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.
August 24, 2008
August 16, 2008
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)
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.
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.
August 6, 2008
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.
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.
August 5, 2008
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.
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.
August 3, 2008
Elangata Wuas
(continued from previous entry)
Mirey and I also managed to make a trip out of town while she was here – we actually went back to the first place we had visited outside of Nairobi, and met another one of our old classmates, so it was a bit of a nostalgic trip. On Friday, we took a matatu for about an hour and a half out to Kajiado town, a little place on the edge of Maasailand that has one main street lined with small cafes and shops. There we met up with Allison, who also took part in the Canadian Field Studies in Africa program in 2005. This summer, she’s doing an internship at the International Criminal Tribunal on Rwanda in Arusha, Tanzania. She was accompanied by four others who are also working in Arusha, either at the Tribunal or with NGOs. We all piled into the back of a truck and drove out to Kudu Hills in Elangata Wuas.
EWuas is quite a traditional Maasai area. Of course, there have been the inevitable cultural changes over the decades. Most of the people living there are either semi-nomadic or completely sedentary, instead of being seasonally nomadic, and many children now attend school instead of spending their days fetching water or tending to the livestock. However, most of the homes here are traditional manyatta huts, and many older people still dress in shukas and lesos (colourful cloths wrapped around the body), adorn themselves with heaps of gorgeous beaded jewelry, remove the two middle teeth from the lower jaw and stretch their ears. It is very common to see people mixing “traditional” and “Western” styles of dress, a juxtaposition which I love. You might see an old man who has matched his red shuka with a red Fubu baseball cap, for example, or a mama who has created a beaded pouch to hang her cell phone around her neck.
Actually, almost everyone here has a cell phone now, though there are only a few spots in town where you can get reception. I don’t know what percentage of adult Kenyans now own cell phones, but I have hardly met anyone without one, even in the most remote areas. There are always one or two spots where one can get reception to check messages or make the occasional phone call. When I was volunteering in Trans-Mara district a few years ago, the only way to get reception was to climb to the top of one of the highest hills in the area, dubbed “Telephone Hill”. It was common for residents to walk up Telephone Hill once a week or so to check messages and call friends and relatives in the city. I know that in some areas, nomadic pastoralists who may not have access to any news source to use SMS (texting) to keep track of weather patterns and livestock market prices, which helps them to make informed decisions about when to travel and when to sell, without having to guess about conditions and prices. It would be interesting to do a study about the impact of cell phone technology on various Indigenous cultures of Kenya.
The place we were staying in Elangata Wuas is called Kudu Hills. It’s a gorgeous camp with several dorm-style houses, and a couple of more private houses. There is a curio shop, a dining hall, toilets, and even solar-powered hot showers, which is astonishing considering the remoteness of the area. I believe that the centre was originally built for eco-tourism purposes, but they seem to get more researchers than tourists these days. I stayed there in 2006 when doing research on female genital cutting/mutilation for my honours thesis, and I can see why it’s a popular place for researchers – it’s perfect since it’s all set up, is right in the community, and the staff make excellent interpreters and research assistants. All you need to bring is some food and drinking water, and you’re all set! McGill usually sends a couple of interns here during the summer. They help out at the school and the camp and with AfricaSOMA, an education-focused NGO started by Caroline, a McGill post-doc, and her husband who teaches at another university in Montreal. This year, McGill opted not to send any interns to any part of Kenya because of the violence early on, which was unfortunate for me because we were supposed to get two interns at Indigenous Information Network, who I had interviewed before leaving. But there were interns from a Dutch university at Kudu Hills this year, so at least the centre didn’t miss out. On our first night visiting, we stayed at the centre and got caught up with the staff and with each other. As Mirey said, the funny thing was that it felt completely normal for Allison, Mirey and me to see each other in that setting.
On the Saturday, we all trekked out to the weekly market. It’s a decent walk (I think it took an hour or two), and a lovely one, through the dust and thorn and acacia trees, past the school and the clinic. When we reached it, the market was a mass of red (a very popular colour for the Maasai). I was very surprised to see a dozen trucks parked around; last time, there were maybe two or three, so it seems that the market is becoming popular. We were the only foreigners there and received many stares, some friendly, some confused, some wary. I didn’t take many photos, as it would have been inappropriate. I’m lucky that taking photos is part of my job at IIN and I usually receive a positive or neutral reaction for doing so, but some Indigenous populations are concerned about having their images sold or exploited by outsiders. It’s not surprising, considering how many calendars, postcards and tourist and promotional materials feature the Maasai or other “exotic-looking” Indigenous people in traditional dress. Not to mention all those pricey coffee table books. It’s anyone’s guess as to how much most of these people are compensated for the use of their images, if at all. Anyway, imagine how it would feel if you were doing your shopping one day, and some stranger suddenly pulled out their camera and starting snapping away without asking, as if it was their right. Though the people at the market were beautiful and I would have loved to have taken photos, everyone deserves privacy and respect. Some may even allow you to take a picture or two if you ask nicely.
The market is where most people in the area get their everyday goods – produce, lesos, soap, tea, sugar, shoes, etc. I bought a leso and a couple of bracelets, then we wandered down to the dry riverbed. There was one borehole (an open well) there, and another one in the process of being dug. These would act as the water source for most of the community. In arid and semi-arid regions, it’s invariably the women and girls who are responsible for fetching water, as well as firewood. Depending on the region and whether or not a borehole has been created, they may walk for hours, sometimes taking the entire day just to find these necessities. The jerry cans which are used to carry water can be quite heavy, up to 20 kilos (about 44 lbs.). These are balanced on the head or waist, or strapped onto the head or back, frequently resulting in neck, back and hip pain and injuries. Those who are well-off enough use donkeys instead of carrying the water themselves. Elangata Wuas is quite dry for most of the year and the wells are privately owned – one must pay a small fee to access them. As in the rest of Kenya, water is a precious resource here.
Mirey and I also managed to make a trip out of town while she was here – we actually went back to the first place we had visited outside of Nairobi, and met another one of our old classmates, so it was a bit of a nostalgic trip. On Friday, we took a matatu for about an hour and a half out to Kajiado town, a little place on the edge of Maasailand that has one main street lined with small cafes and shops. There we met up with Allison, who also took part in the Canadian Field Studies in Africa program in 2005. This summer, she’s doing an internship at the International Criminal Tribunal on Rwanda in Arusha, Tanzania. She was accompanied by four others who are also working in Arusha, either at the Tribunal or with NGOs. We all piled into the back of a truck and drove out to Kudu Hills in Elangata Wuas.
EWuas is quite a traditional Maasai area. Of course, there have been the inevitable cultural changes over the decades. Most of the people living there are either semi-nomadic or completely sedentary, instead of being seasonally nomadic, and many children now attend school instead of spending their days fetching water or tending to the livestock. However, most of the homes here are traditional manyatta huts, and many older people still dress in shukas and lesos (colourful cloths wrapped around the body), adorn themselves with heaps of gorgeous beaded jewelry, remove the two middle teeth from the lower jaw and stretch their ears. It is very common to see people mixing “traditional” and “Western” styles of dress, a juxtaposition which I love. You might see an old man who has matched his red shuka with a red Fubu baseball cap, for example, or a mama who has created a beaded pouch to hang her cell phone around her neck.
Actually, almost everyone here has a cell phone now, though there are only a few spots in town where you can get reception. I don’t know what percentage of adult Kenyans now own cell phones, but I have hardly met anyone without one, even in the most remote areas. There are always one or two spots where one can get reception to check messages or make the occasional phone call. When I was volunteering in Trans-Mara district a few years ago, the only way to get reception was to climb to the top of one of the highest hills in the area, dubbed “Telephone Hill”. It was common for residents to walk up Telephone Hill once a week or so to check messages and call friends and relatives in the city. I know that in some areas, nomadic pastoralists who may not have access to any news source to use SMS (texting) to keep track of weather patterns and livestock market prices, which helps them to make informed decisions about when to travel and when to sell, without having to guess about conditions and prices. It would be interesting to do a study about the impact of cell phone technology on various Indigenous cultures of Kenya.
The place we were staying in Elangata Wuas is called Kudu Hills. It’s a gorgeous camp with several dorm-style houses, and a couple of more private houses. There is a curio shop, a dining hall, toilets, and even solar-powered hot showers, which is astonishing considering the remoteness of the area. I believe that the centre was originally built for eco-tourism purposes, but they seem to get more researchers than tourists these days. I stayed there in 2006 when doing research on female genital cutting/mutilation for my honours thesis, and I can see why it’s a popular place for researchers – it’s perfect since it’s all set up, is right in the community, and the staff make excellent interpreters and research assistants. All you need to bring is some food and drinking water, and you’re all set! McGill usually sends a couple of interns here during the summer. They help out at the school and the camp and with AfricaSOMA, an education-focused NGO started by Caroline, a McGill post-doc, and her husband who teaches at another university in Montreal. This year, McGill opted not to send any interns to any part of Kenya because of the violence early on, which was unfortunate for me because we were supposed to get two interns at Indigenous Information Network, who I had interviewed before leaving. But there were interns from a Dutch university at Kudu Hills this year, so at least the centre didn’t miss out. On our first night visiting, we stayed at the centre and got caught up with the staff and with each other. As Mirey said, the funny thing was that it felt completely normal for Allison, Mirey and me to see each other in that setting.
On the Saturday, we all trekked out to the weekly market. It’s a decent walk (I think it took an hour or two), and a lovely one, through the dust and thorn and acacia trees, past the school and the clinic. When we reached it, the market was a mass of red (a very popular colour for the Maasai). I was very surprised to see a dozen trucks parked around; last time, there were maybe two or three, so it seems that the market is becoming popular. We were the only foreigners there and received many stares, some friendly, some confused, some wary. I didn’t take many photos, as it would have been inappropriate. I’m lucky that taking photos is part of my job at IIN and I usually receive a positive or neutral reaction for doing so, but some Indigenous populations are concerned about having their images sold or exploited by outsiders. It’s not surprising, considering how many calendars, postcards and tourist and promotional materials feature the Maasai or other “exotic-looking” Indigenous people in traditional dress. Not to mention all those pricey coffee table books. It’s anyone’s guess as to how much most of these people are compensated for the use of their images, if at all. Anyway, imagine how it would feel if you were doing your shopping one day, and some stranger suddenly pulled out their camera and starting snapping away without asking, as if it was their right. Though the people at the market were beautiful and I would have loved to have taken photos, everyone deserves privacy and respect. Some may even allow you to take a picture or two if you ask nicely.
The market is where most people in the area get their everyday goods – produce, lesos, soap, tea, sugar, shoes, etc. I bought a leso and a couple of bracelets, then we wandered down to the dry riverbed. There was one borehole (an open well) there, and another one in the process of being dug. These would act as the water source for most of the community. In arid and semi-arid regions, it’s invariably the women and girls who are responsible for fetching water, as well as firewood. Depending on the region and whether or not a borehole has been created, they may walk for hours, sometimes taking the entire day just to find these necessities. The jerry cans which are used to carry water can be quite heavy, up to 20 kilos (about 44 lbs.). These are balanced on the head or waist, or strapped onto the head or back, frequently resulting in neck, back and hip pain and injuries. Those who are well-off enough use donkeys instead of carrying the water themselves. Elangata Wuas is quite dry for most of the year and the wells are privately owned – one must pay a small fee to access them. As in the rest of Kenya, water is a precious resource here.
"winter" and Batman
It has been quite some time since my last update, hasn’t it? I have all sorts of excuses, of course – minor illnesses, a guest, lack of time – but I really will try to keep you guys in the loop more. Time is passing so quickly. My time in Kenya is almost half over already!
I’d forgotten how chilly Nairobi gets in July. This is relative, of course. I don’t think it ever dips below 5°C, even at night, but when you’re used to sunny days and temperatures between 25 and 35C, it seems mighty cold when the temperature rarely rises above 15. Most days are cloudy and there has been quite a lot of drizzle recently as well. This is when Nairobians pull out their “winter” gear – hats, scarves, gloves and jackets. Some of the people you see on the street look geared up enough for a Canadian winter! To me it feels very spring-like, but without the giddiness and feeling of lightness that comes along with melting snow. The drop in temperature also means that everyone suddenly gets sick I’ve had a nasty cold for the past week or so, and am missing my staple sick-comforts of home: a hot bath, chicken noodle soup, and NeoCitron. But I’m making do with a hot water bottle, and am constantly sipping hot lemon water with honey. Last night, I even made chicken noodle soup from scratch, with the recipe help of a dear friend back home who is an excellent cook. It was delicious! Anyway, my cold isn’t enough to keep me home from work, but it has certainly drained me of energy for the moment.
Earlier in the month, I had a Canadian visitor, which was fabulous. Mirey was one of the students who was with me on the initial trip to Kenya in 2005. Back in Canada she lives halfway across the country from me, so we had only seen each other once since then, very briefly. It was great to be able to really catch up with her, and to spend time with her in the country with which we both fell in love. Most of our time together was spent in Nairobi – we went to Mathare, Kibera, city centre, the markets, South C. One night we also did one of the most Western things you can do in Kenya; we went to the movie theatre. The place we went, the ironically named Village Market, is the centre of all things extravagant and foreign. There you can find up market stores, a food court with a variety of cuisines (including Italian, Chinese, German and Thai), a bowling alley (the only one in Nairobi, perhaps in all of Kenya), and even mini-golf. I think there is a water park in the area as well, which is folly in a city where water is rationed. The Village Market is very near the UN complex, and is frequented by a mix of nationalities. When you’re inside, it feels like you could be anywhere – Africa, Europe, North America – which I find a bit disorienting somehow.
On this particular occasion, however, I was the one to drag Mirey and George to the Village Market because it was the closest place to town where they were showing The Dark Knight. It was a week after the North American release and, being a huge Batman nerd, I desperately wanted to see it as soon as possible. I was not let down – it was dark and philosophical, just how I like my Batman. As everyone else has mentioned, Heath Ledger gave a stunning and disturbing performance as the Joker.
As Western as it is to go see a movie here, there are a few Kenyan touches to the experience. They don’t do this at all of the theatres, but most of them require you to choose your seats before entering, as you would at an expensive play or concert back home. I’m not sure why they do this, since I’ve never seen a theatre more than half full and it’s very easy to find seats. The also play the national anthem before the previews. A grainy image of a Kenyan flag flapping in the wind appears onscreen, and everyone stands. The anthem itself sounds as if it is being performed by a school marching band, with the added crackling and off-pitch wanderings of a slightly warped record.
I’d forgotten how chilly Nairobi gets in July. This is relative, of course. I don’t think it ever dips below 5°C, even at night, but when you’re used to sunny days and temperatures between 25 and 35C, it seems mighty cold when the temperature rarely rises above 15. Most days are cloudy and there has been quite a lot of drizzle recently as well. This is when Nairobians pull out their “winter” gear – hats, scarves, gloves and jackets. Some of the people you see on the street look geared up enough for a Canadian winter! To me it feels very spring-like, but without the giddiness and feeling of lightness that comes along with melting snow. The drop in temperature also means that everyone suddenly gets sick I’ve had a nasty cold for the past week or so, and am missing my staple sick-comforts of home: a hot bath, chicken noodle soup, and NeoCitron. But I’m making do with a hot water bottle, and am constantly sipping hot lemon water with honey. Last night, I even made chicken noodle soup from scratch, with the recipe help of a dear friend back home who is an excellent cook. It was delicious! Anyway, my cold isn’t enough to keep me home from work, but it has certainly drained me of energy for the moment.
Earlier in the month, I had a Canadian visitor, which was fabulous. Mirey was one of the students who was with me on the initial trip to Kenya in 2005. Back in Canada she lives halfway across the country from me, so we had only seen each other once since then, very briefly. It was great to be able to really catch up with her, and to spend time with her in the country with which we both fell in love. Most of our time together was spent in Nairobi – we went to Mathare, Kibera, city centre, the markets, South C. One night we also did one of the most Western things you can do in Kenya; we went to the movie theatre. The place we went, the ironically named Village Market, is the centre of all things extravagant and foreign. There you can find up market stores, a food court with a variety of cuisines (including Italian, Chinese, German and Thai), a bowling alley (the only one in Nairobi, perhaps in all of Kenya), and even mini-golf. I think there is a water park in the area as well, which is folly in a city where water is rationed. The Village Market is very near the UN complex, and is frequented by a mix of nationalities. When you’re inside, it feels like you could be anywhere – Africa, Europe, North America – which I find a bit disorienting somehow.
On this particular occasion, however, I was the one to drag Mirey and George to the Village Market because it was the closest place to town where they were showing The Dark Knight. It was a week after the North American release and, being a huge Batman nerd, I desperately wanted to see it as soon as possible. I was not let down – it was dark and philosophical, just how I like my Batman. As everyone else has mentioned, Heath Ledger gave a stunning and disturbing performance as the Joker.
As Western as it is to go see a movie here, there are a few Kenyan touches to the experience. They don’t do this at all of the theatres, but most of them require you to choose your seats before entering, as you would at an expensive play or concert back home. I’m not sure why they do this, since I’ve never seen a theatre more than half full and it’s very easy to find seats. The also play the national anthem before the previews. A grainy image of a Kenyan flag flapping in the wind appears onscreen, and everyone stands. The anthem itself sounds as if it is being performed by a school marching band, with the added crackling and off-pitch wanderings of a slightly warped record.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)