My parents will be arriving tonight! I’m really looking forward to seeing them again, and to taking a couple of weeks off work. First they’re going to spend a week in Nairobi, where they’ll be introduced to the beautiful madness of this city. Then we’ll be heading to Tanzania at the beginning of October and embarking on an 11-day safari, before traveling to Zanzibar, where we’ll remain for about 4 days. After that I’ll be returning to work, but mom and dad are staying on the coast for a few more days before rejoining me in Nairobi. I’m so excited about the trip, and the opportunity to finally get some travel in! It will be really nice to spend some quality time with the parents after nine months or so. The only unfortunate part about it is that we’ll be missing the Canadian election – on the day of the 14th, we’re scheduled to be in the Serengeti. It will be the first time since I’ve been able to really follow the election that I won’t be following it obsessively so that’s a bit weird. Especially since this is such an important election, and we probably won’t know the results until a couple of days later. I faxed my form in to receive my ballot by mail, but I fear that it may not arrive before I leave the country.
Otherwise, things have been insanely busy. I’m trying to balance work, school applications and social life, which has been tough At least the preparations for my applications are nearly finished – I’m moving on to scholarships soon (the bad news I recently discovered on that front is that Commonwealth Scholarships are not being offered to Canadian students this year – sigh). The applications themselves will mostly be submitted in October, when the majority open online.
At work, I’m working on a couple of publications (one magazine and one report), training my co-workers on the various programs I usually work with, plus organizing for the women’s movements conference coming up in Cape Town in November. I still don’t know whether I’ll be going myself, but at least some of our partners from the communities are! That’s really the most important thing, since they can make great contacts and bring what they’ve learned back to the village.
On Thursday I attended the monthly gender forum which is hosted by the Heinrich Boll Foundation, usually in collaboration with another organization. This time it was with the Centre for Multiparty Democracy. The subject of the forum this month was the Political Parties Act, which is designed to regulate the formulation, registration, qualifications and dissolution of political parties in Kenya. The Act was passed in 2007, and will come into effect in December 2008. Up to present, the regulation of political parties has been lax, at best. Parties are constantly springing up, dissolving, forming alliances and making shady deals. It’s interesting how much of Kenyan politics has relied on coalitions in the past decade. Not only is the current administration a so-called “Grand” Coalition, but PNU is also a coalition party, various segments of which are constantly threatening to break off. Kenyan politics right now is all about coalitions upon coalitions.
Two of the most notable aspects of the act were the emphasis on nationalizing parties (which means restricting parties that cater to a particular region, ethnic group or “minority interest”), and the attempt to force politicians to stick to one party, instead of joining whichever party would guarantee a seat and jumping ship once in parliament, by making it difficult to cross the floor. Of course, as it was a gender forum, we also discussed the gender aspects of the act. Really, the only gender provision was that, in all political parties, one-third of national officials must be of either gender. Meaning, if two-third of officials are men, the other third must be women, and vise-versa. The interesting thing is that the act does not discuss how this should be accomplished, nor does it address specific penalties if this provision, or any other, is ignored (aside from stating that it is “an offense”).
Involving such a large number of women in politics in Kenya will be very tricky. Many women, particularly in rural areas where literacy rates are abysmal, do not vote, or even speak up at public gatherings of any kind, let alone become politicians. There are so many barriers for women who want to become involved in politics: lack of education, very heavy domestic workloads, and deeply patriarchal social structures which prevent women from participating in the development of their own communities. Not least of all, women aspiring to take on what is seen as a “man’s job” are simply not taken seriously. This is not just the case in Kenya; in North America, we’re constantly belittling women in politics, discussing their wardrobes more than their policies and referring to them by their first names. In “progressive” Nairobi, just the discussion of women in politics got some people at the gender forum giggling away.
I fear that unless the popular perception of women as baby-makers, cooks and housewives change, any kind of affirmative action meant to encourage women to become politicians will be incredibly ineffective. I believe that education is crucial – people must see what girls and women are capable of achieving when they have the opportunity to develop their skills and improve their self-confidence. And it is also up to women and girls to dare to dream and stand up for their rights (of course, this can be pretty difficult if you’re stuck in an abusive marriage or face other threats to your physical safety and social standing for being outspoken). In every community, there are amazing women who are pushing boundaries and doing great things; unfortunately, they are frequently the exception.
Recently, Rwanda set a world record for being the first nation in which the majority of parliamentary seats are held by women. This was accomplished not only through affirmative action policies, but also through the hard work of women who campaigned hard, mobilized communities, and who came out in large numbers to vote. It didn’t happen by accident; a lot of people put a lot of through and effort into making it happen. It would be amazing to see a similar movement in Kenya.
Of course, a person’s policies are always more important than their gender. I think what many have learned from the ascent of Sarah Palin is that having prominent women politicians is less important than having prominent feminist politicians.
But maybe that’s just me. I am a raging leftie, after all :)
September 27, 2008
September 14, 2008
A grad school update for you: I've decided to drop the idea of social work for now, and concentrate on gender and development studies. That's what I'm really most passionate about, and I figure I can always go back to do social work later if development doesn't work out! After all, there's no reason to be locked into one field forever.
So far, I've narrowed my choices to the following:
-gender studies, School of Oriental and African Studies
-gender and development, University of Sussex
-gender, development, London School of Economics
-international development studies, University of Guelph
-international development studies, Dalhousie University
Now it's just a question of getting in! (And funding, of course, which will be mighty tricky for the UK schools. Eep.)
The power has been out at my place for over two weeks. No joke, they're apparently installing individual power meters and that's the reason we've been in the dark for a good eighteen days now. It was suppose to take three days, I'm not quite sure what happened to that. The funny thing is that after about a week, a number of people in the estate bought generators. I'd say that about a third now have generators running at all hours. I understand that it's inconvenient not to have power, but really, generators for a private residence? Then again, these are the same people who have electric fences and razor wire in an estate which is already gated, guarded 24/7 and in one of Nairobi's safest neighbourhoods. So I guess they just live on a different plane of existence. It is probably a lot harder if you have kids, though.
As for me, I'm content with reading and writing by candlelight at night. The biggest annoyance is the lack of hot shower, but that's what the stove and wash basin are for. Most people in Nairobi don't have a shower at all, so I'm just going with the flow.
Now that it's Ramadan, the neighbourhood is alive with the sound of prayer several times a day. Well, it was before too, but now the prayers are longer. It's a very meditative sound, the muezzin pouring out his devotion. Today I heard a young boy reciting the call to prayer, with adult voices in the background coaching him when he stumbled. It was very sweet. All of this prayer also compliments the book I'm reading now, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. It's a fascinating, powerful read. My friends and coworkers who have seen me reading it have all begged me to lend it to them, which is interesting. I guess Malcolm X, who did travel in Africa and visited several heads of state, including Jomo Kenyatta, before his assassination, is pretty popular here (as is Martin Luther King). I guess Malcolm X was successful in connecting the civil rights movement in the States to African independence movements after all.
I've also noticed that Kenyans are big readers of biographies and inspirational books, particularly Christian inspirational books. There's not too much interest in fiction, which is a shame because there are a number of great contemporary Kenyan writers, like Binyavanga Wainaina, who don't get too much local exposure. There are literary events around town, but they're always in ridiculously posh neighbourhoods, at expensive clubs which aren't exactly accessible to the average Nairobian. Hopefully we'll see some change in the exclusive nature of literary culture in years to come.
So far, I've narrowed my choices to the following:
-gender studies, School of Oriental and African Studies
-gender and development, University of Sussex
-gender, development, London School of Economics
-international development studies, University of Guelph
-international development studies, Dalhousie University
Now it's just a question of getting in! (And funding, of course, which will be mighty tricky for the UK schools. Eep.)
The power has been out at my place for over two weeks. No joke, they're apparently installing individual power meters and that's the reason we've been in the dark for a good eighteen days now. It was suppose to take three days, I'm not quite sure what happened to that. The funny thing is that after about a week, a number of people in the estate bought generators. I'd say that about a third now have generators running at all hours. I understand that it's inconvenient not to have power, but really, generators for a private residence? Then again, these are the same people who have electric fences and razor wire in an estate which is already gated, guarded 24/7 and in one of Nairobi's safest neighbourhoods. So I guess they just live on a different plane of existence. It is probably a lot harder if you have kids, though.
As for me, I'm content with reading and writing by candlelight at night. The biggest annoyance is the lack of hot shower, but that's what the stove and wash basin are for. Most people in Nairobi don't have a shower at all, so I'm just going with the flow.
Now that it's Ramadan, the neighbourhood is alive with the sound of prayer several times a day. Well, it was before too, but now the prayers are longer. It's a very meditative sound, the muezzin pouring out his devotion. Today I heard a young boy reciting the call to prayer, with adult voices in the background coaching him when he stumbled. It was very sweet. All of this prayer also compliments the book I'm reading now, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. It's a fascinating, powerful read. My friends and coworkers who have seen me reading it have all begged me to lend it to them, which is interesting. I guess Malcolm X, who did travel in Africa and visited several heads of state, including Jomo Kenyatta, before his assassination, is pretty popular here (as is Martin Luther King). I guess Malcolm X was successful in connecting the civil rights movement in the States to African independence movements after all.
I've also noticed that Kenyans are big readers of biographies and inspirational books, particularly Christian inspirational books. There's not too much interest in fiction, which is a shame because there are a number of great contemporary Kenyan writers, like Binyavanga Wainaina, who don't get too much local exposure. There are literary events around town, but they're always in ridiculously posh neighbourhoods, at expensive clubs which aren't exactly accessible to the average Nairobian. Hopefully we'll see some change in the exclusive nature of literary culture in years to come.
September 7, 2008
the importance of context and consent
Lately I've been re-reading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver. I was lucky; I spotted it randomly one day on a street corner, nestled amongst the usual fare of thrillers and romances, their covers dramatic black and gold, or garish pink. I always peer at the hawkers' dusty piles of books when I pass by, but this was the first time I'd found anything of interest.
It's the story of a Baptist family who become missionaries in a rural village in the Congo in 1959, when it was still a Belgian colony, but on the verge of independence. The story alternates from the point of view of the mother and the four daughters, each of whom has a unique voice and perspective on their lives in Congo. It's a favourite book of mine, not only because of the excellent writing and fascinating setting, but also because it shows how badly you can mess up if you don't at least try to understand the culture in which you're working. It highlights how something might seem completely nonsensical to an outsider, but is simply common sense in the context of the culture. But you'll never figure that out unless you talk to people, ask questions and keep an open mind.
Some of the misunderstandings in the book remind me of a disastrous development project I heard about in Samburu, a semi-arid region in Northern Kenya. Water is scarce in much of the North, so wells (or bore holes, as they're called) are a common and generally well-received project. A well-placed well can save women and girls hours which they would otherwise use walking to the next water collection point, and carrying the full jerry cans and buckets back home. However, this particular NGO foolishly did not consult locals before creating the well. They decided to put it at the base of a hill. After the well was constructed, the NGO sat back, waiting to be thanked and to see the well in use. Nobody said a word, and nobody used the well, though it would have saved them hours of labor daily. The organization was baffled.
If the NGO's employees had bothered to work with the community it was supposedly helping, instead of doing what they thought was right as outsiders, they would have discovered that the hill the well was next to was a sacred place where the dead were buried, and where their spirits were believed to reside. Nobody would take the water from the well, as so much activity near the burial place would be considered to be disrespectful. And in any case, the water was likely contaminated, since the source was so close to decomposing bodies.
It's the same old story with many NGOs which attempt to address female genital cutting/mutilation, particularly those from the West. Coming in with no conception of why women would want their daughters to be cut, it is easy to dismiss the practice as nonsensical and "barbaric". Simply addressing the host of health issues that cutting can incur (severe blood loss and infection, sometimes leading to death, being the most common, in addition of course to psychological trauma), is helpful because everyone has the right to be informed. But unless development workers understand the context, they will not be able to address the motivation behind female circumcision, and their interventions will therefore be useless. Any anti-FGM program which fails to address cultural aspects, fails to understand the distinction and tension between individual and collective rights; the importance of marriage and family; local understandings of bodily integrity and normality, life stages and female identity; and the economic aspects of FGM. It's a very complex issue -- it's not just about health, or even just about women's right. And yes, I can believe with all of my heart that the practice is harmful and should be heavily modified. But that's all the more reason to try to fully understand the context surrounding the practice.
At the pre-male circumcision ceremony I attended last month, I saw a group of Maasai men with a video camera, speaking with the young boys. They were asking them about education -- is it better to go to school, or to help your family by herding livestock? What are the benefits of each, what are the drawbacks? Most of the boys apparently responded that school was the way to go, and gave some justification for their choice. I like this approach -- presenting people with different options, and letting them decide on their own which is the best way.
Too many foreign aid workers come to "the dark continent" thinking that they're going to save people by bringing the light and the way. Like the missionaries in The Poisonwood Bible, the development workers that build the well in the wrong place, and many anti-FGM crusaders, they come in assuming that they know best and are ready to bludgeon or coerce their ideals into the heads of community members, at any cost. But it's not so simplistic. Unless you are ready to learn more than teach, it will be a long and fruitless fight. Unless your project is able to run sustainably without your presence, no one will have gained.
People are not sheep. You cannot herd them in one direction and expect that it will work out well. People everywhere in the world, educated or not, have the faculties and the right to make their own decisions and guide their own development. Development without consent is meaningless.
It's the story of a Baptist family who become missionaries in a rural village in the Congo in 1959, when it was still a Belgian colony, but on the verge of independence. The story alternates from the point of view of the mother and the four daughters, each of whom has a unique voice and perspective on their lives in Congo. It's a favourite book of mine, not only because of the excellent writing and fascinating setting, but also because it shows how badly you can mess up if you don't at least try to understand the culture in which you're working. It highlights how something might seem completely nonsensical to an outsider, but is simply common sense in the context of the culture. But you'll never figure that out unless you talk to people, ask questions and keep an open mind.
Some of the misunderstandings in the book remind me of a disastrous development project I heard about in Samburu, a semi-arid region in Northern Kenya. Water is scarce in much of the North, so wells (or bore holes, as they're called) are a common and generally well-received project. A well-placed well can save women and girls hours which they would otherwise use walking to the next water collection point, and carrying the full jerry cans and buckets back home. However, this particular NGO foolishly did not consult locals before creating the well. They decided to put it at the base of a hill. After the well was constructed, the NGO sat back, waiting to be thanked and to see the well in use. Nobody said a word, and nobody used the well, though it would have saved them hours of labor daily. The organization was baffled.
If the NGO's employees had bothered to work with the community it was supposedly helping, instead of doing what they thought was right as outsiders, they would have discovered that the hill the well was next to was a sacred place where the dead were buried, and where their spirits were believed to reside. Nobody would take the water from the well, as so much activity near the burial place would be considered to be disrespectful. And in any case, the water was likely contaminated, since the source was so close to decomposing bodies.
It's the same old story with many NGOs which attempt to address female genital cutting/mutilation, particularly those from the West. Coming in with no conception of why women would want their daughters to be cut, it is easy to dismiss the practice as nonsensical and "barbaric". Simply addressing the host of health issues that cutting can incur (severe blood loss and infection, sometimes leading to death, being the most common, in addition of course to psychological trauma), is helpful because everyone has the right to be informed. But unless development workers understand the context, they will not be able to address the motivation behind female circumcision, and their interventions will therefore be useless. Any anti-FGM program which fails to address cultural aspects, fails to understand the distinction and tension between individual and collective rights; the importance of marriage and family; local understandings of bodily integrity and normality, life stages and female identity; and the economic aspects of FGM. It's a very complex issue -- it's not just about health, or even just about women's right. And yes, I can believe with all of my heart that the practice is harmful and should be heavily modified. But that's all the more reason to try to fully understand the context surrounding the practice.
At the pre-male circumcision ceremony I attended last month, I saw a group of Maasai men with a video camera, speaking with the young boys. They were asking them about education -- is it better to go to school, or to help your family by herding livestock? What are the benefits of each, what are the drawbacks? Most of the boys apparently responded that school was the way to go, and gave some justification for their choice. I like this approach -- presenting people with different options, and letting them decide on their own which is the best way.
Too many foreign aid workers come to "the dark continent" thinking that they're going to save people by bringing the light and the way. Like the missionaries in The Poisonwood Bible, the development workers that build the well in the wrong place, and many anti-FGM crusaders, they come in assuming that they know best and are ready to bludgeon or coerce their ideals into the heads of community members, at any cost. But it's not so simplistic. Unless you are ready to learn more than teach, it will be a long and fruitless fight. Unless your project is able to run sustainably without your presence, no one will have gained.
People are not sheep. You cannot herd them in one direction and expect that it will work out well. People everywhere in the world, educated or not, have the faculties and the right to make their own decisions and guide their own development. Development without consent is meaningless.
September 2, 2008
a wedding!
This weekend, I rode on a motorcycle for the first time ever. Isaiah had invited me to a Maasai wedding in Oloshoibor, which I was very much looking forward to. I left Nairobi quite early in the morning, but when I reached Ngong Hills, I was stymied. There were no matatus, and no taxi pick-up trucks with their uncomfortable wooden benches. There weren’t even any cars which I could convince to drop me down at the school. However, there was a row of motorcycles, or piki-pikis as they’re called. The bikes are always there – usually their operators are very friendly, and have helped me to arrange transportation in the past. This time, when I asked, the men just shook their heads. “No matatus today, sister. Jioni pekayake [only in the evening]. Si, you let me help you?” It did take some convincing to get me on the bike – the road to Oloshoibor is extremely dusty and bumpy, and it involves descending a hill. But I had no other option. I got on the bike, made the driver, James, promise to go slowly and promise that I wouldn’t fall off, and we were off.
For the first ten minutes, I was terrified and had a death grip on James’ waist. But once I got used to the sensation of moving along in such an exposed manner, I started to enjoy it. I don’t think I’ll become a bike addict, but I can definitely see the attraction. On a motorcycle, you feel much more integrated with your surroundings than in a car. I hardly got dusty at all – just the backs of my legs – and it was such a pleasure to feel the wind moving around me. Plus the view was spectacular. James kept his word: he drove slowly and avoided the major bumps, and I never even felt close to falling off. It’s a good thing I went with him first, because on the way back I went by motorcycle again (no cars to speak of!), and that driver was not traveling at such a leisurely pace. Though I did end up closing my eyes a couple of times, I enjoyed that ride as well. I must say that I had much less of a sensation of impending doom on the motorcycles than on some matatus (though really, that’s not saying much).
I met Isaiah at the primary school where he teaches, and we walked to the boma (homestead) where the wedding was to be held. The area is quite sparsely populated, and most neighbouring bomas will be between twenty and forty minutes’ walk from each other. We walked for about an hour and a half, and the place was buzzing with activity when we arrived. As it is currently a school holiday, there were quite a number of youth around, greeting each other and catching up before they must head back to their respective schools. A group of old men were sitting off to the side under a circle of trees. Women, both young and old, were the ones doing all the work (as usual!). They were fetching water, cutting up meat, cooking a ridiculous amount of food and serving chai to the guests.
Isaiah and I entertained ourselves by playing with a couple of children, who like the majority of kids in rural areas, were initially too shy even to greet me, but were eventually overwhelmed by their curiosity about this strange-looking person in their midst, and were won over by tickling clapping games and a bit of dancing. I don’t know if you’re familiar with an American tv show called ‘Dance 360’. I wasn’t before I came to Kenya, but it’s very popular here. It’s a hip-hop dance competition show, and during the dance-off segments, the crowd chants “Head to head! Head to head!” while the competitors break dance in the centre. The kids were apparently fans, because at times they would chant something approximating ‘head to head’ (sounded something like ‘Tachi-ed’), and would imitate break dancing moves by stomping rhythmically, doing hand-stands and sticking their legs out at odd angles. It was pretty bizarre to see – keep in mind that this was all taking place in an iron shack in a dusty homestead where most of the huts are made out of mud, and people in traditional dress are looking on in vague amusement. The younger of the two kids, who was maybe three and could already count to ten in English, also had a habit of repeating “Raila Odinga” at odd times, which was a bit disconcerting.
I also had the chance to meet some of Isaiah’s friends while we waited for the bride and groom to arrive. One of them was a guy called Amos, who is also attending teachers’ college. He was very funny in a philosophical and perhaps unintentional way. When we were talking about the seven wonders of the world, he said, “Yes, but what about this – the table has legs but cannot move, yet the snake has no legs and can move. Is that no also a wonder?” Indeed, wonders are all around us!
The wedding itself was quite a brief affair. Two trucks arrived, one bearing the bride and the other the groom. A procession of women came dancing from the house, while another procession danced around the trucks. Delegations from each family lined up, facing one another, while a preacher said a few words. Then the bride got out of the car, which was quite a production – a group of women gathered near the door were singing, but were also fighting among themselves in what appeared to be a ceremonial fashion. Isaiah told me that they were arguing over who would let the bride out, and that her family was also asking to be given something in return for her. Dowries, often in the form of livestock, are normally paid to the bride’s family by the groom, so this must just have been an extra negotiation (or maybe a mock negotiation?). When the bride finally made her way out, the women lay lesos in front of her, and she walked slowly over the clothes towards one of the houses. I didn’t really have the nerve to ask whether she had been circumcised (it would have been rude, since I was a guest and all, and it’s a very political and contentious issue), but the bride was walking extremely slowly and wasn’t looking too happy, so I suspect that might have been the case. On the other hand, she was much too old for circumcision – probably in her late twenties, whereas female genital cutting/mutilation is generally performed on girls who are between 12 and 16 years old, so it could just be that she was moving slowly because it’s tradition. After all, when young, just-circumcised girls are married, I’m sure they move very slowly, so it that would become part of the ceremony. The bride was dressed in lesos and a ton of beaded jewelry, and had two bridesmaids with her. They wore modestly cut dresses in a shiny red material, and carried raggedy-looking plastic flowers. The groom and his best man were both wearing olive green suits, and had strands of beads which crossed over both shoulders and joined in the back with a big white button. So it was a bit of a mix of traditional Maasai and Western traditions.
After the bride reached the hut, we all had lunch. It was goat with rice and potatoes, chapatti, and mashed potatoes. I’ve never had the latter in the rural areas before, so it must just be for special occasions. Plus soda (Fanta), of course. As much as I sniff at the outrageous amount of carbs that Kenyans consume, it really is the most satisfying thing after you’ve been walking through the dust and heat for hours. At that point, your body needs all the energy it can get.
After lunch, we went to sit under the circle of trees where the elders had gathered. The older folk and the wedding party were sitting in a semi-circle on plastic chairs in the shade, and the rest of us were left to sit on the ground or lean up against trees behind them. For about an hour, different elders stood and spoke, giving advice to the newlyweds. After the speeches, a man stood with a large bag in the centre of the circle and asked people to come and make donations for the new couple, which they did. Then the gifts – a wood and glass cabinet, a sheep, and several jerry cans for fetching water – were presented. The priest said a word of blessing, and that was it. Seeing as they’re older and educated, this couple will also likely go to the city and have a legally recognized marriage. However, it is still very common to just have a customary marriage in most areas of Kenya.
We walked back to Isaiah’s place, which took another couple of hours, and had a relaxing evening. The kids in the homestead are getting used to me visiting, or at least the older ones are. Some of them have started to call me “auntie”, which just melts my heard into a puddle of sentimental goo. The younger ones don’t seem to recognize me from one visit to the next, and have to be cajoled into friendship all over again. In the morning, we took a short hike up a small mountain and sat atop the rocks, looking down at the gorgeous land spread out before us. We watched boys herding cows and goats, and saw a few antelopes grazing. Listened to the birds, the cowbells, the rustling of the trees. It was so peaceful. The quiet was only broken at one point by a race car driver, who was ripping down the dirt road at top speed, leaving clouds of red dust spiraling lazily into the sky behind him.
The walk back to the main road was brutal – it was a cloudless day, and at that point, the sun was blasting down on us. Standing in the doorway of the house, I could feel the heat radiating off the ground outside, and from the air itself. The heat made the air in the distance quiver, making the world seem insubstantial, illusory.
I made my way back to Nairobi via motorcycle, bus and matatu, and threw myself into the shower the moment I arrived home. The power was out again, so it was a cold shower, but for once I wasn’t complaining.
For the first ten minutes, I was terrified and had a death grip on James’ waist. But once I got used to the sensation of moving along in such an exposed manner, I started to enjoy it. I don’t think I’ll become a bike addict, but I can definitely see the attraction. On a motorcycle, you feel much more integrated with your surroundings than in a car. I hardly got dusty at all – just the backs of my legs – and it was such a pleasure to feel the wind moving around me. Plus the view was spectacular. James kept his word: he drove slowly and avoided the major bumps, and I never even felt close to falling off. It’s a good thing I went with him first, because on the way back I went by motorcycle again (no cars to speak of!), and that driver was not traveling at such a leisurely pace. Though I did end up closing my eyes a couple of times, I enjoyed that ride as well. I must say that I had much less of a sensation of impending doom on the motorcycles than on some matatus (though really, that’s not saying much).
I met Isaiah at the primary school where he teaches, and we walked to the boma (homestead) where the wedding was to be held. The area is quite sparsely populated, and most neighbouring bomas will be between twenty and forty minutes’ walk from each other. We walked for about an hour and a half, and the place was buzzing with activity when we arrived. As it is currently a school holiday, there were quite a number of youth around, greeting each other and catching up before they must head back to their respective schools. A group of old men were sitting off to the side under a circle of trees. Women, both young and old, were the ones doing all the work (as usual!). They were fetching water, cutting up meat, cooking a ridiculous amount of food and serving chai to the guests.
Isaiah and I entertained ourselves by playing with a couple of children, who like the majority of kids in rural areas, were initially too shy even to greet me, but were eventually overwhelmed by their curiosity about this strange-looking person in their midst, and were won over by tickling clapping games and a bit of dancing. I don’t know if you’re familiar with an American tv show called ‘Dance 360’. I wasn’t before I came to Kenya, but it’s very popular here. It’s a hip-hop dance competition show, and during the dance-off segments, the crowd chants “Head to head! Head to head!” while the competitors break dance in the centre. The kids were apparently fans, because at times they would chant something approximating ‘head to head’ (sounded something like ‘Tachi-ed’), and would imitate break dancing moves by stomping rhythmically, doing hand-stands and sticking their legs out at odd angles. It was pretty bizarre to see – keep in mind that this was all taking place in an iron shack in a dusty homestead where most of the huts are made out of mud, and people in traditional dress are looking on in vague amusement. The younger of the two kids, who was maybe three and could already count to ten in English, also had a habit of repeating “Raila Odinga” at odd times, which was a bit disconcerting.
I also had the chance to meet some of Isaiah’s friends while we waited for the bride and groom to arrive. One of them was a guy called Amos, who is also attending teachers’ college. He was very funny in a philosophical and perhaps unintentional way. When we were talking about the seven wonders of the world, he said, “Yes, but what about this – the table has legs but cannot move, yet the snake has no legs and can move. Is that no also a wonder?” Indeed, wonders are all around us!
The wedding itself was quite a brief affair. Two trucks arrived, one bearing the bride and the other the groom. A procession of women came dancing from the house, while another procession danced around the trucks. Delegations from each family lined up, facing one another, while a preacher said a few words. Then the bride got out of the car, which was quite a production – a group of women gathered near the door were singing, but were also fighting among themselves in what appeared to be a ceremonial fashion. Isaiah told me that they were arguing over who would let the bride out, and that her family was also asking to be given something in return for her. Dowries, often in the form of livestock, are normally paid to the bride’s family by the groom, so this must just have been an extra negotiation (or maybe a mock negotiation?). When the bride finally made her way out, the women lay lesos in front of her, and she walked slowly over the clothes towards one of the houses. I didn’t really have the nerve to ask whether she had been circumcised (it would have been rude, since I was a guest and all, and it’s a very political and contentious issue), but the bride was walking extremely slowly and wasn’t looking too happy, so I suspect that might have been the case. On the other hand, she was much too old for circumcision – probably in her late twenties, whereas female genital cutting/mutilation is generally performed on girls who are between 12 and 16 years old, so it could just be that she was moving slowly because it’s tradition. After all, when young, just-circumcised girls are married, I’m sure they move very slowly, so it that would become part of the ceremony. The bride was dressed in lesos and a ton of beaded jewelry, and had two bridesmaids with her. They wore modestly cut dresses in a shiny red material, and carried raggedy-looking plastic flowers. The groom and his best man were both wearing olive green suits, and had strands of beads which crossed over both shoulders and joined in the back with a big white button. So it was a bit of a mix of traditional Maasai and Western traditions.
After the bride reached the hut, we all had lunch. It was goat with rice and potatoes, chapatti, and mashed potatoes. I’ve never had the latter in the rural areas before, so it must just be for special occasions. Plus soda (Fanta), of course. As much as I sniff at the outrageous amount of carbs that Kenyans consume, it really is the most satisfying thing after you’ve been walking through the dust and heat for hours. At that point, your body needs all the energy it can get.
After lunch, we went to sit under the circle of trees where the elders had gathered. The older folk and the wedding party were sitting in a semi-circle on plastic chairs in the shade, and the rest of us were left to sit on the ground or lean up against trees behind them. For about an hour, different elders stood and spoke, giving advice to the newlyweds. After the speeches, a man stood with a large bag in the centre of the circle and asked people to come and make donations for the new couple, which they did. Then the gifts – a wood and glass cabinet, a sheep, and several jerry cans for fetching water – were presented. The priest said a word of blessing, and that was it. Seeing as they’re older and educated, this couple will also likely go to the city and have a legally recognized marriage. However, it is still very common to just have a customary marriage in most areas of Kenya.
We walked back to Isaiah’s place, which took another couple of hours, and had a relaxing evening. The kids in the homestead are getting used to me visiting, or at least the older ones are. Some of them have started to call me “auntie”, which just melts my heard into a puddle of sentimental goo. The younger ones don’t seem to recognize me from one visit to the next, and have to be cajoled into friendship all over again. In the morning, we took a short hike up a small mountain and sat atop the rocks, looking down at the gorgeous land spread out before us. We watched boys herding cows and goats, and saw a few antelopes grazing. Listened to the birds, the cowbells, the rustling of the trees. It was so peaceful. The quiet was only broken at one point by a race car driver, who was ripping down the dirt road at top speed, leaving clouds of red dust spiraling lazily into the sky behind him.
The walk back to the main road was brutal – it was a cloudless day, and at that point, the sun was blasting down on us. Standing in the doorway of the house, I could feel the heat radiating off the ground outside, and from the air itself. The heat made the air in the distance quiver, making the world seem insubstantial, illusory.
I made my way back to Nairobi via motorcycle, bus and matatu, and threw myself into the shower the moment I arrived home. The power was out again, so it was a cold shower, but for once I wasn’t complaining.
September 1, 2008
So I’ve decided not to change my plans after all. I’m staying the course. What does this entail, exactly? Well, I plan to stay at work until December. In October, my parents are coming for a visit and I will be taking two weeks off to travel with them in Tanzania, which will be wonderful. In November, I may or may not be traveling to Southern Africa to take part in a few women’s rights workshops, and attend the “Power of Movements” forum in South Africa. All of that depends on funding which is not yet confirmed, and I have no idea what our chances are of actually getting it. December will be report-writing and wrap up.
I’m hoping to head to the coast for the holidays. I’m a die-hard traditionalist when it comes to Christmas – there must be snow, a turkey with mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy, and mandarin oranges at the toe of stockings – but I suppose if I can’t have that, Christmas on the beach will have to do. In January, I’m hoping to visit both Ethiopia and Rwanda. In February, I’ll likely head home, and hopefully work for a few months before returning to school.
After the break-up, I had considered coming home early. I could be making a lot more money at home than I am here (where I’m munching away at my savings, really!), and I’ll need that money for school, especially if I go abroad. And there are a lot of things I miss about home. My friends and family are at the top of the list, of course. There are new additions to the family, and my friends’ families, who I haven’t even met yet! I also miss the food. I’m pretty sure my system will be in shock when I return, just because of the variety that it isn’t used to here. I miss fresh, crunchy salads, sushi, pho, imperial rolls on vermicelli with that tangy dressing, nachos, salmon, really good bread, gyros, cheese, pierogies, ice cream and gelato in all of its glorious flavours… mmmm. Not to mention fruits like peaches, raspberries and blueberries (all berries, really), plums and pears, and all manner of vegetables. Other things I miss are bike riding, yoga, movie nights, the freedom to walk by myself at night almost anywhere I please, easily accessible, clean and relatively safe parks, and secularism. Montreal in general. Big art galleries and museums. A reliable supply of water and electricity. I miss living in a place that is not so openly and deeply homophobic (though Canada still has a long way to go in that regard as well).
But despite all of the people and things that I miss, I couldn’t see myself leaving Kenya anytime soon. It became clear to me that I didn’t just come here for a relationship, but because I love Kenya, and Nairobi in a peculiar kind of way. Nothing is ever dull here – the city is big and loud and chaotic. At times it’s exasperating, and it can also be frightening. But it is never boring. I love Nairobi for its ambition, its attitude and ridiculousness, its showiness and contrasts and cynicism. Nairobi is con men and politicians, sex workers, aid workers, preachers and street kids, refugees and country folk. It s almost too much to imagine. Nairobi makes me laugh and sigh and rage.
And Kenya – Kenya I love because I can’t help myself. Just the variety of cultures is absolutely astounding. It’s hard to believe that so much richness can be packed into one tiny country. Everywhere I’ve gone in Kenya, I’ve found people to be incredibly hospitable. I also love the fact that nearly everyone is very opinionated, especially when it comes to politics. Kenyans are also storytellers. Stories come in the form of song, in the elaborately-crafted scam, in a tale told to friends over drinks and roast meat. Everyone has a story about their identity: their family, their tribe, where they come from, what they stand for, what they’ve been through. Everyone has a story about their dreams.
I though about leaving here and what I would miss. My daily life isn’t all travel and excitement, but there are many moments of wonder. Here, small children chatter away to me in Swahili, and shyly play with my hair in the matatu in the morning. My daily commute is down a major road lined with acacia trees, in which maribu storks make their nests. They’re giant birds, simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying. Here, I can easily access diverse communities full of fascinating people; from those who live in slums to those who move through deserts, from pastoralists to hunter-gatherers to agriculturalists. I certainly don’t have those opportunities in Canada. And as much as I complain about the food here, there’s a lot that I would miss. Chapati, mandazi and smoky chai. Sukuma and ugali. Nyama choma. Mokimo. Stony. Whole fried tilapia. Even the ubiquitous chicken after a long night of dancing.
No, I’m not ready to go. There’s still so much to see and do. Kenya’s hold on me is still strong.
I’m hoping to head to the coast for the holidays. I’m a die-hard traditionalist when it comes to Christmas – there must be snow, a turkey with mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy, and mandarin oranges at the toe of stockings – but I suppose if I can’t have that, Christmas on the beach will have to do. In January, I’m hoping to visit both Ethiopia and Rwanda. In February, I’ll likely head home, and hopefully work for a few months before returning to school.
After the break-up, I had considered coming home early. I could be making a lot more money at home than I am here (where I’m munching away at my savings, really!), and I’ll need that money for school, especially if I go abroad. And there are a lot of things I miss about home. My friends and family are at the top of the list, of course. There are new additions to the family, and my friends’ families, who I haven’t even met yet! I also miss the food. I’m pretty sure my system will be in shock when I return, just because of the variety that it isn’t used to here. I miss fresh, crunchy salads, sushi, pho, imperial rolls on vermicelli with that tangy dressing, nachos, salmon, really good bread, gyros, cheese, pierogies, ice cream and gelato in all of its glorious flavours… mmmm. Not to mention fruits like peaches, raspberries and blueberries (all berries, really), plums and pears, and all manner of vegetables. Other things I miss are bike riding, yoga, movie nights, the freedom to walk by myself at night almost anywhere I please, easily accessible, clean and relatively safe parks, and secularism. Montreal in general. Big art galleries and museums. A reliable supply of water and electricity. I miss living in a place that is not so openly and deeply homophobic (though Canada still has a long way to go in that regard as well).
But despite all of the people and things that I miss, I couldn’t see myself leaving Kenya anytime soon. It became clear to me that I didn’t just come here for a relationship, but because I love Kenya, and Nairobi in a peculiar kind of way. Nothing is ever dull here – the city is big and loud and chaotic. At times it’s exasperating, and it can also be frightening. But it is never boring. I love Nairobi for its ambition, its attitude and ridiculousness, its showiness and contrasts and cynicism. Nairobi is con men and politicians, sex workers, aid workers, preachers and street kids, refugees and country folk. It s almost too much to imagine. Nairobi makes me laugh and sigh and rage.
And Kenya – Kenya I love because I can’t help myself. Just the variety of cultures is absolutely astounding. It’s hard to believe that so much richness can be packed into one tiny country. Everywhere I’ve gone in Kenya, I’ve found people to be incredibly hospitable. I also love the fact that nearly everyone is very opinionated, especially when it comes to politics. Kenyans are also storytellers. Stories come in the form of song, in the elaborately-crafted scam, in a tale told to friends over drinks and roast meat. Everyone has a story about their identity: their family, their tribe, where they come from, what they stand for, what they’ve been through. Everyone has a story about their dreams.
I though about leaving here and what I would miss. My daily life isn’t all travel and excitement, but there are many moments of wonder. Here, small children chatter away to me in Swahili, and shyly play with my hair in the matatu in the morning. My daily commute is down a major road lined with acacia trees, in which maribu storks make their nests. They’re giant birds, simultaneously awe-inspiring and terrifying. Here, I can easily access diverse communities full of fascinating people; from those who live in slums to those who move through deserts, from pastoralists to hunter-gatherers to agriculturalists. I certainly don’t have those opportunities in Canada. And as much as I complain about the food here, there’s a lot that I would miss. Chapati, mandazi and smoky chai. Sukuma and ugali. Nyama choma. Mokimo. Stony. Whole fried tilapia. Even the ubiquitous chicken after a long night of dancing.
No, I’m not ready to go. There’s still so much to see and do. Kenya’s hold on me is still strong.
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