling as watching the Home DIY channel, on repeat. The second was more interesting . China, of course, has no footballing accolades, so the Chinese national football team never featured. Instead, the Korean and Japanese football teams were in regular rotation. Only, the games which were shown were ones where they were obliterated by better rivals; 4-0, 5-0, 7-1.
Thus, if China cannot prevail, watching their rivals neighbours fail is the next best form of recompense.

Regardless, this was ineffably more interesting than the dynamic and innovative coverage on, I think, CCTV-5. No Japanese, no Koreans, no war, no football. What could possibly fill the void then? Why nothing other than full live coverage of the Olympic torch relay. If unadulterated pleasure could be presented on a television screen, then this was it.

The point of this? It interesting to see how nationalism is perpetuated in China.

So, now, I am finally a convert.
Give me a People’s Liberation Army uniform. I will don the cap and pillage the Japanese.

-Pepexing, Champion of the Workers