Xmas on the beach

Christmas was a low-key affair for me this year. On the 23rd, we took the bus to Mombasa, the second-largest city in Kenya. As with all the coastal towns in East Africa, the original Bantu people had traded and intermarried with mostly Omani traders, and also with early Portuguese colonialists, forming the unique Swahili culture which still remains strong today. Though not as business-oriented as Nairobi, Mombasa is still a hectic place, filled with the usual mix of hawkers, matatu touts and con artists, with a seemingly huge homeless population. But it's a beautiful city. As the population is mostly Muslim, huge white mosques dominate every few blocks or so. The city looks old, its white and pastel buildings falling into disrepair, but still retaining their old charm. And it's hot -- I'd guess that the temperatures go above thirty every day at this time of year, especially with the heavy press of humidity.

Our hotel was right in the centre of town, a relatively cheap place (though they had raised their rates for the holidays, of course) with simple but large and clean rooms. I was surprised at the number of foreigners I saw there, and indeed all over Mombasa. I guess I just don't usually think of traveling over the holidays to somewhere so far from home. It was nice, though -- this is definitely the first time I've been swimming on Christmas Eve! From town it takes about half an hour to reach the various beaches, with their clear water and white sand. The scene is somewhat marred by the various tourist traps, like camel rides and kite boarding, but once you're in the warm embrace of the Indian ocean, that's easily ignored.

On the night of Christmas Eve, we went dancing at a place called Bob's (for Bob Marley) -- a parking lot during the day which is converted to a dance floor at night. The DJ was fantastic and the place was packed. Georgie and I had fun speculating about where people were from based on the way they were dressed. Mombasa women, we noted, are a bit more feminine and classy, while Nairobi women go all-out for trends and skimpiness. The table of women dressed in stiletto boots, hot pants and backless shirts were definitely Nairobians! This being the coast, there was also some evidence of sex tourism. The tables with one older white person (just as frequently a woman as a man), and one younger Kenyan, not speaking to each other, were pretty sad. I particularly felt sorry for the young man at the table next to us, who sat watching other people dancing all night, and looked like he would have joined them had he not been with what looked like a client -- a middle-aged white woman who sat staring straight ahead and chain-smoking the entire evening. I can't imagine how sad it must be for both of them, to spend Christmas Eve with a stranger who doesn't say a word, or with someone you are essentially paying to make you feel less alone. I'd think it would just make you feel even more lonely. I had a fantastic evening, though, dancing the night away with good friends!

On Christmas itself, some businesses closed and some remained open, but the informal businesses were booming. The hawkers were setting up in the morning, adding gaudy Christmas garlands to their usual wares of clothing, accessories and counterfeit DVDs. The restaurants were also doing great business. Families with young kids especially were taking the opportunity in what is probably a rare treat of eating out. We didn't do a lot during the day -- mostly poked around a bookshop and relaxed in the afternoon. In the evening, it seemed like all of Mombasa was heading to the beach -- traffic was completely jammed up in the direction of the public beach, and masses of people were walking along the side of the road. We hired a tuk-tuk -- a little three-wheeled vehicle which I think is made out of a modified motorcycle -- and headed off into the crowd. We went to a nicebeach side hotel and had Christmas dinner down by the ocean. While the others had steak, I opted for chicken -- the closest I could get to turkey! There was even carrots and zucchini, which was exciting. The dinner was complemented by delicious fresh mango juice. Though it wasn't anything like Christmas at home, it felt good to be with friends, surrounded by palm trees and the sounds of waves crashing in the warm night air.

On the next day, we left for Lamu -- but I'll have to save the details of that trip for another entry. For now, I'll wish you all a happy New Year. It's been a crazy year here in Kenya, and an amazing and challenging year for me personally. I hope that next year is just as boundary-pushing and fulfilling. Here's to friendship, happiness and good health in 2009! Be well, everyone.

Happy Holidays, everyone

So I've been hearing stories from my friends and family back home about the huge amount of snow you've been getting. I guess it's really starting to look like Christmas over there! Here it's looking a lot like... well, like a very hot summer with Christmas lights. There haven't been too many of the traditions that normally signal "Christmas" to me. No house parties, none of the holiday food I'm used to, few Christmas movies or music, and obviously no snow. Here it seems like the holidays aren't so much a family affair as an excuse to go out and party (at least, for people my age it's okay to hang out with your friends and go off on vacation -- older people are expected to visit their families back in "shags", the countryside). Which is also fun... just not really what I'm used to.

The gift-giving tradition hasn't caught on much either. It's a bit odd because on the radio and in the newspaper, we're getting all the gift guides and such as we would back home. But absolutely nobody that I know, even the middle-class people, are buying presents. So I wonder who all these ads and articles are targeting. It must be exclusively for the upper class/Westernized families. There have been quite a few Santa Clauses around town (black Santa, woo!), but no kids lining up to sit on his lap, not even at the mall. I guess if you don't get presents, you wouldn't really believe in Santa. And there's not too much incentive to sit in a strange man's lap if you don't think you're going to get a shiny new toy out of it. There are some lights and other decorations around town, but without the snow they just look odd. The holly and ivy, reindeer and snow-covered pine trees painted in store windows look particularly out of place alongside the hawkers, bustle, dust and heat of downtown Nairobi.

I hear there is a lot of good food around Christmas, though not of the turkey and stuffing variety. I've told my co-workers, with much nostalgia over Christmas dinners past, about the food we traditionally eat at this time. They thought that eggnog sounded disgusting (fair enough, lots of Westerners do too), and cranberry sauce strange. Here the more common foods are those that you find at other celebratory occasions, like weddings -- pilau, chicken, roast meat (roast beast!), chapati, etc.

Today was my last day of work at IIN, which was a bit bittersweet -- it will be nice not to have to come into the office anymore, but I'll be sad to go and leave my coworkers. It's been fun working in an office composed almost exclusively of young women. And of course I've had a lot of amazing experiences while working here. But I'll still be doing some work for my boss here and there, so I won't be completely out of touch. It will be really nice to take a break for awhile, this year has been a lot of hard work!

My Christmas plans have been shaping up well. Tomorrow I leave to the coast with three companions -- Georgie, Jennie (a Canadian friend who was working in Elangata Wuas for the past few months), and Konzo (another Kenyan friend from Elangata Wuas). We'll spend Christmas in Mombasa, Kenya's major coastal city. So many Nairobians are heading out there for Christmas to go to the beach, so I'm sure it's going to be crazy, and I hope a lot of fun. On Boxing Day, we're going to Lamu, a small island off the coast which is much like Zanzibar in its preservation of Swahili culture. Lamu is even smaller, though -- the only vehicles on the island are the ambulance and the police car, and donkeys are the main means of transportation. They have fantastic fruit juices and seafood, and it's a great place to just chill, go sailing on a dhow, go swimming and relax. I'm looking forward to that. For New Year's, I'll either be heading back to Mombasa or going to Diani Beach on the south coast.

I hope that all of you have safe and happy holidays. I'll certainly be missing family and home, but I'll make the best of being here. So while you're sitting around the tree or slogging through the snow, just think of me, dancing on the beach. Merry Christmas!

The rest of my whirlwind stay in Cape Town passed much too quickly. After the conference, I was there for four days, and it wasn’t nearly enough neither to visit all of my family there, nor to see much of the city itself. Ah, Cape Town. What can I tell you about this place? It’s the city of my father’s childhood, and one of the most beautiful cities in the world! It has everything – mountains, including the famous Table Mountain; ocean, with both rocky and sandy beaches nearby; friendly people; fabulous restaurants and shopping. I was staying with my cousin Heidi, her husband Francois and their two daughters, Katje and Tiero, aged three and five. It was so great to stay with them and to get to know a side of the family that I haven’t had the opportunity to know well before. It’s kind of difficult when you live across an ocean from each other!

Heidi and Francois are very social people despite their hectic schedules and young kids, so with them I got a good dose of Cape Town hospitality, family and friends. One of the gatherings we attended was a birthday party for Francois’ sister-in-law, and it reminded me so much of the barbecues and picnics that Grandma and Grandpa used to have (and that Grandma still has when us kids are around). All the lovely food: the briyani, chicken curry, samosas, chicken wings, fish cakes and salads. The family and friends all gathered together in one place. There’s a way of relating to others, of speaking and cooking that is so unique to the Cape Town Coloured community, which I never recognized as being part of a distinct culture when I was younger. It’s amazing to see where your own family fits into this group that I hardly knew anything about until a few years ago.

I spent a day at the beach in Simon’s Town with my aunt Catherine, cousins Greg and Carol, and Carol’s two daughters, Yusrah and Annika (someone please correct me if I’ve spelled their names wrong), who I think are also three and five. That side of the family had visited Canada occasionally when I was growing up, but I hadn’t seen any of them in a few years, so it was wonderful to catch up over fish and chips. Later we met up with Carol’s husband Nazeem and her son Mujaheed, who was only four the last time I met him (and is now nine). The kid actually remembered me – his first words to me were, “Auntie Kaitlin, you look different!” So cute. I also had a lovely lunch followed by a drive to Hout Bay with another cousin, Thelma. All in all it was a very successful visit, though I didn’t have time to see half the people I had wanted to see.

What with all the visiting and running around there wasn’t a lot of time to see Cape Town, but I saw enough to know that I will definitely visit again. Next time I’m around, I’ll make a point of blocking off at least a couple of weeks for South Africa. I did have an odd feeling while in Cape Town, though. My first impressions were that the city centre was so clean and organized and empty – it made me feel as though I were in North America again. I felt a little “homesick” for Nairobi, so I don’t know what it will be like when I’m actually back in North America. Of course, that’s just the shiny, tourist-friendly city centre. I know that other parts of the city aren’t so glossy and safe.

My travels have come to an end, for the time being. While my trip was fantastic, I must say that I’m thrilled to be back in Nairobi after about a month and a half. It is so nice to have a home base and a little stability again. But beyond that, I’ve missed the noise, the colour and the chaos. There’s just so much attitude, humour and swagger in Nairobi. There’s nowhere else quite like it.

the Power of Movements

This was the 11th women’s forum hosted by the Association for Women’s Rights in Development (AWID). It’s the first time that the event has been hosted in Africa, and had record attendance – over 2,200 participants came from all over the world! About 30% of these came from African countries and 11% from South Africa alone (partly because, as a means of encouraging participation, a certain number of free spots were reserved for South African participants). Though there were some men in attendance, the overwhelming majority of participants were women. And I have to tell you, the energy of the place was amazing. It was really inspiring to hear from and to meet so many women who are all working to achieve gender equality, whether this be in a feminist context or not.

Most of the women attending the conference came from an organizational perspective – they worked for NGOs, non-profits, funding organizations and the like. We were nine in our indigenous African women’s delegation: Lucy and me, one other woman from Kenya, one from Uganda, two from Tanzania and three from South Africa. We also met up with indigenous women from Latin America, who were here with the International Indigenous Women’s Forum (FIMI). I was finally able to meet a FIMI colleague from Nicaragua with whom I had had a long email correspondence, which was wonderful. It’s so different and so gratifying to meet someone in person after organizing logistics online together for so long!

The theme for the conference this year was “The Power of Movements” – a discussion both of the women’s rights movement and its direction and drawbacks, and of intersecting movements. What impressed me most about the conference was the effort that the organizers had put into consciously including groups which have traditionally been marginalized within “mainstream feminist” circles (i.e. Western, white, middle-class, straight, cisgender, able-bodied, etc.). There were LGBTI groups present, disabled women, indigenous women and sex workers. Though at this point in time the representation of minority groups was mostly superficial (for example, though there was an effort to reach out to disabled women, there were no sign language translators and none of the workshop information was available in Braille; and although there was an effort to reach out to queer and trans women, the language used in the main plenary sessions was still quite heterocentric and gender essentialist, second-wave feminist-style), at least it’s a step in the right direction.

I was very excited to meet women who are working in queer rights in Africa. I hadn’t seen any LGBTI organizations in Kenya, though I know they must exist. Such organizations are frequently driven underground for fear of persecution, as in many countries homosexuality is illegal and the stigma against it is still strong. In South Africa, the first country in Africa to legalize same-sex marriage, there is more in the way of visible LGBTI organizing, but that still doesn’t mean that there’s more acceptance, especially in rural areas. I was awed by the women who were working in countries which are so hostile to their presence, yet they persevere because they believe so strongly in equal rights for all people. They are not ashamed to fight for the right to love who they want, the right to be treated with dignity and respect, the right not to be beaten or killed simply for looking or dressing the “wrong” way, or for holding or (god forbid) kissing their partner in public. The right just to exist. One woman in particular, who was working for GALZ (Gays and Lesbian of Zimbabwe) really impressed me. I had no idea that such an organization existed. And I can’t imagine the bravery that it must take to work in such a difficult context.

There was an overwhelming variety of sessions and workshops to choose from, and I wasn’t able to attend all those I was interested in, but I did get to some cool ones. I went to the launch of the new edition of the Feminist Africa journal, a session on sex workers and feminism, another one on disability and sexuality, one on African feminism, and one on indigenous and non-indigenous cooperation. I think attending this conference has been very helpful to me in terms of realizing that in the future I would really like to work in an explicitly feminist and queer-positive environment; these things are important to me, and I would like to see them acknowledged in a work context. Although I remain passionate about indigenous rights and would like to continue to be involved in this field to a degree, I think there are other areas of work, particularly in women’s rights, which draw my attention more strongly. I intend to keep on communicating and possibly working with IIN and FIMI in some capacity, but I would love to expand my horizons a bit in the coming years.

Although I love the energy and diversity that large conferences bring, the number of pressing issues that this kind of gathering brings to light is terrifying! There’s just so much to address, so many different groups fighting for rights, equality, freedom, recognition – domestic workers, transwomen, artists, journalists, women from grassroots and indigenous communities, political prisoners, rape survivors – the list goes on and on. It gets to be too much when you see just how much work there is to do. But it’s comforting to know that although the world can be a huge and frightening place, at least there are others who are there to stand beside you, to pull you up when you fall and take up the chant when you grow horse, and to assure you that no, you’re not crazy for giving a damn.

"and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak"
-Audre Lorde

the journey

After a frustrating flight, during which our plane was delayed, we missed our connection and our luggage was misplaced, Sophia and I arrived at the Cape Town airport on Thursday afternoon to meet the rest of our delegation. Though it was a flight full of misadventures, it was an amazing one because it was Sophia's first time in an airplane. Her first time to peer down at the world below as if at a child's playthings, her first time to soar amongst the clouds. She was apprehensive about it (arriving at the airport two hours before our agreed meeting time!), but I think she enjoyed it. There were a few obstacles, language being the primary one, though we did muddle through with the few phrases between us, and a lot of gestures and laughter. Dress was another. As Sophia is always in traditional dress, of course she arrived on the day of the flight fully decked out in gorgeous beaded necklaces -- many of which had dangling metallic pieces. The poor woman was patted down every time she went through security. The other thing I hadn't realized when I was rushing about the airport in Johannesburg trying to make our hopeless connection was that Sophia had never used an escalator before. I try to be sensitive to these kinds of things, but this was one thing that, in my hurry, I never even considered. Can you imagine encountering an escalator for the first time as an adult, without anyone explaining it to you? They can be tricky enough at the best of times. It was only when I saw her stumble on the escalator at the convention centre and asked her about it then that I realized!

It was all very exciting, really, to be going through all of these things with someone experiencing them for the first time, and seeing all the amazing complex technologies and frustrating procedures that we live with and take for granted through fresh eyes. It was an adventure, and we made it to Cape Town safe and sound (though tired and chilly). Next stop.. the women's forum.

Morogoro

Morogoro is a beautiful town. About three hours’ drive West of Dar es Salaam, it lies at the base of the Uluguru mountain. The mountain itself is rich and green, and most of the produce in Morogoro comes from the many farms which are wrapped improbably around the mountain’s contours. I’ve been here for a week now, and I can say that the town is much bigger and livelier than I expected it to be. Here you can go to the disco any day of the week and dance the night away to Tanzania’s own bongo flava (a Swahili musical genre blending pop, hip hop and traditional melodies), or to lingala, which comes from Congo and is very popular all throughout East Africa. There’s even a hotel with a pool, where we spent a lazy Sunday afternoon swimming and chatting. It’s a small town, but people are very active and engaged in all sorts of activities. There’s a big Swahili school here, agriculture, livestock rearing and many little shops, cafes and bars.

While I’m here, I’m working with a small community-based organization called Parakuiyo Pastoralists Indigenous Community Development Organization. This organization is only two years old, and was formed in response to the marginalization of pastoralists in government policy and developmental projects in Tanzania. Their current program is a land rights project, which aims to inform pastoralists about their rights in regards to land use and ownership, and to help resolve land conflicts in a more constructive manner. There have been many conflicts in the region between pastorlists and agriculturalists competing for the same resources – conflicts in which people on both sides have lost their lives. Hopefully this project will help foster a better relationship both between pastoralists and the government and police force, and pastoralists and the farming communities with whom they sometimes clash. Since I’m here for such a short time I won’t have accomplished that much by the time I leave, but I’ve at least been helping to develop a project proposal on political participation and good governance, and a monitoring and evaluation system.

Another of Parakuiyo’s projects is a high school for pastoralist children. The school serves the entire Morogoro region, which occupies 72,939 square kilometers. Parakuiyo helped the community to engage in fundraising activities to build the school, and helped convince community members about the value of education. Maasai children are often kept home from school for a variety of reasons. The boys are frequently needed at home to take care of the livestock. Indeed, anyone traveling through Maasailand for any length of time can’t help but notice the many young boys watching cattle or sheep, staring warily at strangers passing through. The girls are often kept at home to help with domestic chores, like fetching water or firewood, particularly in areas where the environment is very degraded and these resources are scarce. Girls are also sometimes married off quite early, and forced to drop out of school. Sometimes parents simply can’t afford the tuition. Parakuyo secondary school is remarkable because attendance, the bane of many a school in pastoralist areas, is not an issue here. Through Parakuiyo’s efforts and the efforts of the headmaster, the community has really rallied around the school. Tuition is lowered for low-income families, and now it’s becoming the norm for children in these parts to attend the school. The fact that the community managed to fundraise the bulk of the funds for construction probably helps, as it’s a project that they can take pride in and feel that it belongs to them. The school only opened in January 2007, and already they have 158 students, 78 of whom are girls. They’re expecting at least 80 more students to enroll for the next year.

Though attendance and enthusiasm are high at Parakuyo, the school is desperately lacking in facilities. Though, like most secondary schools in Tanzania, it is a boarding school, none of the dormitories have been finished yet because of lack of funds. Students are forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor of rooms that are used for classes during the day. When we visited, the mattresses had been hung over the rafters, exposing the uneven concrete floor beneath. There is no kitchen, only a small shelter for cooking, and no storage area. There is no laboratory. There are only five teachers for the whole school, only one of whom is female, and none of whom are qualified to teach science. Transportation is also a problem, since the area is remote and the roads in bad condition, particularly during the rainy season. It had been raining on the day we visited the school, and considering how much trouble our taxi had getting into the village, and how muddy our additional half-hour walk was, I could just imagine what a nightmare it might be to bring in supplies or get a sick student to a medical centre.

In a way, it’s discouraging to think that as much as this community has struggled, and as many minds have been changed about the value of education, there are still so many challenges to overcome. There’s just no money for so many of the facilities that are desperately needed. But at least these kids have the opportunity to get a high school education – that’s something that many Maasai children can’t even dream of.

There are only three employees at Parakuiyo, and I’ve mostly been working with Jacob, the office secretary. He’s been very welcoming, helping me to get settled here and become familiar with the town. On Saturday, the two of us went on a fantastic five-hour hike on the mountain. It was really neat because the mountain is actually inhabited by farmers almost all the way to the peak, although from afar you can’t tell that anyone lives there at all. As we walked along, we passed all sorts of homes, some made of mud and sticks, some of brick, and fields and fields of produce of all sorts. Bananas were the most popular crop, but there were also cabbages, carrots, tomatoes, beets, and herbs – even lettuce. The path was a bit crazy at times, just a tiny narrow footpath over a steep incline. Inevitably, at one point I slipped off the path (the edge of the path was full of plants, but when I stepped onto a section that I thought was the path it was just a hole with plants covering it like an old-school trap), and ended up with half of my body hanging over some hapless farmer’s onion patch! I just got some scrapes, but of course when we came back down everyone was very apologetic about it, which was a little embarrassing.

We stopped at a house near the top, which had been built by German missionaries in 1911. Though it was in a gorgeous location overlooking the town, and I’m sure could be turned into quite a profitable tourist attraction or lodge, it had been severely neglected over the years. Vines were overtaking the outside and a tiny old man was living inside. I’m not sure if he was squatting or if he was renting the place or what. It was all a bit surreal. We bought some beautiful fresh bananas and carrots from some farmers who were preparing their wares for transportation to the town. On our way down we were passed by two of those same farmers, who were the vegetable transporters I suppose. They were both balancing enormous bags stuffed full of carrots on their heads. Those things had to weigh at least twenty pounds! They must really have amazing strength and balance to have brought those carrots on their heads all the way down those steep, twisting paths.

It’s going to be pretty sad to leave Morogoro in a couple of days – I’ve made some good connections here and can see myself returning in the future. But next time I’ll definitely have to beef up on my Swahili before venturing into the communities again! On Wednesday I return to Dar es Salaam, and then on Thursday I’ll be flying out to Cape Town. I’m traveling with a Maasai woman, Sophia. She’s being sponsored by Indigenous Information Network to attend the Power of Movements conference. I’m pretty sure it’s her first time flying, and she only speaks Maa and Swahili, so it might be quite an adventure. And it’ll be interesting to see how people react to her in South Africa, since she’s always in traditional dress. I hope that she doesn’t get too intimidated, but from what I’ve observed about her so far I think she’ll have a good laugh about it.

Dar

On Tuesday, George and I took the bus to Dar es Salaam, or Bongo as it's commonly known around these parts. Bongo means "brains" in Swahili; they call it this because you need brains to survive in this city. Or so they say. It can't be much worse than Nairobbery, right?

The bus ride was quite long -- about nine hours and we arrived in the city just as the sun was setting. Though I'm not crazy about long bus rides, this one had the benefit of fantastic scenery. Tanzania really is a beautiful place. It's filled with never-ending mountains and lush countryside dotted with little villages and towns.

Dar is quite a change from all that. It's a sprawling city, with suburbs spilling out in every direction. Our hotel is located in a ramshackle part of town, which seems to be predominantly Indian. Most of the architecture is from the 1930s, and doesn't appear to have been fixed up much since that time. The buildings' facades are crumbling with age, and blackened by pollution. This is just the old part of town, though -- the city centre is more modern, with its gleaming office buildings and modern hotels.

I've found that Dar's reputation as a sketchy, scary city is much overrated. Sure, there's a lot of hassle. Lots of aggressive hawkers and taxi drivers. Lots of pan handlers. Lots of people and traffic. But the hassle from people on the street isn't any worse than in Zanzibar, for example, and the traffic is nothing compared to Nairobi. My major beef with Dar is really the heat. Yes, Zanzibar was hot, but at least then you could escape to the waterfront or the top of a tall building for some ocean breeze. Here the air is trapped between buildings, and is heated from car exhaust and the reflection of office windows. There are beaches, but it takes at least an hour to get to them from the city centre. The beaches are truly beautiful, though. It's amazing that such tranquility and clear waters lie so close to such chaos.

Here I've mostly been working on school applications and making arrangements for my next steps. Soon I'll be heading to Morogoro, a town a few hours West of Dar, to work with one of IIN's partner organizations for a little while. Then it's off to Cape Town in mid-November. So there's lots to look forward to.

Arusha

To me, the most remarkable thing about Arusha (aside from the gorgeous mountain views) was the number of wedding parties roaming the town on weekends. And it's not just about the people in cars decorated with ribbons and flowers, and the huge groups of women dressed in loud, beautiful patterns -- the amazing thing is that every single wedding party has their own personal brass band which follows them everywhere. You'll see groups of cars passing by, one of which will be a pickup truck, the back filled with dancing, cheering guests, followed by another pickup truck bristling with musicians. They're playing old, beat-up looking instruments (I saw one trombone that was held together by elastic bands), and are slightly quavery and off-pitch, but that doesn't damped their spirits in the least. The brass instruments are joined by drums, and the cumulative effect is something like a high school marching band. But they're playing away like it's the best damn music in the world. I just love their exuberance.

The place I stayed in Arusha was a far cry from the luxurious hotels and camps I experienced over the previous couple of weeks while traveling with my parents. It was a very basic place, right in the middle of the city's central market. The view from my room's window was of rusted tin roofs and concrete walls topped with glistening broken glass, with beautiful Mount Meru looming in the background. In the morning, I was greeted by the sights and sounds of trade -- the men carving and polishing wooden furniture by the side of the road, the women whipping up fabulous creations on their old-fashioned sewing machines, the piles of jeans and rubber boots and pipes and dishes. The little cafes nearby sold thick, sweet chai and traditional dishes (lots of rice-based stuff like pilau, and lots of meat).

Aside from the bustle of hawkers and vendors, Arusha is a bit of a sleepy town. It's a nice place, to be sure, but not a lot going on. I had stayed for a few days and I think that was about the right amount of time. It's clear that Arusha's government is really trying hard to boost tourism in the area by capitalizing on its convenient location for the northern park route, and its safety for people attending conferences and such, but the city itself still has little draw. They would do well to bring more cultural attractions and nightlife to the town, I think.

The best part of Arusha was really just spending some time with Lesikar, who was our guide on the safari -- he was wonderful, keeping me company and showing me around. George also joined me at the end of my stay, which was fabulous -- I really missed him during my vacation, and he brought me some vital items from home as well! George also joined me in the next leg of my journey, to Dar es Salaam.

Like every beach town I have visited in East Africa, Zanzibar's Stone Town is full of beach boys. Here they are more properly called papasi, which is Swahili for "tick" -- an apt name, as their method is to latch and hold on to any tourist they can. The papasi are essentially touts, both of good and services. Along the main roads, you'll find innumerable young men standing around, waiting for a hapless mzungu to pass by. Then they pounce, holding out a plate bearing cashews or cds or sunglasses, or waving t-shirts or paintings like a bullfighter might wave his cape. Others will walk along with you for some time and try to fast-talk you into going on a tour with them: a city tour or spice tour or a trip to a nearby island. When you turn onto the market street where tourist wares are sold, everyone tries to entice you into their own shop, and wants to show you around town.

The papasi are generally friendly, polite and even fun to talk to, though it's not recommended to accept tours from them as some are less than savory characters. They're mostly in their twenties and thirties, but once in awhile you'll bump into one considerably older or younger. One in particular sticks out in my mind. A few of the papasi are now familiar to us, as we keep passing them on the street while walking around the neighbourhood. One of these is a young guy -- I'd say he's about fifteen or sixteen. He has a real baby face and looks like he still has a growth spurt in him, and like many of the beach boys, he's always wearing the same clothes. On the first day we were here, he discovered that I not only know the responses to the standard Swahili greetings, but also to the slang greetings. Actually, a couple of beach boys have picked up on this, now that I've walked past them a good dozen times and responded to their chorus of called greetings. But this boy in particular just gets me because he seems so genuinely delighted and amused each time he sees me. And he's so young. Looking at him, one can easily imagine the gaggle of small boys playing on the beach and in the alleyways growing up to become papasi. And while it may be a way of making money, I just think it's such a shame to spend all that energy and talent pandering to tourists for a couple of bucks a day.

Though the backbone of Zanzibar's economy is really agriculture (mostly spices and fruits) and fishing, some of the island's politicians own fancy hotels and resorts, or have deals with those who build them on government land, and so it is in their own interest to promote tourism to the island. However, as Kenya discovered this year, and regions that have experienced natural disasters, terrorism or political instability know, tourism is not the most reliable industry. It is also frequently practiced unsustainably, as tourists often use up resources which are scarce to residents (like water, for example).

Still, I can't deny that we are tourists here, though we can try to lessen the negative impact of our presence. Yesterday we did a spice tour with a local tour company which is also an NGO, supporting sustainable economic development and environmental education in Zanzibar. Actually, we came upon them accidentally, so it was quite a stroke of luck. The spice tour was really interesting -- we drove to a local plantation and sampled the different fruits grown there (which included jackfruit and custard apple in addition to the standard tropical fruits -- delicious!). Then we walked around and saw the various trees and bushes which grow spices, smelling and sometimes tasting them in their fresh, unprocessed forms along the way. There we found pepper, vanilla, cloves, cardamon, lemon grass, ginger and turmeric, among others. There was even a plant called the "lipstick plant", which bore a red, hairy sort of pod that looked like a litchi. It was split open and the seeds ground up and then unceremoniously spread over my lips, producing a bright shade of coral which looked ridiculous on me! But it was amazingly like lipstick. We also drank coconut water from young coconuts just cut from the tree. It was fantastic. Following the tour, we went to a local woman's house for a wonderful lunch of pilau, matoke (green bananas), fried fish and stewed cassava leaves.

Today is our last day in Stone Town. We've explored the maze of alleyways further, happening upon little squares where red and blue banners are hung and old men in kofia hats are sitting taking tea, many small fruit and fabric shops, and huge spiderwebs with giant, terrifying black spiders hanging in the centre. Tomorrow we leave for Metemwe, on the North coast of the island, for three days of beaches with fine white sand and transparent turquoise waters. I'm not really a beach person (too much laying around and "relaxation" makes me restless), but I think three days will be good for getting rid of whatever stress remains in my system before it's back to the real world.

Zanzibar

After the safari ended, my parents and I flew to Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania. Zanzibar was actually an independent country from Tanganyika (which the mainland used to be called) until the two states merged to become Tanzania in 1964. Zanzibar was colonized by the Portuguese, then the Omani, before becoming a British protectorate and finally gaining independence in 1963. Like the Kenyan coast, Zanzibar's culture is Swahili, a blend of African (mostly Bantu and Cushitic) and Middle Eastern cultures. Zanzibar is a very Muslim society, so even though it is terribly hot and humid, it's respectful to dress modestly, covering the shoulders and most of the leg.

Zanzibar is still so different from the rest of Tanzania that it's easy to imagine that it's still its own country. Indeed, the island is still semi-autonomous and has its own President. It's a beautiful place, filled with narrow alleyways and elaborately carved doors. I do find it to be a bit touristy in some areas, but if you venture outside the regular tourist haunts, you'll find people going about their regular business, buying and selling, praying, chatting with their neighbours, or just sitting and watching the world go by. Children play football in the alleyways as the mangy cats lounging around everywhere look on with bored eyes.

So far we've mostly been doing some shopping (I bought some gorgeous fabrics), and we also took a walking tour of the old part of the city, called Stone Town. Zanzibar was the centre of East Africa's slave trade, until the trade was abolished in the late 1800s. During the tour, we visited the site of the former slave market (where an Anglican church now stands), as well as the horrifying holding cells where slaves were kept before being shipped out. The cells comprised of two rooms, one for men and one for women, which were only about three feet tall, if that. There, slaves were kept for days without food. Many died there, pressed up against the bodies of their terrified, sweaty neighbours.

The island was also a centre of the spice trade, as the hot, humid climate was ideal for spice plantations. We will be doing a spice tour, as well as a visit to the caves where slaves were kept hidden, tomorrow. And today is my birthday! I'm not quite old, but getting there.

into the wilds of Tanzania

Our safari with Hoopoe tours was absolutely amazing. At first I thought that I would get a bit tired of visiting parks day after day; I didn't really think about how diverse Tanzania's environment really is. The safari was 12 days long, and we went along with another couple around my parents' age. She was Canadian and he was American, but they live in the States. We were very lucky because we all got along very well, and had a lot of fun together. I can imagine that if you were tuck with someone you didn't like, the trip could become unpleasant rather quickly. Our guide, Lesikar, was also fantastic. Not only was he ridiculously knowledgeable about the various areas we visited, and their animal and human inhabitants, but he was also a really sweet and funny guy.

We travelled around quite a lot during the trip, alternating between hikes and game drives. The hikes were a big part of why the trip was so fulfilling; with the amount we were being fed, it would have been terrible to be sedentary during that entire time. We began in Arusha, then stayed for a couple of days at a tented camp in West Kilimanjaro. Then it was off to Tarangire National Park, then Lake Manyara, and then the Ngorongoro Crater conservation area. Finally, we finished off in the Serengeti, that awe-inspiring, seemingly endless expanse of savanna. Though all of the places we visited were fascinating and beautiful in their own way, I think my favourite was Tarangire park. It was there that we saw the most elephants, who are so active and so much fun to watch. The park also has a high concentration of baobab trees, which I also love. They somehow manage to be gorgeous and comical and grotesque at the same time.

During the trip, we saw:
-455 elephants in one day in Tarangire
-176 baboons in one day in Lake Manyara
-43 hyenas in one day in Ngorongoro and Serengeti
-lions devouring a baby giraffe
-ostriches mating
-elephants chasing juvenile lions, after they attempted to pick some zebra off from the herd
-an adult hippo using a baby hippo as a toilet (worst parenting ever!)
-elephants drinking and splashing themselves at the water hole
-a cow in Ngorongoro which had been attacked by a lion and had a chunk torn out of its flank, being led off to slaughter
-three baboon babies playing and fighting
-a cheetah hunt and kill a Thompson's gazelle by draining the blood from its neck

... and a whole lot more. I was astounded by the sheer number of animals we saw, as well as their interactions. One day we also had elephants visiting us during our lunch in one of the parks. That was a little bit frightening, but definitely an experience that we will never forget.

Overall it was a great trip, particularly because the staff of the various camps and lodges we stayed in were really friendly and personable. Perhaps the only negative experience was during the first day of our two-day hike around the Ngorongoro crater rim. The day was warm and sunny at first, but the weather quickly went downhill and it began to rain. Not just a regular shower, mind you; this was a torrential, full-blown rainy season-style rain. And it went on, complete with occasional thunder and lightning and a little bit of hail, for about three hours. By the time we arrived at the camp, we were all soaked to the bone and definitely getting cranky. As the crater rim is quite elevated and windy, it was also very cold. There were donkeys carrying our equipment, including the tents and sleeping bags and fire starting materials, which were a couple of hours behind us, so we couldn't even set up the tents. Luckily, one of us had a lighter, so we were able to make a fire. The next three hours, we spent drying out our clothes and everything else we had been carrying that day. I didn't carry any papers with me, but others were drying out plane tickets, itineraries, passports and the like over the fire. The next day, it was happily warm and sunny again, so we had a fantastic hike through Maasai country. Mom did get sick for a couple of days, but luckily it was when we were staying at a hotel which had an in-house doctor, not at a bush camp, and she recovered well.

After our treks and travels through forests and arid regions, around salt lakes and rivers, always in amongst elephants and lions and hyenas and many cows, it's time for a change of scenery. Our next stop is the coast: Zanzibar.

I had a great week in Nairobi with mom and dad, dining out, showing them around and going on adventures. It was so nice to finally show them what I'd been telling them about for so long, and wonderful for them to have a chance to talk with Lucy again, and meet George and a couple of other friends. I think they had a good time (I hope so, anyway!). There were a couple of "Nairobi incidents", but nothing too disastrous. However, yesterday I had a hairy encounter with Kenyan bureaucracy that I won't quickly forget.

Crossing over the border into Tanzania was a nightmare for me, due to an encounter with an overzealous border guard on the Kenyan side who refused to give me the exit stamp. I won't go into the details here because of the incredible sketchiness of the entire situation, but suffice to say that the shuttle left without me, and I was stuck in Namanga, the border town on the Kenyan side, for about six hours before managing to scrape my way through. I may not be going back to Kenya for a little bit longer than expected -- my plan at the moment is to stay in Tanzania until early November and hopefully work with some of IIN's partners here or maybe do some writing for the upcoming issue of the Nomadic News magazine, and then head down to Cape Town. I found out the day before we left that some of my fundraising efforts for the women's movements conference were finally successful, so at least I'll have the chance to go to South Africa and take part in the forum before returning to Nairobi.

In any case, last night I rejoined my parents in Tanzania at last. We begin in Arusha, the town where the UN Tribunal on the Rwandan genocide is located, and where most safari companies are based. I haven't seen too much of the town yet, but so far it seems quite laid back, and very green. Lovely big plants everywhere. I've also noted the pureness of the Swahili here compared to Kenyan Swahili, which is mostly Sheng, all mixed up with English and slang words. Here it's all just Swahili. There are also an astounding amount of dogs barking and howling away during the night. Tomorrow we depart for our tour of several national parks.

At last, my vacation has truly begun. After the crazy time I had getting here, I couldn't be more thrilled.

a family visit and women in politics

My parents will be arriving tonight! I’m really looking forward to seeing them again, and to taking a couple of weeks off work. First they’re going to spend a week in Nairobi, where they’ll be introduced to the beautiful madness of this city. Then we’ll be heading to Tanzania at the beginning of October and embarking on an 11-day safari, before traveling to Zanzibar, where we’ll remain for about 4 days. After that I’ll be returning to work, but mom and dad are staying on the coast for a few more days before rejoining me in Nairobi. I’m so excited about the trip, and the opportunity to finally get some travel in! It will be really nice to spend some quality time with the parents after nine months or so. The only unfortunate part about it is that we’ll be missing the Canadian election – on the day of the 14th, we’re scheduled to be in the Serengeti. It will be the first time since I’ve been able to really follow the election that I won’t be following it obsessively so that’s a bit weird. Especially since this is such an important election, and we probably won’t know the results until a couple of days later. I faxed my form in to receive my ballot by mail, but I fear that it may not arrive before I leave the country.

Otherwise, things have been insanely busy. I’m trying to balance work, school applications and social life, which has been tough At least the preparations for my applications are nearly finished – I’m moving on to scholarships soon (the bad news I recently discovered on that front is that Commonwealth Scholarships are not being offered to Canadian students this year – sigh). The applications themselves will mostly be submitted in October, when the majority open online.

At work, I’m working on a couple of publications (one magazine and one report), training my co-workers on the various programs I usually work with, plus organizing for the women’s movements conference coming up in Cape Town in November. I still don’t know whether I’ll be going myself, but at least some of our partners from the communities are! That’s really the most important thing, since they can make great contacts and bring what they’ve learned back to the village.

On Thursday I attended the monthly gender forum which is hosted by the Heinrich Boll Foundation, usually in collaboration with another organization. This time it was with the Centre for Multiparty Democracy. The subject of the forum this month was the Political Parties Act, which is designed to regulate the formulation, registration, qualifications and dissolution of political parties in Kenya. The Act was passed in 2007, and will come into effect in December 2008. Up to present, the regulation of political parties has been lax, at best. Parties are constantly springing up, dissolving, forming alliances and making shady deals. It’s interesting how much of Kenyan politics has relied on coalitions in the past decade. Not only is the current administration a so-called “Grand” Coalition, but PNU is also a coalition party, various segments of which are constantly threatening to break off. Kenyan politics right now is all about coalitions upon coalitions.

Two of the most notable aspects of the act were the emphasis on nationalizing parties (which means restricting parties that cater to a particular region, ethnic group or “minority interest”), and the attempt to force politicians to stick to one party, instead of joining whichever party would guarantee a seat and jumping ship once in parliament, by making it difficult to cross the floor. Of course, as it was a gender forum, we also discussed the gender aspects of the act. Really, the only gender provision was that, in all political parties, one-third of national officials must be of either gender. Meaning, if two-third of officials are men, the other third must be women, and vise-versa. The interesting thing is that the act does not discuss how this should be accomplished, nor does it address specific penalties if this provision, or any other, is ignored (aside from stating that it is “an offense”).

Involving such a large number of women in politics in Kenya will be very tricky. Many women, particularly in rural areas where literacy rates are abysmal, do not vote, or even speak up at public gatherings of any kind, let alone become politicians. There are so many barriers for women who want to become involved in politics: lack of education, very heavy domestic workloads, and deeply patriarchal social structures which prevent women from participating in the development of their own communities. Not least of all, women aspiring to take on what is seen as a “man’s job” are simply not taken seriously. This is not just the case in Kenya; in North America, we’re constantly belittling women in politics, discussing their wardrobes more than their policies and referring to them by their first names. In “progressive” Nairobi, just the discussion of women in politics got some people at the gender forum giggling away.

I fear that unless the popular perception of women as baby-makers, cooks and housewives change, any kind of affirmative action meant to encourage women to become politicians will be incredibly ineffective. I believe that education is crucial – people must see what girls and women are capable of achieving when they have the opportunity to develop their skills and improve their self-confidence. And it is also up to women and girls to dare to dream and stand up for their rights (of course, this can be pretty difficult if you’re stuck in an abusive marriage or face other threats to your physical safety and social standing for being outspoken). In every community, there are amazing women who are pushing boundaries and doing great things; unfortunately, they are frequently the exception.

Recently, Rwanda set a world record for being the first nation in which the majority of parliamentary seats are held by women. This was accomplished not only through affirmative action policies, but also through the hard work of women who campaigned hard, mobilized communities, and who came out in large numbers to vote. It didn’t happen by accident; a lot of people put a lot of through and effort into making it happen. It would be amazing to see a similar movement in Kenya.

Of course, a person’s policies are always more important than their gender. I think what many have learned from the ascent of Sarah Palin is that having prominent women politicians is less important than having prominent feminist politicians.

But maybe that’s just me. I am a raging leftie, after all :)

A grad school update for you: I've decided to drop the idea of social work for now, and concentrate on gender and development studies. That's what I'm really most passionate about, and I figure I can always go back to do social work later if development doesn't work out! After all, there's no reason to be locked into one field forever.

So far, I've narrowed my choices to the following:
-gender studies, School of Oriental and African Studies
-gender and development, University of Sussex
-gender, development, London School of Economics
-international development studies, University of Guelph
-international development studies, Dalhousie University

Now it's just a question of getting in! (And funding, of course, which will be mighty tricky for the UK schools. Eep.)

The power has been out at my place for over two weeks. No joke, they're apparently installing individual power meters and that's the reason we've been in the dark for a good eighteen days now. It was suppose to take three days, I'm not quite sure what happened to that. The funny thing is that after about a week, a number of people in the estate bought generators. I'd say that about a third now have generators running at all hours. I understand that it's inconvenient not to have power, but really, generators for a private residence? Then again, these are the same people who have electric fences and razor wire in an estate which is already gated, guarded 24/7 and in one of Nairobi's safest neighbourhoods. So I guess they just live on a different plane of existence. It is probably a lot harder if you have kids, though.

As for me, I'm content with reading and writing by candlelight at night. The biggest annoyance is the lack of hot shower, but that's what the stove and wash basin are for. Most people in Nairobi don't have a shower at all, so I'm just going with the flow.

Now that it's Ramadan, the neighbourhood is alive with the sound of prayer several times a day. Well, it was before too, but now the prayers are longer. It's a very meditative sound, the muezzin pouring out his devotion. Today I heard a young boy reciting the call to prayer, with adult voices in the background coaching him when he stumbled. It was very sweet. All of this prayer also compliments the book I'm reading now, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. It's a fascinating, powerful read. My friends and coworkers who have seen me reading it have all begged me to lend it to them, which is interesting. I guess Malcolm X, who did travel in Africa and visited several heads of state, including Jomo Kenyatta, before his assassination, is pretty popular here (as is Martin Luther King). I guess Malcolm X was successful in connecting the civil rights movement in the States to African independence movements after all.

I've also noticed that Kenyans are big readers of biographies and inspirational books, particularly Christian inspirational books. There's not too much interest in fiction, which is a shame because there are a number of great contemporary Kenyan writers, like Binyavanga Wainaina, who don't get too much local exposure. There are literary events around town, but they're always in ridiculously posh neighbourhoods, at expensive clubs which aren't exactly accessible to the average Nairobian. Hopefully we'll see some change in the exclusive nature of literary culture in years to come.

the importance of context and consent

Lately I've been re-reading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. I was lucky; I spotted it randomly one day on a street corner, nestled amongst the usual fare of thrillers and romances, their covers dramatic black and gold, or garish pink. I always peer at the hawkers' dusty piles of books when I pass by, but this was the first time I'd found anything of interest.

It's the story of a Baptist family who become missionaries in a rural village in the Congo in 1959, when it was still a Belgian colony, but on the verge of independence. The story alternates from the point of view of the mother and the four daughters, each of whom has a unique voice and perspective on their lives in Congo. It's a favourite book of mine, not only because of the excellent writing and fascinating setting, but also because it shows how badly you can mess up if you don't at least try to understand the culture in which you're working. It highlights how something might seem completely nonsensical to an outsider, but is simply common sense in the context of the culture. But you'll never figure that out unless you talk to people, ask questions and keep an open mind.

Some of the misunderstandings in the book remind me of a disastrous development project I heard about in Samburu, a semi-arid region in Northern Kenya. Water is scarce in much of the North, so wells (or bore holes, as they're called) are a common and generally well-received project. A well-placed well can save women and girls hours which they would otherwise use walking to the next water collection point, and carrying the full jerry cans and buckets back home. However, this particular NGO foolishly did not consult locals before creating the well. They decided to put it at the base of a hill. After the well was constructed, the NGO sat back, waiting to be thanked and to see the well in use. Nobody said a word, and nobody used the well, though it would have saved them hours of labor daily. The organization was baffled.

If the NGO's employees had bothered to work with the community it was supposedly helping, instead of doing what they thought was right as outsiders, they would have discovered that the hill the well was next to was a sacred place where the dead were buried, and where their spirits were believed to reside. Nobody would take the water from the well, as so much activity near the burial place would be considered to be disrespectful. And in any case, the water was likely contaminated, since the source was so close to decomposing bodies.

It's the same old story with many NGOs which attempt to address female genital cutting/mutilation, particularly those from the West. Coming in with no conception of why women would want their daughters to be cut, it is easy to dismiss the practice as nonsensical and "barbaric". Simply addressing the host of health issues that cutting can incur (severe blood loss and infection, sometimes leading to death, being the most common, in addition of course to psychological trauma), is helpful because everyone has the right to be informed. But unless development workers understand the context, they will not be able to address the motivation behind female circumcision, and their interventions will therefore be useless. Any anti-FGM program which fails to address cultural aspects, fails to understand the distinction and tension between individual and collective rights; the importance of marriage and family; local understandings of bodily integrity and normality, life stages and female identity; and the economic aspects of FGM. It's a very complex issue -- it's not just about health, or even just about women's right. And yes, I can believe with all of my heart that the practice is harmful and should be heavily modified. But that's all the more reason to try to fully understand the context surrounding the practice.

At the pre-male circumcision ceremony I attended last month, I saw a group of Maasai men with a video camera, speaking with the young boys. They were asking them about education -- is it better to go to school, or to help your family by herding livestock? What are the benefits of each, what are the drawbacks? Most of the boys apparently responded that school was the way to go, and gave some justification for their choice. I like this approach -- presenting people with different options, and letting them decide on their own which is the best way.

Too many foreign aid workers come to "the dark continent" thinking that they're going to save people by bringing the light and the way. Like the missionaries in The Poisonwood Bible, the development workers that build the well in the wrong place, and many anti-FGM crusaders, they come in assuming that they know best and are ready to bludgeon or coerce their ideals into the heads of community members, at any cost. But it's not so simplistic. Unless you are ready to learn more than teach, it will be a long and fruitless fight. Unless your project is able to run sustainably without your presence, no one will have gained.

People are not sheep. You cannot herd them in one direction and expect that it will work out well. People everywhere in the world, educated or not, have the faculties and the right to make their own decisions and guide their own development. Development without consent is meaningless.

a wedding!

This weekend, I rode on a motorcycle for the first time ever. Isaiah had invited me to a Maasai wedding in Oloshoibor, which I was very much looking forward to. I left Nairobi quite early in the morning, but when I reached Ngong Hills, I was stymied. There were no matatus, and no taxi pick-up trucks with their uncomfortable wooden benches. There weren’t even any cars which I could convince to drop me down at the school. However, there was a row of motorcycles, or piki-pikis as they’re called. The bikes are always there – usually their operators are very friendly, and have helped me to arrange transportation in the past. This time, when I asked, the men just shook their heads. “No matatus today, sister. Jioni pekayake [only in the evening]. Si, you let me help you?” It did take some convincing to get me on the bike – the road to Oloshoibor is extremely dusty and bumpy, and it involves descending a hill. But I had no other option. I got on the bike, made the driver, James, promise to go slowly and promise that I wouldn’t fall off, and we were off.

For the first ten minutes, I was terrified and had a death grip on James’ waist. But once I got used to the sensation of moving along in such an exposed manner, I started to enjoy it. I don’t think I’ll become a bike addict, but I can definitely see the attraction. On a motorcycle, you feel much more integrated with your surroundings than in a car. I hardly got dusty at all – just the backs of my legs – and it was such a pleasure to feel the wind moving around me. Plus the view was spectacular. James kept his word: he drove slowly and avoided the major bumps, and I never even felt close to falling off. It’s a good thing I went with him first, because on the way back I went by motorcycle again (no cars to speak of!), and that driver was not traveling at such a leisurely pace. Though I did end up closing my eyes a couple of times, I enjoyed that ride as well. I must say that I had much less of a sensation of impending doom on the motorcycles than on some matatus (though really, that’s not saying much).

I met Isaiah at the primary school where he teaches, and we walked to the boma (homestead) where the wedding was to be held. The area is quite sparsely populated, and most neighbouring bomas will be between twenty and forty minutes’ walk from each other. We walked for about an hour and a half, and the place was buzzing with activity when we arrived. As it is currently a school holiday, there were quite a number of youth around, greeting each other and catching up before they must head back to their respective schools. A group of old men were sitting off to the side under a circle of trees. Women, both young and old, were the ones doing all the work (as usual!). They were fetching water, cutting up meat, cooking a ridiculous amount of food and serving chai to the guests.

Isaiah and I entertained ourselves by playing with a couple of children, who like the majority of kids in rural areas, were initially too shy even to greet me, but were eventually overwhelmed by their curiosity about this strange-looking person in their midst, and were won over by tickling clapping games and a bit of dancing. I don’t know if you’re familiar with an American tv show called ‘Dance 360’. I wasn’t before I came to Kenya, but it’s very popular here. It’s a hip-hop dance competition show, and during the dance-off segments, the crowd chants “Head to head! Head to head!” while the competitors break dance in the centre. The kids were apparently fans, because at times they would chant something approximating ‘head to head’ (sounded something like ‘Tachi-ed’), and would imitate break dancing moves by stomping rhythmically, doing hand-stands and sticking their legs out at odd angles. It was pretty bizarre to see – keep in mind that this was all taking place in an iron shack in a dusty homestead where most of the huts are made out of mud, and people in traditional dress are looking on in vague amusement. The younger of the two kids, who was maybe three and could already count to ten in English, also had a habit of repeating “Raila Odinga” at odd times, which was a bit disconcerting.

I also had the chance to meet some of Isaiah’s friends while we waited for the bride and groom to arrive. One of them was a guy called Amos, who is also attending teachers’ college. He was very funny in a philosophical and perhaps unintentional way. When we were talking about the seven wonders of the world, he said, “Yes, but what about this – the table has legs but cannot move, yet the snake has no legs and can move. Is that no also a wonder?” Indeed, wonders are all around us!

The wedding itself was quite a brief affair. Two trucks arrived, one bearing the bride and the other the groom. A procession of women came dancing from the house, while another procession danced around the trucks. Delegations from each family lined up, facing one another, while a preacher said a few words. Then the bride got out of the car, which was quite a production – a group of women gathered near the door were singing, but were also fighting among themselves in what appeared to be a ceremonial fashion. Isaiah told me that they were arguing over who would let the bride out, and that her family was also asking to be given something in return for her. Dowries, often in the form of livestock, are normally paid to the bride’s family by the groom, so this must just have been an extra negotiation (or maybe a mock negotiation?). When the bride finally made her way out, the women lay lesos in front of her, and she walked slowly over the clothes towards one of the houses. I didn’t really have the nerve to ask whether she had been circumcised (it would have been rude, since I was a guest and all, and it’s a very political and contentious issue), but the bride was walking extremely slowly and wasn’t looking too happy, so I suspect that might have been the case. On the other hand, she was much too old for circumcision – probably in her late twenties, whereas female genital cutting/mutilation is generally performed on girls who are between 12 and 16 years old, so it could just be that she was moving slowly because it’s tradition. After all, when young, just-circumcised girls are married, I’m sure they move very slowly, so it that would become part of the ceremony. The bride was dressed in lesos and a ton of beaded jewelry, and had two bridesmaids with her. They wore modestly cut dresses in a shiny red material, and carried raggedy-looking plastic flowers. The groom and his best man were both wearing olive green suits, and had strands of beads which crossed over both shoulders and joined in the back with a big white button. So it was a bit of a mix of traditional Maasai and Western traditions.

After the bride reached the hut, we all had lunch. It was goat with rice and potatoes, chapatti, and mashed potatoes. I’ve never had the latter in the rural areas before, so it must just be for special occasions. Plus soda (Fanta), of course. As much as I sniff at the outrageous amount of carbs that Kenyans consume, it really is the most satisfying thing after you’ve been walking through the dust and heat for hours. At that point, your body needs all the energy it can get.

After lunch, we went to sit under the circle of trees where the elders had gathered. The older folk and the wedding party were sitting in a semi-circle on plastic chairs in the shade, and the rest of us were left to sit on the ground or lean up against trees behind them. For about an hour, different elders stood and spoke, giving advice to the newlyweds. After the speeches, a man stood with a large bag in the centre of the circle and asked people to come and make donations for the new couple, which they did. Then the gifts – a wood and glass cabinet, a sheep, and several jerry cans for fetching water – were presented. The priest said a word of blessing, and that was it. Seeing as they’re older and educated, this couple will also likely go to the city and have a legally recognized marriage. However, it is still very common to just have a customary marriage in most areas of Kenya.

We walked back to Isaiah’s place, which took another couple of hours, and had a relaxing evening. The kids in the homestead are getting used to me visiting, or at least the older ones are. Some of them have started to call me “auntie”, which just melts my heard into a puddle of sentimental goo. The younger ones don’t seem to recognize me from one visit to the next, and have to be cajoled into friendship all over again. In the morning, we took a short hike up a small mountain and sat atop the rocks, looking down at the gorgeous land spread out before us. We watched boys herding cows and goats, and saw a few antelopes grazing. Listened to the birds, the cowbells, the rustling of the trees. It was so peaceful. The quiet was only broken at one point by a race car driver, who was ripping down the dirt road at top speed, leaving clouds of red dust spiraling lazily into the sky behind him.

The walk back to the main road was brutal – it was a cloudless day, and at that point, the sun was blasting down on us. Standing in the doorway of the house, I could feel the heat radiating off the ground outside, and from the air itself. The heat made the air in the distance quiver, making the world seem insubstantial, illusory.

I made my way back to Nairobi via motorcycle, bus and matatu, and threw myself into the shower the moment I arrived home. The power was out again, so it was a cold shower, but for once I wasn’t complaining.

So I’ve decided not to change my plans after all. I’m staying the course. What does this entail, exactly? Well, I plan to stay at work until December. In October, my parents are coming for a visit and I will be taking two weeks off to travel with them in Tanzania, which will be wonderful. In November, I may or may not be traveling to Southern Africa to take part in a few women’s rights workshops, and attend the “Power of Movements” forum in South Africa. All of that depends on funding which is not yet confirmed, and I have no idea what our chances are of actually getting it. December will be report-writing and wrap up.

I’m hoping to head to the coast for the holidays. I’m a die-hard traditionalist when it comes to Christmas – there must be snow, a turkey with mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy, and mandarin oranges at the toe of stockings – but I suppose if I can’t have that, Christmas on the beach will have to do. In January, I’m hoping to visit both Ethiopia and Rwanda. In February, I’ll likely head home, and hopefully work for a few months before returning to school.

After the break-up, I had considered coming home early. I could be making a lot more money at home than I am here (where I’m munching away at my savings, really!), and I’ll need that money for school, especially if I go abroad. And there are a lot of things I miss about home. My friends and family are at the top of the list, of course. There are new additions to the family, and my friends’ families, who I haven’t even met yet! I also miss the food. I’m pretty sure my system will be in shock when I return, just because of the variety that it isn’t used to here. I miss fresh, crunchy salads, sushi, pho, imperial rolls on vermicelli with that tangy dressing, nachos, salmon, really good bread, gyros, cheese, pierogies, ice cream and gelato in all of its glorious flavours… mmmm. Not to mention fruits like peaches, raspberries and blueberries (all berries, really), plums and pears, and all manner of vegetables. Other things I miss are bike riding, yoga, movie nights, the freedom to walk by myself at night almost anywhere I please, easily accessible, clean and relatively safe parks, and secularism. Montreal in general. Big art galleries and museums. A reliable supply of water and electricity. I miss living in a place that is not so openly and deeply homophobic (though Canada still has a long way to go in that regard as well).

But despite all of the people and things that I miss, I couldn’t see myself leaving Kenya anytime soon. It became clear to me that I didn’t just come here for a relationship, but because I love Kenya, and Nairobi in a peculiar kind of way. Nothing is ever dull here – the city is big and loud and chaotic. At times it’s exasperating, and it can also be frightening. But it is never boring. I love Nairobi for its ambition, its attitude and ridiculousness, its showiness and contrasts and cynicism. Nairobi is con men and politicians, sex workers, aid workers, preachers and street kids, refugees and country folk. It s almost too much to imagine. Nairobi makes me laugh and sigh and rage.

And Kenya – Kenya I love because I can’t help myself. Just the variety of cultures is absolutely astounding. It’s hard to believe that so much richness can be packed into one tiny country. Everywhere I’ve gone in Kenya, I’ve found people to be incredibly hospitable. I also love the fact that nearly everyone is very opinionated, especially when it comes to politics. Kenyans are also storytellers. Stories come in the form of song, in the elaborately-crafted scam, in a tale told to friends over drinks and roast meat. Everyone has a story about their identity: their family, their tribe, where they come from, what they stand for, what they’ve been through. Everyone has a story about their dreams.

I though about leaving here and what I would miss. My daily life isn’t all travel and excitement, but there are many moments of wonder. Here, small children chatter away to me in Swahili, and shyly play with my hair in the matatu in the morning. My daily commute is down a major road lined with acacia trees, in which maribu storks make their nests. They’re giant birds, simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying. Here, I can easily access diverse communities full of fascinating people; from those who live in slums to those who move through deserts, from pastoralists to hunter-gatherers to agriculturalists. I certainly don’t have those opportunities in Canada. And as much as I complain about the food here, there’s a lot that I would miss. Chapati, mandazi and smoky chai. Sukuma and ugali. Nyama choma. Mokimo. Stony. Whole fried tilapia. Even the ubiquitous chicken after a long night of dancing.

No, I’m not ready to go. There’s still so much to see and do. Kenya’s hold on me is still strong.

This was a rough week for me. Early in the week, George and I broke up. I had been thinking about it for awhile, and I guess he had too; we're very different in so many ways, plus there was the question of moving to Canada. I couldn't picture him being happy so far from the community he loves, and he wasn't sure about it either. So we decided that it would be for the best to part ways. I know that we'll remain very good friends, but it's still been difficult. It's not easy to split from your partner of more than two years, even if you know it's the right thing for both of you.

Anyway, as a result of that, I have been thinking about changing my plans a little. I'll keep you all updated as I figure things out. I do have to admit that it feels pretty fantastic to be reformulating my plans without having to take anyone else into consideration. In that way, it's nice to be a completely independent woman again.

enkipaata, part 2

I was supposed to return to Nairobi on Thursday morning, but it was evident once I was in Torosei that there was not way I was leaving on Thursday, and nor did I want to. The main event was on Thursday, so nobody was leaving. I was stuck, and felt very lucky to be stuck there, though I was a bit anxious about not being able to call work or George to let them know that I was stuck in shaggz (sheng for the rural areas). Still, they’re all Kenyans and I’m sure they’ve all experienced being stuck somewhere in the country from time to time.

We drove back to the manyatta very early in the morning, before the boys came back from the bush. In the cattle enclosure, a bull was being killed, a bull selected specifically for its size and colouring – it must be a large bull which is black, with a white belly. The bull is suffocated, and an incision is made along the throat. The skin there is pulled back to form a sort of trough, where the blood collects. This blood is mixed with a locally-brewed alcohol and milk.

When the boys came back from the forest, again in song and dance, they all lined up and took a turn drinking the blood-milk-alcohol mixture directly from the neck of the bull. Some of them took long drinks, others only a tiny sip. All of them looked a bit disoriented after standing up, and some made faces despite themselves – they are just young boys, after all, it’s probably their first taste of alcohol and I’m sure the blood isn’t too sweet either. But all of them took a sip, being blessed all the while. The older ones had been smeared with white ocher during the night, and looked quite striking. I didn’t hear about whether or not they had been graced by the presence of a lion, though.

After all of them had had a sip of the blood mixture, which took hours because of the sheer number of boys, they went back into the bush to eat. I went with them, and was greeted by the biggest pile of meat I have ever seen. Chunks of meat were lying atop piles of leaves, and some were hung in tree branches, and others were boiling away in giant pots to make soup. Skulls and hooves were lying strewn about everywhere. Coming from a culture where all we see are the nice clean cuts at the market or butcher, I was a bit disconcerted that I really could not identify most of the bits of meat. There was so much fat and gristle and bone and weird dangly bits. It wasn’t terribly appetizing.

The boys lined up to receive their chunk of meat, which they devoured with great relish, hacking away at it with their pangas (machetes) or just ripping it up with their teeth. I was with a group of people from a Maasai NGO called MPIDO, Mainyoito Pastoralist Integrated Development Organization, and we were given a few chunks of meat skewered on a sharpened branch. One of the men tried to be really nice by slicing off pieces of tongue for me, which is meant to be appealing as it’s the softest part. He even peeled off the tough exterior tissue for me. What a gentleman. It actually wasn’t too bad, though it could have used some seasoning. Meanwhile, the boys lined up for their soup. Those who had finished eating were sleeping or dancing or just rough-housing. They had to be careful, though, because their shukas were sometimes quite short – once in awhile you’d see a flash of bum as a boy chased his buddy into the woods. Whoops!

I embarrassed myself by taking part in some of the dancing. One of the most distinct features of Maasai dance is the jumping – men will jump straight up into the air, sometimes looking as if they will shoot right up into the sky. I was invited to try my hand at jumping, to much hilarity. I was able to best one of the boys, though – never mind that he came up to about my chin and was as skinny as a rake. The boys were also fascinated by my hair. I had it up in a ponytail and under a hat to keep it relatively dust-free (as if such a thing were possible), but at one point I was completely encircled by boys wanting to see my hair. I shook it out for them, and it was like Christmas morning. All my efforts at cleanliness were dashed as I felt dozens of small hands on my head.

After napping and dancing, the boys returned to the boma. Upon entering, they had their faces smeared with cow fat by an old mama as a blessing. All of the boys sat in two circles, and waited for the meat. The bull whose blood they had drunk in the morning had been butchered. The skin, which was stretched out and hammered into the ground by the women, was lying inside-up for drying. The meat was being roasted on a wooden platform which had been constructed over a fire. The organs were also around. I don’t know what they were all to be used for, but apparently nothing would be thrown away.

Once the meat was roasted, it was taken around the circle to each boy in turn. The meat was held by the elders, and the boys were meant to take one bite from each piece, without touching it with their hands. The elders holding the meat is symbolic of their guiding and providing for the boys of this age group, while the fact that each boy was eating the same meat is mean to unite them and solidify their bond. Blessings were given throughout. The meat is also smeared on their faces before they take a bite. Of course, under all of the ceremony, these were still young boys. They were giggling and joking around throughout – it wasn’t exactly a solemn occasion.

That evening, I was lucky enough to get a ride with the guys from MPIDO, who were heading back to Nairobi. Apparently that night the boys would sleep outside again. It was so windy and dusty at night that I wonder how they managed, but they did seem to be perfectly comfortable sleeping on the ground. Some of these boys will be circumcised later this year, possibly even within the week. Traditionally after circumcision they are meant to enter a period of initiation during which they become morans, warriors, and live out in the bush, learning about different herbs, how to hunt and survive in the wilderness, and so on. Now this is becoming less common because many of the boys will have to return to school in September. Still, many are not in school and will continue with the tradition.

I felt very blessed myself to have had the opportunity to witness such a rare ceremony. Now that I’m back in Nairobi, I will have most of the photos printed out and hopefully they will get back to the proper people. Living in such an urban area, it is easy to forget that such ceremonies are still performed and are still incredibly valued. But this week really confirmed that in some areas, tradition is still thriving, for better or for worse.

(photos are up on flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stateofwonder)

enkipaata, part 1

This week was really bizarre and fascinating. My friend Isaa from Elangata Wuas had invited me to a ceremony, but he didn’t really specify which one it was, except to say that it was related to a rite of passage (which is pretty much all of them). So on Tuesday I headed to Kajiado, then waited for Isaa’s call. I waited and waited, had chai, waited some more – after an hour and a half, I went back to the matatu stage to see if I could just get a ride myself. Chatted with the matatu guys for about an hour, but no matatu for EWuas came. I headed back to Nairobi, disappointed. If these past few months have taught me anything, it’s that you cannot rely on people from rural areas to give you a ride. It’s not necessarily because of irresponsibility, but something always comes up. The roads are terrible and plans change so easily. Unfortunately, if there is no cell phone network, you have no way of knowing about changing plans, so for god’s sake just make your own arrangements.

On Wednesday, I wasn’t sure if I would go back or not, but I decided to take my chances. After fending off a persistent admirer in the matatu (who actually took a picture of the back of my head during the trip – creepy!), I was directed by the same matatu touts of the day before to a spot on the side of the road where a few other people were waiting. When a truck came by, I piled into the cab with a woman and her four children and we were off. A bumpy and dusty hour later, I was dropped off at a junction in the middle of nowhere. A boy of maybe 14 was there as well, waiting for a vehicle to take him back to Kajiado. We chatted for a bit and he helped me flag down the next truck that came by. It’s ridiculous how much I really do depend on the kindness of strangers here. Without almost everyone I met along the way giving me a hand in some way, I never would have made it. The second truckers even refused payment, which was really very generous of them. Living in Nairobi, it sometimes feels like everyone just wants a piece of you. Small gestures and unexpected generosity can really restore your faith in people.

It turned out that the ceremony was actually being held in a town a few hours further than Elangata Wuas – almost at the Tanzanian border! All the guys at the camp were so welcoming and excited that I was coming along. They’re really sweet people. As many of them are working as research assistants for a Canadian post-doc, they had a pickup truck for their research, which seven of us piled into with all of our supplies.

I found out that the ceremony to be performed is called enkipaata. It is done in preparation for male circumcision, which is the rite of passage into adulthood for the Maasai and many other ethnic groups in Kenya. It is also a ceremony to solidify the age group, an age bracket which passes through most of the major rites together and is in the same stage of life. The elders which conduct the enkipaata are considered to be the godfathers of that age group once the ceremony is finished – the boys of that age group will look to those elders for guidance and advice until they become elders themselves. Enkipaata only happens every seven years or so. I was very, very lucky that I was invited and that I was able to make it in the nick of time – even some of my Maasai companions had never seen the ceremony performed, and only one had been through it himself (it is not strictly mandatory to go through enkipaata, though it is ideal).

The ceremony was being held outside of a little town called Torosei, which was extremely remote. It must be held at a boma (homestead) that is big enough to accommodate the large crowd. Sometimes a boma is constructed specifically for the ceremony and abandoned afterwards, but I think this one was actually someone’s home. It had about 25 manyattas (huts), and an enormous cattle enclosure. Almost everyone there was in traditional dress. I was the only foreigner there, and probably even the only non-Maasai. Initially when we asked about photos, the elders refused, which was perfectly fair. The next day, however, they hanged their minds and requested a small fee. Of course, once I pulled out the camera, I was getting constant requests for photos. It never fails, especially with kids. A few of the elders decided that I was their personal photographer and would literally drag me around by the wrist, position me and give me orders in Swahili. I may be a foreigner, but I’m still a woman, and a young one at that, so they did not hesitate to tell me what to do. Those guys run the show around here. Most of them had also had quite a bit to drink – traditionally they take a locally-brewed wine during the proceedings, but nowadays it’s mostly beer and liquor run in from the nearest town. However, there were a few sipping traditional brew from plastic containers. Some of them are so thin and tiny that I’m surprised they were still able to stand after drinking for days straight.

On the evening we arrived, all of the boys came dancing and singing from the forest at dusk. The boys taking part in the ceremony came from seven different towns, and there were hundreds of them – I keep getting different estimates of numbers, but it was something like 550. When they lined up, the queue just stretched on into the forest, with no end in sight. It was astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life, and may not see anything like it again. The boys ranged in age from 10 to 16, although many of them looked younger than 10 to me. I’m not sure if that’s because they actually were, or if they were just malnourished. All of them were dressed in shukas (cloths) of brown, orange or red, and were draped in beaded jewelry (which was mostly white, in Tanzanian style). Though the school-going boys had short hair, those who are not in school had grown their hair out into tiny, adorable dreadlocks. Probably about a third had long hair, which goes to show how many of the kids here still aren’t in school – and that’s just the boys. School attendance among girls is even lower. Many of them likely hadn’t seen a foreigner before, and it almost became a staring contest – they were as fascinated by me as I was by them.

That evening, all the boys filtered into the cattle enclosure and formed two circles, which they sealed by holding onto each others’ walking sticks. They sang and danced while the elders who were conducting the ceremony walked around them, giving blessings. At a certain point, women who are having difficulty conceiving entered the circle. It was explained to me that being in the presence of so much blessing could help them conceive. After the entire ceremony, they would also try to steal a shuka or a piece of jewelry from one of the boys, which would then “guarantee” a baby.

That night, the boys were separated into two groups – those who would undergo circumcision shortly after the ceremony, and those who were too young and would have to wait for a year or more. All of the boys were then sent off into the bush to sleep. Those who were to be initiated shortly are supposed to see a lion in the woods. I don’t know how that would be possible, seeing as there aren’t many lions in the area, but I was told that it would have to happen, one way or another.

We went back into the town itself, to sleep in a small dorm near the high school. Had our own little feast of cabbage and ugali, and slept a deep, exhausted sleep.

weighing my options

With September fast approaching, I’ve been thinking more and more about where I hope to be in September 2009 – grad school. I would like to do my Masters, but I’m not yet decided on the subject. I would like to continue to be involved in gender equity work, perhaps focused on an area like sexual and reproductive rights, and gender-based violence. I enjoy development work, but there is a frustrating attitude amongst too many in this field, a kind of savior complex where people feel like it is their duty to “rescue” others rather than helping them to make their own, fully informed decisions and to find their own successes. A lot of people act as if development wouldn’t occur if their organization wasn’t there to spur it on, which is simply untrue. A good development organization should be there to facilitate – act as a mediator, an advocate, and a teacher when need be. A good organization won’t tell people what to think or what to do, but will help make their target population aware of the resources available to them, and help them gain the skills needed to use those resources and to achieve their goals without having to depend on anyone else. I don’t see as much honest collaboration and mutual respect as I’d like. I see a lot of organizations with money attempting to do something that someone at the grassroots level could do a lot better, if only they had the funding (anti-female genital mutilation campaigns are a great example of this, since it’s such a sensitive issue that it’s almost impossible for outsiders to tackle it directly and effectively – yet there are so many women who have great ideas about how to address it in their own communities, but don’t have the resources to do so). There is also a lot of mismanagement of funds, questionable ethics, and programs which are either never implemented, or are completely unsustainable, or are so culturally inappropriate that they’re doomed to failure from the very beginning.

I have been considering social work as a possible alternative, but I’m not sure that I won’t encounter the same problems in that profession. A few other programs which appeal to me are a combination of anthropology and development – perhaps deeper cultural understanding and respect would help temper some of the problematic aspects of development. Certainly some of the people whose work in Kenya I respect the most are anthropologists, so that may be a good option for me. There are also some great gender and development programs (though unfortunately not in Canada). While I’m tired of seeing development initiatives that cripple the very people they are intended to help, maybe it’s better to go into a field about which I’m somewhat skeptical –being aware of those issues would be useful in overcoming them.

I may end up applying for a variety of programs and see where I get accepted. I’ve been looking at schools in Canada, the US and the UK. While Canada would definitely be the cheaper and easier option, the programs elsewhere seem much more specialized, and there is so much more variety out there. I’ll start working on my applications now, but at least I still have a few more months to think about it.

a homestay

(continued from previous entry)
That evening, most of us went to do a homestay with the mother of Konzo, one of the camp staff. We went with Isaa, another staff member, who was to act as our interpreter. Since it was very uncommon for older Maasai to have attended school, particularly the women, a younger guide is necessary when doing visits. Isaa is my age and is a great guide, telling stories and pointing out interesting sights along the way. Konzo’s mother, a beautiful woman named Anna, was very welcoming and friendly, despite the fact that we had no shared language. She had built the manyattas on her husband’s property herself, as is customary. Though they are the ones to construct the homes, it is extremely rare for a Maasai woman, or for any woman living in a rural area to actually own property herself. Property in most Indigenous and rural communities is passed through the male line, though ideas about women and property ownership are slowly, slowly changing. There was a large goat pen on Anna’s husband’s land, and a number of dogs and a cat hanging around as well. There were also four curious children, ranging in age from about 3 to 15. It is customary for the head of the family (that being the man, of course) to leave the homestead of find somewhere else to sleep when there are overnight guests, so the father was not around.

Though from the outside, manyattas look impossibly tiny, inside they are actually quite spacious and charming. The layout is always basically the same – there are two beds on opposite sides of the house, and a bench-type seat adjacent to the entrance. In the middle of the room is the fire, where all the cooking is done, and dishes and cutlery are lined up on shelves along the other wall. Having the fire inside of the hut ensures that it is warm and relatively insect-free, and I imagine in times of conflict, it helps to have a hidden fire. The problem, for those of us who aren’t used to it anyway, is that the tiny windows positioned halfway up the manyatta walls don’t allow the smoke to escape, and it constantly stings the eyes, especially if you have to stand up. But I love visiting manyattas and having the chance to chat with the mamas. We talked for a few hours with Anna, Isaa and Richard, Anna’s neighbour who came to visit. After a meal of ugali, cabbage and chai, it was soon time for bed.

As there were quite a few of us visiting, Richard had offered to let some of us sleep in his mnanyatta. It was lucky that he did, because I don’t know how on earth we would have fit six of us in one bed. I headed over to his place with the two guys, leaving the rest of the women at Anna’s. I had stayed with Richard’s mother the first time we came to Elangata Wuas, and he was working as a staff member at the camp when I last visited. Since then, he’s been a busy guy; he now has two children, a large plot of land with an aloe garden, and a huge house along with the usual manyatta. He also has an outhouse, which is an improvement over his mom’s place where we were to go out somewhere in the property. I vividly recall having to go out in the middle of the night and being terrified that I would be attacked by a leopard while relieving myself (one had killed a goat in a nearby compound the previous night). That didn’t happen, thankfully, but I was spied on and giggled at by the young boys who were minding the livestock overnight. It was a good thing that I was skilled at going outside while covering myself with my leso.

This time I didn’t expect any kind of animal to disturb me in the outhouse, so I nearly had a heart attack when I shined my flashlight in there and saw a dark shape lurking in the corner. It turned out to be a rooster – an angry rooster who was not at all happy to be disturbed, and who was clucking and shifting around the entire time I was in there. I guess it had been put there so that it wouldn’t be snatched by a predator in the night. I tell you, I’ve been in some uncomfortable bathroom situations in my time in Kenya, but squatting and trying to aim for the small hole in the ground, while simultaneously attempting to soothe and back away from an irate rooster was pretty hilarious. I tried to think of how I might defend myself without injuring my host’s animal in case it decided to attack the intruder, but there was no pecking or biting involved. I’m sure we were both relieved when I made it out without incident.

The sleeping situation was equally uncomfortable and (to me) comical. Traditional Maasai beds are basically just structures made out of branches and covered by a cow hide – not exactly designed for comfort. They’re also usually shared, by necessity. There were three of us sharing the bed that night, me being by far the shortest of all, and even my feet were hanging off the edge of the bed. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable the guys must have been. I suspect that because I was the only woman there, they gave me wide a wide berth, and were probably crammed together like chickens in a Nairobi market all night long. It was also quite hot because of the dying coals and the body heat, so it was a bit of a restless night. It’s such a great opportunity that you just can’t pass it up, though. It’s just always so interesting to be able to see how other people live. The funny part was that in the morning, Isaa was the one who was complaining the most. I guess he got used to sleeping on a mattress at the camp!

The next day, we headed back to the chaos of Nairobi. It always seems twice as hectic, dirty and vibrant when compared to the slowness and remoteness of the rural areas. I’m hoping to head back to Elangata Wuas in a couple of weekends, but we’ll see how the time goes.