On Thursday, two of my co-workers and I went to Oloshoibor for the twelfth annual Maasai cultural fair. It was almost unbearably dusty that day, the rainy season long since over, and I understood why people in this area have so many eye problems. I kept wanting to rub my own eyes to free them of the accursed red dust. But it was a great day. One of my co-workers is new and had never been to this area before. She’s from Nairobi and kept remarking, “wow, this is really indigenous!” And it was. There were traditional Maasai homes – manyattas made of branches, mud and cow dung – off to one side, a group of women draped in colourful lesos and gorgeous jewelry selling their own beaded creations, old men wandering about with their walking sticks and shukas. There were many dangling stretched earlobes, and missing teeth (just the front lower two, which are customarily removed around puberty). And of course there were gangs of schoolchildren everywhere in their uniforms. They will likely grow up wearing Western dress with teeth and ears intact, the only concession to culture a beaded bracelet or two.
The theme of this year’s fair was HIV and malaria awareness. We had to return to Nairobi to attend a gender forum in the afternoon, and so weren’t able to stay for long, but we saw some of the preliminary activities – a soccer match, races, a race and water balancing contest for women, and some cultural dances presented by local schools. There was also a small dispensary set up by a Nairobi-based Coptic church, but I doubt that they had too much business. Many in this area still prefer to rely on traditional plant-based medicine. Apparently the following day there was to be a talk on HIV, which I was sorry to miss.
We returned to the city exhausted and dirty, obviously straight from the country, and walked into the meeting to face a room full of people dressed in suits and business attire, looking as sharp as only Nairobians do. Fashion is a big deal in this city – it reminds me a bit of Montreal in the sense that people really dress to look good, and the style of younger generations can get a bit outrageous. The major difference is that instead of shopping at expensive boutiques, most people here collect their goods from the sprawling, hectic second-hand markets. People are also somewhat more formal in business settings, frequently wearing full suits even for minor office jobs (I even have my own dress suit and a couple of blazers now, though I’m more likely to mix it up with jeans).
Matatu touts are some of the most interesting dressers in the city, I imagine because they are attempting to be as loud and cutting edge as possible to attract customers. You’ll see a guy wearing a button-up shirt with tight jeans, long dreads worn in a ponytail on the top of his head and a long, pink polka-dot scarf that dangles almost to his feet and sways as he hops in and out of the moving vehicle. Some guys let the fingernails of just one hand grow long and paint them ruby red. It would look very silly if they weren’t otherwise so tough and gangsta, and instead manages to look almost intimidating. In the slums, too, the youth dress to impress. At Roots meetings, you’ll see everything from Timbalands to fedoras, lots of bling and attitude. Some of the women have become experts at navigating the mud and garbage heaps, and even hopping across the slippery stones in the putrid Mathare river, all in pencil-thin stilettos. It’s truly an art. Meanwhile, I’m in my practical sneakers and sandals, though sometimes I do manage to look “smart”, as they say. I’m adapting.
June 30, 2008
June 29, 2008
may my mind stroll about hungry
On Saturday morning, George has gone to take an exam and I am left to lounge in bed and admire the effect of soft sunlight filtering through the mosquito net. It always reminds me of the great folds of clothing that used to be draped around the beds of nobility – though much less substantial. It protects us not only from buzzing, blood-sucking pests, but from the worries of the outside world. Still, on a lazy morning I like to listen to the sounds of life outside our little haven.
In the distance are the sounds of construction – power tools, hammers, men shouting. Closer to home is the darasa, where young children are learning to recite the Qur’an. The teacher speaks first, a deep voice in measured tones, and the children repeat in
an uneven chorus, half-chant, half-song. I can’t tell what language they’re speaking, but I assume that it’s Arabic. All I can hear is the cadence and metre, the rise and fall of voices. Closer still are the neighbours and the sounds of the main house. To either side, there are women washing, sweeping, watering plants. Conversing in Somali. Only a few steps away, I can hear Mumbe moving about in the kitchen while the children chase each other around the house, shrieking in Kikuyu and Kiswahili. Finally, my own voice, whispering English poetry. And of course the birds, sparrows and chickens hopping about in the muddy road and singing in their own languages.
Before I left, my friends J and T gave me a small booklet of poetry. Last year they walked across America (seriously!), and had brought the same poems along with them. These words are well-travelled. The first poem in the book, and possibly my favourite, is this one:
may my heart always be open to little
by e.e. cummings
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
In the distance are the sounds of construction – power tools, hammers, men shouting. Closer to home is the darasa, where young children are learning to recite the Qur’an. The teacher speaks first, a deep voice in measured tones, and the children repeat in
an uneven chorus, half-chant, half-song. I can’t tell what language they’re speaking, but I assume that it’s Arabic. All I can hear is the cadence and metre, the rise and fall of voices. Closer still are the neighbours and the sounds of the main house. To either side, there are women washing, sweeping, watering plants. Conversing in Somali. Only a few steps away, I can hear Mumbe moving about in the kitchen while the children chase each other around the house, shrieking in Kikuyu and Kiswahili. Finally, my own voice, whispering English poetry. And of course the birds, sparrows and chickens hopping about in the muddy road and singing in their own languages.
Before I left, my friends J and T gave me a small booklet of poetry. Last year they walked across America (seriously!), and had brought the same poems along with them. These words are well-travelled. The first poem in the book, and possibly my favourite, is this one:
may my heart always be open to little
by e.e. cummings
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
June 18, 2008
the road to Ngong and Obamamania
One of the things I like about going to Ngong is the means of transportation to and from. My friend Isaiah, the son of Agnes who I visited last time I went, had invited me to a sports day that was to be held at a local primary school.
To get to Ngong, I first took a matatu out to town, and then a bus to the little town of Ngong Hills. That particular bus passes through mostly rural areas, but also through the middle-class suburb of Karen, and it always has an interesting mix of characters. Inevitably, someone will be carrying huge bags of charcoal, agricultural produce, or live chickens. You have to feel sorry for the chickens in this country. Some of them are lucky enough to run free in the countryside for most of their lives, but it seems that whenever I see chickens they're always in some awkward, ignoble position. The chickens in Nairobi are stuffed into cages in markets and on the side of the road, or tethered to each other and strapped to a wooden frame, or are actually hung live upside-down from a moving bicycle, or tucked uncomfortably under someone's arm or between their legs on a long bus ride. The funny thing is, none of them ever look too disturbed by their predicament, as if they've accepted their lot in the world and see no point in rebelling.
In any case, this particular bus ride was funny to me because about ten minutes into the ride, the reggae music that had been blasting was abruptly switched off, and one of the passengers stood up and began to talk. Though he was speaking in Swahili, it quickly became apparent that this man was not just talking, but preaching -- it seems I had unwittingly boarded a church on wheels. Most of the passengers simply ignored him, but I was quite impressed that the preacher managed to go on for a good forty-five minutes before debarking.
Once in Ngong, I was left to my own devices. The nice thing about small-town Kenya is that, unlike in Nairobi, most people you meet are friendly and will give you a hand without ripping you off. I didn't know the name of the school I was heading to, so I loitered about while a motorcycle driver asked around about the event. Eventually, we figured out where I was supposed to go, and he offered to give me a lift. However, the thought of riding down the steep hills and bumpy, dusty roads of Oloshoibor was a bit much -- I would have arrived with a full-body "dust tan". I opted to catch a ride in the cab of a pick-up truck instead, and ended up sitting next to the village chief. The last time I went, I made the trip to Maasailand in a matatu that was so old and decrepit that the door literally fell of its hinges several times during the trip.
The sports day was held by a local NGO in order to raise awareness of female genital mutilation (FGM) and to promote girls' education. I'm not sure how effective the event was in achieving those specific goals -- there was a talk at the end of the day, but by that time everyone was worn out and not too attentive. But it was a good effort, and it was certainly an enjoyable day. It was closed with an enormous goat feast, at which I was given way too much meat to handle and became ridiculously greasy. A very Kenyan meal.
Recently, as you may imagine, the country has been overcome with "Obamamania". Kenyans, and particularly Luos, are immensely proud that a "son of Kenya" may end up being President of the US. Never mind the fact that Obama's father had little to do with raising him, or that Obama is not one to affiliate himself with tribes. That's a Luo up there! For all the enthusiasm, you might be forgiven for thinking that he's actually running for the top political post in Kenya. Many Kenyans are convinced that if he does win, Obama will do great things for Kenya, and I'm afraid that they will probably be disappointed in that respect.
Of course lately everyone is claiming to be a cousin or some other relative of Obama's. His actual grandmother has been in the international media spotlight for some months now and is growing quite blase about all the attention. There are songs about Obama, and he's in the newspaper every day without fail. It will be a madhouse around here if the man actually makes it!
Obama fever was also present at the soccer game I attended this past weekend. The match was between Kenya's Harambe Stars and Zimbabwe's Warriors, and everyone in Nairobi was dying to be there to watch in person. Seby managed to get us some tickets, and the place was packed full, with the police out in full force. Kenyans take their soccer very seriously indeed, so everyone was showing their support in one way or another -- right down to the guy dressed as Spiderman who somehow scaled one of the lighting platforms and perched up there for an hour waving a giant Kenyan flag! There was also a very enthusiastic group of dancers, who played the drums and danced and sang their way around the stadium for the entire game. Some of them were dressed all in orange and were waving an ODM flag, and others had written OBAMA across their back or chest. Eventually a chant was taken up, that went "Oliech! Obama! Odinga!" (Oliech being one of the star players on the Kenyan team.) I'm not quite sure I see the connection there, but it is fascinating how Raila and Obama are both such popular figures. You'd never see anyone waving a flag and chanting for Kibaki at a soccer match. Obama has now joined Kofi Annan and scores of rap artists on the sides of matatus across the city. Another of the chants at the game was "Mugabe must go!", which is what everyone is thinking these days.
The Harambe Stars won, by the way.
To get to Ngong, I first took a matatu out to town, and then a bus to the little town of Ngong Hills. That particular bus passes through mostly rural areas, but also through the middle-class suburb of Karen, and it always has an interesting mix of characters. Inevitably, someone will be carrying huge bags of charcoal, agricultural produce, or live chickens. You have to feel sorry for the chickens in this country. Some of them are lucky enough to run free in the countryside for most of their lives, but it seems that whenever I see chickens they're always in some awkward, ignoble position. The chickens in Nairobi are stuffed into cages in markets and on the side of the road, or tethered to each other and strapped to a wooden frame, or are actually hung live upside-down from a moving bicycle, or tucked uncomfortably under someone's arm or between their legs on a long bus ride. The funny thing is, none of them ever look too disturbed by their predicament, as if they've accepted their lot in the world and see no point in rebelling.
In any case, this particular bus ride was funny to me because about ten minutes into the ride, the reggae music that had been blasting was abruptly switched off, and one of the passengers stood up and began to talk. Though he was speaking in Swahili, it quickly became apparent that this man was not just talking, but preaching -- it seems I had unwittingly boarded a church on wheels. Most of the passengers simply ignored him, but I was quite impressed that the preacher managed to go on for a good forty-five minutes before debarking.
Once in Ngong, I was left to my own devices. The nice thing about small-town Kenya is that, unlike in Nairobi, most people you meet are friendly and will give you a hand without ripping you off. I didn't know the name of the school I was heading to, so I loitered about while a motorcycle driver asked around about the event. Eventually, we figured out where I was supposed to go, and he offered to give me a lift. However, the thought of riding down the steep hills and bumpy, dusty roads of Oloshoibor was a bit much -- I would have arrived with a full-body "dust tan". I opted to catch a ride in the cab of a pick-up truck instead, and ended up sitting next to the village chief. The last time I went, I made the trip to Maasailand in a matatu that was so old and decrepit that the door literally fell of its hinges several times during the trip.
The sports day was held by a local NGO in order to raise awareness of female genital mutilation (FGM) and to promote girls' education. I'm not sure how effective the event was in achieving those specific goals -- there was a talk at the end of the day, but by that time everyone was worn out and not too attentive. But it was a good effort, and it was certainly an enjoyable day. It was closed with an enormous goat feast, at which I was given way too much meat to handle and became ridiculously greasy. A very Kenyan meal.
Recently, as you may imagine, the country has been overcome with "Obamamania". Kenyans, and particularly Luos, are immensely proud that a "son of Kenya" may end up being President of the US. Never mind the fact that Obama's father had little to do with raising him, or that Obama is not one to affiliate himself with tribes. That's a Luo up there! For all the enthusiasm, you might be forgiven for thinking that he's actually running for the top political post in Kenya. Many Kenyans are convinced that if he does win, Obama will do great things for Kenya, and I'm afraid that they will probably be disappointed in that respect.
Of course lately everyone is claiming to be a cousin or some other relative of Obama's. His actual grandmother has been in the international media spotlight for some months now and is growing quite blase about all the attention. There are songs about Obama, and he's in the newspaper every day without fail. It will be a madhouse around here if the man actually makes it!
Obama fever was also present at the soccer game I attended this past weekend. The match was between Kenya's Harambe Stars and Zimbabwe's Warriors, and everyone in Nairobi was dying to be there to watch in person. Seby managed to get us some tickets, and the place was packed full, with the police out in full force. Kenyans take their soccer very seriously indeed, so everyone was showing their support in one way or another -- right down to the guy dressed as Spiderman who somehow scaled one of the lighting platforms and perched up there for an hour waving a giant Kenyan flag! There was also a very enthusiastic group of dancers, who played the drums and danced and sang their way around the stadium for the entire game. Some of them were dressed all in orange and were waving an ODM flag, and others had written OBAMA across their back or chest. Eventually a chant was taken up, that went "Oliech! Obama! Odinga!" (Oliech being one of the star players on the Kenyan team.) I'm not quite sure I see the connection there, but it is fascinating how Raila and Obama are both such popular figures. You'd never see anyone waving a flag and chanting for Kibaki at a soccer match. Obama has now joined Kofi Annan and scores of rap artists on the sides of matatus across the city. Another of the chants at the game was "Mugabe must go!", which is what everyone is thinking these days.
The Harambe Stars won, by the way.
June 4, 2008
amnesty?
Life has been a bit quiet here lately, which is why I haven't been updating quite so much. That's not to say that it's been boring, but just feels more routine somehow. Of course there have been a few events. This past weekend was Madaraka day, a celebration of Kenyan self-rule which was marked in part by a huge free reggae concert headlined by Black Uhuru. I was warned of the rowdy crowds, drunken fights and thieves, and did not attend. Apparently reggae concerts are notorious for attracting thieves. Free concerts are even worse. In any case, I decided to avoid the crowds entirely this weekend and spent most of my time swimming and basking in the rare June sunshine.
You see, recently I joined a "sports club" which is about twenty minutes' walk away from our place. It has a soccer field and track, an outdoor pool, squash courts, a pool table and an outdoor and indoor bar. The plan is to kick myself back into gear and get active again -- swimming and running three times a week each. It's pretty ambitious (for me), and is heavily dependent on not working late, so it may not be totally realistic. But it's something to aim for, anyway. I'm tired of being so inactive, and the four months of starch and meat and whole milk are taking its toll...
This weekend was also the second anniversary of my first "date" with George. It's been well over three years now since we first met -- time flies! We went out to an Italian restaurant in celebration, which was lovely.
Otherwise, it's been business as usual. The political fuss recently has been about whether or not to grant amnesty to those who were jailed during the post-election violence. Raila is calling for a blanket amnesty, while Kibaki has refused point blank. It's a tough situation. On one hand, it would be a slap in the face to IDPs to grant amnesty to accused perpetrators of destruction and violence while so many of them are still homeless, recovering the loss of their businesses or their families. On the other hand, Kenyan police aren't exactly known for their well-thought-out and discriminating arrests, particularly when it comes to slum-dwelling youth -- who knows what percentage of those who have been languishing in jail since early January with no trial actually committed any wrongs. Not to mention the fact that the only police officers on trial were those who were actually caught on tape murdering peaceful protesters. The rest who killed and maimed hundreds of citizens without just cause have gone unpunished. I have no doubt that the politicians involved will also miraculously emerge as upstanding folk in the eyes of the justice system.
Ex-President Moi has recently been calling for the banning of local-language radio stations, because of the role that they played in the incitement of violence, particularly in rural areas. As in the Rwandan genocide, the local-language radio stations here in Kenya used thinly-veiled metaphors to encourage communities to turn against one another. The reports on this subject were incredibly disturbing. While in Rwanda they spoke of "cockroaches" to be crushed, here other communities were referred to as "weeds" to be uprooted and destroyed. However, despite this, I do not believe that banning these radio stations entirely is the answer. What Moi is overlooking is that there are people in rural areas who speak neither English nor Swahili, particularly in areas where government services are lacking and school attendance is low. If local-language radio stations are banned, how will those who speak mostly their own ethnic language get their news and stay connected to the rest of the country? And beyond that, even if they do speak English or Swahili, shouldn't speaking and listening to one's mother tongue be encouraged, rather than discouraged? Part of what makes Kenya such a beautiful and fascinating country is its diversity, and I would think that a former President would understand that and try to preserve it. Local-language radio stations should not be left to broadcast whatever they please -- they should be regulated and monitored for hate speech and the like. But to ban them entirely would be a disservice to all the Kenyans who want to keep their mother tongue, and the cultural diversity of this country, alive.
My travel news is that in a few weeks I will be heading to Tanzania with work. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where I will be going, what I will be doing, or for how long -- I'm waiting for Lucy to return to confirm the details, and I will be traveling with her. But either way, I'm excited to have the opportunity to see a new country! This is going to be a real test of my Kiswahili skills, since English isn't spoken as much in Tz. Until then, I'll be in Nairobi continuing with my proposals, fundraising and writing. And my running and swimming and lessons, of course!
You see, recently I joined a "sports club" which is about twenty minutes' walk away from our place. It has a soccer field and track, an outdoor pool, squash courts, a pool table and an outdoor and indoor bar. The plan is to kick myself back into gear and get active again -- swimming and running three times a week each. It's pretty ambitious (for me), and is heavily dependent on not working late, so it may not be totally realistic. But it's something to aim for, anyway. I'm tired of being so inactive, and the four months of starch and meat and whole milk are taking its toll...
This weekend was also the second anniversary of my first "date" with George. It's been well over three years now since we first met -- time flies! We went out to an Italian restaurant in celebration, which was lovely.
Otherwise, it's been business as usual. The political fuss recently has been about whether or not to grant amnesty to those who were jailed during the post-election violence. Raila is calling for a blanket amnesty, while Kibaki has refused point blank. It's a tough situation. On one hand, it would be a slap in the face to IDPs to grant amnesty to accused perpetrators of destruction and violence while so many of them are still homeless, recovering the loss of their businesses or their families. On the other hand, Kenyan police aren't exactly known for their well-thought-out and discriminating arrests, particularly when it comes to slum-dwelling youth -- who knows what percentage of those who have been languishing in jail since early January with no trial actually committed any wrongs. Not to mention the fact that the only police officers on trial were those who were actually caught on tape murdering peaceful protesters. The rest who killed and maimed hundreds of citizens without just cause have gone unpunished. I have no doubt that the politicians involved will also miraculously emerge as upstanding folk in the eyes of the justice system.
Ex-President Moi has recently been calling for the banning of local-language radio stations, because of the role that they played in the incitement of violence, particularly in rural areas. As in the Rwandan genocide, the local-language radio stations here in Kenya used thinly-veiled metaphors to encourage communities to turn against one another. The reports on this subject were incredibly disturbing. While in Rwanda they spoke of "cockroaches" to be crushed, here other communities were referred to as "weeds" to be uprooted and destroyed. However, despite this, I do not believe that banning these radio stations entirely is the answer. What Moi is overlooking is that there are people in rural areas who speak neither English nor Swahili, particularly in areas where government services are lacking and school attendance is low. If local-language radio stations are banned, how will those who speak mostly their own ethnic language get their news and stay connected to the rest of the country? And beyond that, even if they do speak English or Swahili, shouldn't speaking and listening to one's mother tongue be encouraged, rather than discouraged? Part of what makes Kenya such a beautiful and fascinating country is its diversity, and I would think that a former President would understand that and try to preserve it. Local-language radio stations should not be left to broadcast whatever they please -- they should be regulated and monitored for hate speech and the like. But to ban them entirely would be a disservice to all the Kenyans who want to keep their mother tongue, and the cultural diversity of this country, alive.
My travel news is that in a few weeks I will be heading to Tanzania with work. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where I will be going, what I will be doing, or for how long -- I'm waiting for Lucy to return to confirm the details, and I will be traveling with her. But either way, I'm excited to have the opportunity to see a new country! This is going to be a real test of my Kiswahili skills, since English isn't spoken as much in Tz. Until then, I'll be in Nairobi continuing with my proposals, fundraising and writing. And my running and swimming and lessons, of course!
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