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.
August 16, 2008
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.
June 30, 2008
a day at the fair and Nairobi fashion
On Thursday, two of my co-workers and I went to Oloshoibor for the twelfth annual Maasai cultural fair. It was almost unbearably dusty that day, the rainy season long since over, and I understood why people in this area have so many eye problems. I kept wanting to rub my own eyes to free them of the accursed red dust. But it was a great day. One of my co-workers is new and had never been to this area before. She’s from Nairobi and kept remarking, “wow, this is really indigenous!” And it was. There were traditional Maasai homes – manyattas made of branches, mud and cow dung – off to one side, a group of women draped in colourful lesos and gorgeous jewelry selling their own beaded creations, old men wandering about with their walking sticks and shukas. There were many dangling stretched earlobes, and missing teeth (just the front lower two, which are customarily removed around puberty). And of course there were gangs of schoolchildren everywhere in their uniforms. They will likely grow up wearing Western dress with teeth and ears intact, the only concession to culture a beaded bracelet or two.
The theme of this year’s fair was HIV and malaria awareness. We had to return to Nairobi to attend a gender forum in the afternoon, and so weren’t able to stay for long, but we saw some of the preliminary activities – a soccer match, races, a race and water balancing contest for women, and some cultural dances presented by local schools. There was also a small dispensary set up by a Nairobi-based Coptic church, but I doubt that they had too much business. Many in this area still prefer to rely on traditional plant-based medicine. Apparently the following day there was to be a talk on HIV, which I was sorry to miss.
We returned to the city exhausted and dirty, obviously straight from the country, and walked into the meeting to face a room full of people dressed in suits and business attire, looking as sharp as only Nairobians do. Fashion is a big deal in this city – it reminds me a bit of Montreal in the sense that people really dress to look good, and the style of younger generations can get a bit outrageous. The major difference is that instead of shopping at expensive boutiques, most people here collect their goods from the sprawling, hectic second-hand markets. People are also somewhat more formal in business settings, frequently wearing full suits even for minor office jobs (I even have my own dress suit and a couple of blazers now, though I’m more likely to mix it up with jeans).
Matatu touts are some of the most interesting dressers in the city, I imagine because they are attempting to be as loud and cutting edge as possible to attract customers. You’ll see a guy wearing a button-up shirt with tight jeans, long dreads worn in a ponytail on the top of his head and a long, pink polka-dot scarf that dangles almost to his feet and sways as he hops in and out of the moving vehicle. Some guys let the fingernails of just one hand grow long and paint them ruby red. It would look very silly if they weren’t otherwise so tough and gangsta, and instead manages to look almost intimidating. In the slums, too, the youth dress to impress. At Roots meetings, you’ll see everything from Timbalands to fedoras, lots of bling and attitude. Some of the women have become experts at navigating the mud and garbage heaps, and even hopping across the slippery stones in the putrid Mathare river, all in pencil-thin stilettos. It’s truly an art. Meanwhile, I’m in my practical sneakers and sandals, though sometimes I do manage to look “smart”, as they say. I’m adapting.
The theme of this year’s fair was HIV and malaria awareness. We had to return to Nairobi to attend a gender forum in the afternoon, and so weren’t able to stay for long, but we saw some of the preliminary activities – a soccer match, races, a race and water balancing contest for women, and some cultural dances presented by local schools. There was also a small dispensary set up by a Nairobi-based Coptic church, but I doubt that they had too much business. Many in this area still prefer to rely on traditional plant-based medicine. Apparently the following day there was to be a talk on HIV, which I was sorry to miss.
We returned to the city exhausted and dirty, obviously straight from the country, and walked into the meeting to face a room full of people dressed in suits and business attire, looking as sharp as only Nairobians do. Fashion is a big deal in this city – it reminds me a bit of Montreal in the sense that people really dress to look good, and the style of younger generations can get a bit outrageous. The major difference is that instead of shopping at expensive boutiques, most people here collect their goods from the sprawling, hectic second-hand markets. People are also somewhat more formal in business settings, frequently wearing full suits even for minor office jobs (I even have my own dress suit and a couple of blazers now, though I’m more likely to mix it up with jeans).
Matatu touts are some of the most interesting dressers in the city, I imagine because they are attempting to be as loud and cutting edge as possible to attract customers. You’ll see a guy wearing a button-up shirt with tight jeans, long dreads worn in a ponytail on the top of his head and a long, pink polka-dot scarf that dangles almost to his feet and sways as he hops in and out of the moving vehicle. Some guys let the fingernails of just one hand grow long and paint them ruby red. It would look very silly if they weren’t otherwise so tough and gangsta, and instead manages to look almost intimidating. In the slums, too, the youth dress to impress. At Roots meetings, you’ll see everything from Timbalands to fedoras, lots of bling and attitude. Some of the women have become experts at navigating the mud and garbage heaps, and even hopping across the slippery stones in the putrid Mathare river, all in pencil-thin stilettos. It’s truly an art. Meanwhile, I’m in my practical sneakers and sandals, though sometimes I do manage to look “smart”, as they say. I’m adapting.
June 29, 2008
may my mind stroll about hungry
On Saturday morning, George has gone to take an exam and I am left to lounge in bed and admire the effect of soft sunlight filtering through the mosquito net. It always reminds me of the great folds of clothing that used to be draped around the beds of nobility – though much less substantial. It protects us not only from buzzing, blood-sucking pests, but from the worries of the outside world. Still, on a lazy morning I like to listen to the sounds of life outside our little haven.
In the distance are the sounds of construction – power tools, hammers, men shouting. Closer to home is the darasa, where young children are learning to recite the Qur’an. The teacher speaks first, a deep voice in measured tones, and the children repeat in
an uneven chorus, half-chant, half-song. I can’t tell what language they’re speaking, but I assume that it’s Arabic. All I can hear is the cadence and metre, the rise and fall of voices. Closer still are the neighbours and the sounds of the main house. To either side, there are women washing, sweeping, watering plants. Conversing in Somali. Only a few steps away, I can hear Mumbe moving about in the kitchen while the children chase each other around the house, shrieking in Kikuyu and Kiswahili. Finally, my own voice, whispering English poetry. And of course the birds, sparrows and chickens hopping about in the muddy road and singing in their own languages.
Before I left, my friends J and T gave me a small booklet of poetry. Last year they walked across America (seriously!), and had brought the same poems along with them. These words are well-travelled. The first poem in the book, and possibly my favourite, is this one:
may my heart always be open to little
by e.e. cummings
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
In the distance are the sounds of construction – power tools, hammers, men shouting. Closer to home is the darasa, where young children are learning to recite the Qur’an. The teacher speaks first, a deep voice in measured tones, and the children repeat in
an uneven chorus, half-chant, half-song. I can’t tell what language they’re speaking, but I assume that it’s Arabic. All I can hear is the cadence and metre, the rise and fall of voices. Closer still are the neighbours and the sounds of the main house. To either side, there are women washing, sweeping, watering plants. Conversing in Somali. Only a few steps away, I can hear Mumbe moving about in the kitchen while the children chase each other around the house, shrieking in Kikuyu and Kiswahili. Finally, my own voice, whispering English poetry. And of course the birds, sparrows and chickens hopping about in the muddy road and singing in their own languages.
Before I left, my friends J and T gave me a small booklet of poetry. Last year they walked across America (seriously!), and had brought the same poems along with them. These words are well-travelled. The first poem in the book, and possibly my favourite, is this one:
may my heart always be open to little
by e.e. cummings
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile
June 18, 2008
the road to Ngong and Obamamania
One of the things I like about going to Ngong is the means of transportation to and from. My friend Isaiah, the son of Agnes who I visited last time I went, had invited me to a sports day that was to be held at a local primary school.
To get to Ngong, I first took a matatu out to town, and then a bus to the little town of Ngong Hills. That particular bus passes through mostly rural areas, but also through the middle-class suburb of Karen, and it always has an interesting mix of characters. Inevitably, someone will be carrying huge bags of charcoal, agricultural produce, or live chickens. You have to feel sorry for the chickens in this country. Some of them are lucky enough to run free in the countryside for most of their lives, but it seems that whenever I see chickens they're always in some awkward, ignoble position. The chickens in Nairobi are stuffed into cages in markets and on the side of the road, or tethered to each other and strapped to a wooden frame, or are actually hung live upside-down from a moving bicycle, or tucked uncomfortably under someone's arm or between their legs on a long bus ride. The funny thing is, none of them ever look too disturbed by their predicament, as if they've accepted their lot in the world and see no point in rebelling.
In any case, this particular bus ride was funny to me because about ten minutes into the ride, the reggae music that had been blasting was abruptly switched off, and one of the passengers stood up and began to talk. Though he was speaking in Swahili, it quickly became apparent that this man was not just talking, but preaching -- it seems I had unwittingly boarded a church on wheels. Most of the passengers simply ignored him, but I was quite impressed that the preacher managed to go on for a good forty-five minutes before debarking.
Once in Ngong, I was left to my own devices. The nice thing about small-town Kenya is that, unlike in Nairobi, most people you meet are friendly and will give you a hand without ripping you off. I didn't know the name of the school I was heading to, so I loitered about while a motorcycle driver asked around about the event. Eventually, we figured out where I was supposed to go, and he offered to give me a lift. However, the thought of riding down the steep hills and bumpy, dusty roads of Oloshoibor was a bit much -- I would have arrived with a full-body "dust tan". I opted to catch a ride in the cab of a pick-up truck instead, and ended up sitting next to the village chief. The last time I went, I made the trip to Maasailand in a matatu that was so old and decrepit that the door literally fell of its hinges several times during the trip.
The sports day was held by a local NGO in order to raise awareness of female genital mutilation (FGM) and to promote girls' education. I'm not sure how effective the event was in achieving those specific goals -- there was a talk at the end of the day, but by that time everyone was worn out and not too attentive. But it was a good effort, and it was certainly an enjoyable day. It was closed with an enormous goat feast, at which I was given way too much meat to handle and became ridiculously greasy. A very Kenyan meal.
Recently, as you may imagine, the country has been overcome with "Obamamania". Kenyans, and particularly Luos, are immensely proud that a "son of Kenya" may end up being President of the US. Never mind the fact that Obama's father had little to do with raising him, or that Obama is not one to affiliate himself with tribes. That's a Luo up there! For all the enthusiasm, you might be forgiven for thinking that he's actually running for the top political post in Kenya. Many Kenyans are convinced that if he does win, Obama will do great things for Kenya, and I'm afraid that they will probably be disappointed in that respect.
Of course lately everyone is claiming to be a cousin or some other relative of Obama's. His actual grandmother has been in the international media spotlight for some months now and is growing quite blase about all the attention. There are songs about Obama, and he's in the newspaper every day without fail. It will be a madhouse around here if the man actually makes it!
Obama fever was also present at the soccer game I attended this past weekend. The match was between Kenya's Harambe Stars and Zimbabwe's Warriors, and everyone in Nairobi was dying to be there to watch in person. Seby managed to get us some tickets, and the place was packed full, with the police out in full force. Kenyans take their soccer very seriously indeed, so everyone was showing their support in one way or another -- right down to the guy dressed as Spiderman who somehow scaled one of the lighting platforms and perched up there for an hour waving a giant Kenyan flag! There was also a very enthusiastic group of dancers, who played the drums and danced and sang their way around the stadium for the entire game. Some of them were dressed all in orange and were waving an ODM flag, and others had written OBAMA across their back or chest. Eventually a chant was taken up, that went "Oliech! Obama! Odinga!" (Oliech being one of the star players on the Kenyan team.) I'm not quite sure I see the connection there, but it is fascinating how Raila and Obama are both such popular figures. You'd never see anyone waving a flag and chanting for Kibaki at a soccer match. Obama has now joined Kofi Annan and scores of rap artists on the sides of matatus across the city. Another of the chants at the game was "Mugabe must go!", which is what everyone is thinking these days.
The Harambe Stars won, by the way.
To get to Ngong, I first took a matatu out to town, and then a bus to the little town of Ngong Hills. That particular bus passes through mostly rural areas, but also through the middle-class suburb of Karen, and it always has an interesting mix of characters. Inevitably, someone will be carrying huge bags of charcoal, agricultural produce, or live chickens. You have to feel sorry for the chickens in this country. Some of them are lucky enough to run free in the countryside for most of their lives, but it seems that whenever I see chickens they're always in some awkward, ignoble position. The chickens in Nairobi are stuffed into cages in markets and on the side of the road, or tethered to each other and strapped to a wooden frame, or are actually hung live upside-down from a moving bicycle, or tucked uncomfortably under someone's arm or between their legs on a long bus ride. The funny thing is, none of them ever look too disturbed by their predicament, as if they've accepted their lot in the world and see no point in rebelling.
In any case, this particular bus ride was funny to me because about ten minutes into the ride, the reggae music that had been blasting was abruptly switched off, and one of the passengers stood up and began to talk. Though he was speaking in Swahili, it quickly became apparent that this man was not just talking, but preaching -- it seems I had unwittingly boarded a church on wheels. Most of the passengers simply ignored him, but I was quite impressed that the preacher managed to go on for a good forty-five minutes before debarking.
Once in Ngong, I was left to my own devices. The nice thing about small-town Kenya is that, unlike in Nairobi, most people you meet are friendly and will give you a hand without ripping you off. I didn't know the name of the school I was heading to, so I loitered about while a motorcycle driver asked around about the event. Eventually, we figured out where I was supposed to go, and he offered to give me a lift. However, the thought of riding down the steep hills and bumpy, dusty roads of Oloshoibor was a bit much -- I would have arrived with a full-body "dust tan". I opted to catch a ride in the cab of a pick-up truck instead, and ended up sitting next to the village chief. The last time I went, I made the trip to Maasailand in a matatu that was so old and decrepit that the door literally fell of its hinges several times during the trip.
The sports day was held by a local NGO in order to raise awareness of female genital mutilation (FGM) and to promote girls' education. I'm not sure how effective the event was in achieving those specific goals -- there was a talk at the end of the day, but by that time everyone was worn out and not too attentive. But it was a good effort, and it was certainly an enjoyable day. It was closed with an enormous goat feast, at which I was given way too much meat to handle and became ridiculously greasy. A very Kenyan meal.
Recently, as you may imagine, the country has been overcome with "Obamamania". Kenyans, and particularly Luos, are immensely proud that a "son of Kenya" may end up being President of the US. Never mind the fact that Obama's father had little to do with raising him, or that Obama is not one to affiliate himself with tribes. That's a Luo up there! For all the enthusiasm, you might be forgiven for thinking that he's actually running for the top political post in Kenya. Many Kenyans are convinced that if he does win, Obama will do great things for Kenya, and I'm afraid that they will probably be disappointed in that respect.
Of course lately everyone is claiming to be a cousin or some other relative of Obama's. His actual grandmother has been in the international media spotlight for some months now and is growing quite blase about all the attention. There are songs about Obama, and he's in the newspaper every day without fail. It will be a madhouse around here if the man actually makes it!
Obama fever was also present at the soccer game I attended this past weekend. The match was between Kenya's Harambe Stars and Zimbabwe's Warriors, and everyone in Nairobi was dying to be there to watch in person. Seby managed to get us some tickets, and the place was packed full, with the police out in full force. Kenyans take their soccer very seriously indeed, so everyone was showing their support in one way or another -- right down to the guy dressed as Spiderman who somehow scaled one of the lighting platforms and perched up there for an hour waving a giant Kenyan flag! There was also a very enthusiastic group of dancers, who played the drums and danced and sang their way around the stadium for the entire game. Some of them were dressed all in orange and were waving an ODM flag, and others had written OBAMA across their back or chest. Eventually a chant was taken up, that went "Oliech! Obama! Odinga!" (Oliech being one of the star players on the Kenyan team.) I'm not quite sure I see the connection there, but it is fascinating how Raila and Obama are both such popular figures. You'd never see anyone waving a flag and chanting for Kibaki at a soccer match. Obama has now joined Kofi Annan and scores of rap artists on the sides of matatus across the city. Another of the chants at the game was "Mugabe must go!", which is what everyone is thinking these days.
The Harambe Stars won, by the way.
June 4, 2008
amnesty?
Life has been a bit quiet here lately, which is why I haven't been updating quite so much. That's not to say that it's been boring, but just feels more routine somehow. Of course there have been a few events. This past weekend was Madaraka day, a celebration of Kenyan self-rule which was marked in part by a huge free reggae concert headlined by Black Uhuru. I was warned of the rowdy crowds, drunken fights and thieves, and did not attend. Apparently reggae concerts are notorious for attracting thieves. Free concerts are even worse. In any case, I decided to avoid the crowds entirely this weekend and spent most of my time swimming and basking in the rare June sunshine.
You see, recently I joined a "sports club" which is about twenty minutes' walk away from our place. It has a soccer field and track, an outdoor pool, squash courts, a pool table and an outdoor and indoor bar. The plan is to kick myself back into gear and get active again -- swimming and running three times a week each. It's pretty ambitious (for me), and is heavily dependent on not working late, so it may not be totally realistic. But it's something to aim for, anyway. I'm tired of being so inactive, and the four months of starch and meat and whole milk are taking its toll...
This weekend was also the second anniversary of my first "date" with George. It's been well over three years now since we first met -- time flies! We went out to an Italian restaurant in celebration, which was lovely.
Otherwise, it's been business as usual. The political fuss recently has been about whether or not to grant amnesty to those who were jailed during the post-election violence. Raila is calling for a blanket amnesty, while Kibaki has refused point blank. It's a tough situation. On one hand, it would be a slap in the face to IDPs to grant amnesty to accused perpetrators of destruction and violence while so many of them are still homeless, recovering the loss of their businesses or their families. On the other hand, Kenyan police aren't exactly known for their well-thought-out and discriminating arrests, particularly when it comes to slum-dwelling youth -- who knows what percentage of those who have been languishing in jail since early January with no trial actually committed any wrongs. Not to mention the fact that the only police officers on trial were those who were actually caught on tape murdering peaceful protesters. The rest who killed and maimed hundreds of citizens without just cause have gone unpunished. I have no doubt that the politicians involved will also miraculously emerge as upstanding folk in the eyes of the justice system.
Ex-President Moi has recently been calling for the banning of local-language radio stations, because of the role that they played in the incitement of violence, particularly in rural areas. As in the Rwandan genocide, the local-language radio stations here in Kenya used thinly-veiled metaphors to encourage communities to turn against one another. The reports on this subject were incredibly disturbing. While in Rwanda they spoke of "cockroaches" to be crushed, here other communities were referred to as "weeds" to be uprooted and destroyed. However, despite this, I do not believe that banning these radio stations entirely is the answer. What Moi is overlooking is that there are people in rural areas who speak neither English nor Swahili, particularly in areas where government services are lacking and school attendance is low. If local-language radio stations are banned, how will those who speak mostly their own ethnic language get their news and stay connected to the rest of the country? And beyond that, even if they do speak English or Swahili, shouldn't speaking and listening to one's mother tongue be encouraged, rather than discouraged? Part of what makes Kenya such a beautiful and fascinating country is its diversity, and I would think that a former President would understand that and try to preserve it. Local-language radio stations should not be left to broadcast whatever they please -- they should be regulated and monitored for hate speech and the like. But to ban them entirely would be a disservice to all the Kenyans who want to keep their mother tongue, and the cultural diversity of this country, alive.
My travel news is that in a few weeks I will be heading to Tanzania with work. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where I will be going, what I will be doing, or for how long -- I'm waiting for Lucy to return to confirm the details, and I will be traveling with her. But either way, I'm excited to have the opportunity to see a new country! This is going to be a real test of my Kiswahili skills, since English isn't spoken as much in Tz. Until then, I'll be in Nairobi continuing with my proposals, fundraising and writing. And my running and swimming and lessons, of course!
You see, recently I joined a "sports club" which is about twenty minutes' walk away from our place. It has a soccer field and track, an outdoor pool, squash courts, a pool table and an outdoor and indoor bar. The plan is to kick myself back into gear and get active again -- swimming and running three times a week each. It's pretty ambitious (for me), and is heavily dependent on not working late, so it may not be totally realistic. But it's something to aim for, anyway. I'm tired of being so inactive, and the four months of starch and meat and whole milk are taking its toll...
This weekend was also the second anniversary of my first "date" with George. It's been well over three years now since we first met -- time flies! We went out to an Italian restaurant in celebration, which was lovely.
Otherwise, it's been business as usual. The political fuss recently has been about whether or not to grant amnesty to those who were jailed during the post-election violence. Raila is calling for a blanket amnesty, while Kibaki has refused point blank. It's a tough situation. On one hand, it would be a slap in the face to IDPs to grant amnesty to accused perpetrators of destruction and violence while so many of them are still homeless, recovering the loss of their businesses or their families. On the other hand, Kenyan police aren't exactly known for their well-thought-out and discriminating arrests, particularly when it comes to slum-dwelling youth -- who knows what percentage of those who have been languishing in jail since early January with no trial actually committed any wrongs. Not to mention the fact that the only police officers on trial were those who were actually caught on tape murdering peaceful protesters. The rest who killed and maimed hundreds of citizens without just cause have gone unpunished. I have no doubt that the politicians involved will also miraculously emerge as upstanding folk in the eyes of the justice system.
Ex-President Moi has recently been calling for the banning of local-language radio stations, because of the role that they played in the incitement of violence, particularly in rural areas. As in the Rwandan genocide, the local-language radio stations here in Kenya used thinly-veiled metaphors to encourage communities to turn against one another. The reports on this subject were incredibly disturbing. While in Rwanda they spoke of "cockroaches" to be crushed, here other communities were referred to as "weeds" to be uprooted and destroyed. However, despite this, I do not believe that banning these radio stations entirely is the answer. What Moi is overlooking is that there are people in rural areas who speak neither English nor Swahili, particularly in areas where government services are lacking and school attendance is low. If local-language radio stations are banned, how will those who speak mostly their own ethnic language get their news and stay connected to the rest of the country? And beyond that, even if they do speak English or Swahili, shouldn't speaking and listening to one's mother tongue be encouraged, rather than discouraged? Part of what makes Kenya such a beautiful and fascinating country is its diversity, and I would think that a former President would understand that and try to preserve it. Local-language radio stations should not be left to broadcast whatever they please -- they should be regulated and monitored for hate speech and the like. But to ban them entirely would be a disservice to all the Kenyans who want to keep their mother tongue, and the cultural diversity of this country, alive.
My travel news is that in a few weeks I will be heading to Tanzania with work. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where I will be going, what I will be doing, or for how long -- I'm waiting for Lucy to return to confirm the details, and I will be traveling with her. But either way, I'm excited to have the opportunity to see a new country! This is going to be a real test of my Kiswahili skills, since English isn't spoken as much in Tz. Until then, I'll be in Nairobi continuing with my proposals, fundraising and writing. And my running and swimming and lessons, of course!
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