Coming from the heat of Kampala, our arrival at Lake Bunyonyi was wonderful -- it was a cold that reminded me of a Canadian autumn, a drop of probably about twenty degrees from one place to the other. It was so good to be in the country again, to breathe in the cold, fresh air. The camp we were staying at was right on the lakeshore, looking out over the rolling hills dotted with farms and huts. Lake Bunyonyi is Uganda's deepest lake at about 6,500 feet, and boasts more than thirty islands. The landscape around the lake is gorgeous; it's very hilly and green, and the calm of the lake is broken only by the passage of the traditional canoes used for transport in the area, and the occasional motorboat taking a tourist group on a ride. We stayed in a cute little permanent tent, set on a platform on stilts built into the hillside. It turned out that the manager of the camp was Kenyan, and he took an immediate liking to us. The rest of the staff were extremely friendly as well. We also met another Canadian, who was traveling around Africa with her Tanzanian boyfriend, working as a masseuse. It was definitely interesting and lively company.
The first day, we tried our hand at canoeing. I was confident that we would have an easy time of it, since I canoe back in Canada, but it was not so. The canoes used in that region are little dugout canoes, the kind that are carved by locals from trees, and are very shallow and deep. Something in their design makes them turn in circles constantly, so at the beginning we were frustrated by always spinning 'round no matter what we did! The locals, gliding past in their own boats and making it look so easy, tried to ask us where we were going and give us some help, but it was pretty much hopeless. We soon enlisted the help of a boy who happened to be paddling by, who quickly docked his own canoe and took charge of ours. The boy was called Moses and said he was fifteen, though he was really quite small. He also had no shoes, and was only wearing a t-shirt, despite the cold. Moses guided us through the lake's many islands and took us to one that had a small hotel on it, where we had lunch. From the island, we could see another tiny island, isolated from the others and bearing only a single tree. This lonely place was called Punishment Island, where unmarried pregnant women used to be dumped. There, they might be rescued by someone who wanted to marry them. But if you were "ugly or unlucky", as one local man put it, you would simply be left there to die. Many drowned as they attempted to swim back to shore. On our way back from lunch, we gave a ride to one of the employees of the hotel -- who stood inside the canoe the entire way, and even paddled while standing! That takes skill.
After spending two nights at Bunyonyi, we decided to extend our stay for one night, partially because the camp got CNN, and we wanted to watch the inauguration. A small group of people, mostly Kenyans and Americans, but some Ugandans and others as well, gathered together in the evening to watch the historic moment. People everywhere in East Africa are riding high on this whole course of events. Though some are still hoping that Obama will somehow show special attention to this region because of his heritage, it's acknowledged that even without material or economic benefits, the fact that he made it to his current position as president of the US at all gives so much hope and inspiration, which are incredibly valuable as well. I think that a positive outlook is even more important than money in most cases. If you have resources but don't think you can make a difference, you won't even try and whatever you have will be wasted. But if you have nothing, and still have faith in yourself and your abilities, you'll fight hard to achieve something. And that's the beautiful thing about Obama's story. All the young people I've spoken to here have been electrified by his victory -- if he can achieve something that big, why can't they?
January 25, 2009
January 17, 2009
So I've left Nairobi. Not forever, of course, but until the next time I'm in Kenya, which could be anywhere from two to ten years away. It was hard to leave, to say goodbye to the people and places I've poured my heart into for the past year. I'll miss the colour and grit and attitude of the city. I'll miss the matatus, the music, the ghetto, my favourite haunts, my own little servant's quarters. I'll miss my friends and co-workers, the Roots kids, the hawkers and security guards and people I'd meet every day. But I'm sure I'll be back. It's just a question of when, and how.
After a week of frantic packing and heart-rending goodbyes, George and I were off to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. We went with Akamba bus, supposedly one of the most reliable bus companies in Kenya, and set off at around 7pm. It was meant to be a 14 or 15-hour journey, which would have been bad enough on its own. Unfortunately, the "reliable" company we went with had stuck us with an old bus on its last legs (last wheels?). From the very beginning, it was obvious that the engine was struggling, but it was only when we broke down at 1am in the middle of nowhere that we realized how serious the trouble was. Luckily, the place we stopped at was a police roadblock, so we weren't completely vulnerable to whoever or whatever might be lurking in the forest at night. It turned out that a gas line had come loose, and gasoline was actually dripping out the bottom of the bus. How the company let such an unsafe and unsound bus on the road, I have no idea. The driver and mechanic were having a hell of a time trying to secure this tube with ropes and improvised materials -- at one point, one of them actually went into the woods and came back with some hacked-off branches, to attempt to somehow stop the leak or secure the line with them. We were sitting out there for an hour, to no avail; after all that work, the bus would only move in fits and starts. It was only when Akamba sent out another mechanic with a replacement part that we were able to travel again.
Two aspects of the breakdown were kind of amazing to me. The first was that during this entire ordeal, neither the driver, conductor nor the mechanic made any kind of announcement to the passengers to inform them of what was going on. They simply went ahead, trying to fix up the bus while leaving the passengers to grumble amongst themselves. The second amazing thing was that, while sitting and grumbling, none of the passengers except George did anything to contact the company, or even speak to the driver or conductor. Though they were obviously unhappy about the situation, their complaints and suggestions about how to handle it were directed only at others who had no influence over the course of events. Georgie, however, did call the company itself to let them know what was going on and suggest a solution. I suspect that this tendency not to address "authority figures" or those directly in charge may stem from having grown up in a dictatorship. In that environment, people learn that their complaints and opinions will generally not be received well, and that they should simply accept whatever comes their way. At any rate, aside from the night-time breakdown which stretched our journey to 17 hours, it actually wasn't too bad a ride.
Kampala is a beautiful city, filled with greenery and spread out over seven hills. It does get pretty hectic during the day, but somehow feels more laid back than Nairobi. There are matatus here (though they're painted a boring, uniform white and have no music), but the biggest deal in transportation is the boda-boda, the motorcycle. I've taken boda-boda rides in rural Kenya before, when no other means of transportation has been available, but never in a city. I tell you, it's quite a different experience. After taking half a dozen rides on somewhat dated machines which wove their way through traffic and pot-holed roads and breakneck speeds, we decided to stick with cabs, at least until we get to Rwanda where the passengers as well as the drivers are supplied with helmets (or so we hear, it seems kind of fantastical to me), and only one passenger at a time is allowed on the bike. Here it would be funny if it weren't so frightening, the way it seems like a competition to see who can pile the most people and goods on the back of one bike.
One of the things I didn't expect about Uganda is that hardly anyone here speaks Swahili. At least, it's not used in everyday conversation. Luganda is the dominant language in Kampala, and English is also quite prevalent. The food is pretty similar to Kenyan fare. However, matoke, which is basically mashed green plantain, is the staple food here, and many dishes come with a yummy peanut sauce. Ugali, Kenya's stable food, is conspicuously absent from the menu. The weather has been terribly hot and dry, though broken at times by heavy downpours which last about twenty minutes and create rivers, red with dust, which stream down the streets.
Here we've mostly been catching up with a Congolese friend who studies here, exploring the city's attractions and nightlife, and doing a little shopping. Of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, the latter is known to have the best education system. Kampala is home to the famed Makerere University, which attacts students from all over the East African region. The student area is a bustling neighbourhood filled with little restaurants and stalls open 24-hours to accomdate odd student hours. There you hear people speaking French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and more. Kampala is full of neat little pockets like these, and is a city worth further exploration.
Tomorrow, however, we're moving on to see a bit of the Ugandan countryside. Our destination is Lake Bunyonyi, near the Rwandan border, for a bit of exercise and fresh air (biking, canoeing and kayaking, hourrah!), before heading to Kigali.
After a week of frantic packing and heart-rending goodbyes, George and I were off to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. We went with Akamba bus, supposedly one of the most reliable bus companies in Kenya, and set off at around 7pm. It was meant to be a 14 or 15-hour journey, which would have been bad enough on its own. Unfortunately, the "reliable" company we went with had stuck us with an old bus on its last legs (last wheels?). From the very beginning, it was obvious that the engine was struggling, but it was only when we broke down at 1am in the middle of nowhere that we realized how serious the trouble was. Luckily, the place we stopped at was a police roadblock, so we weren't completely vulnerable to whoever or whatever might be lurking in the forest at night. It turned out that a gas line had come loose, and gasoline was actually dripping out the bottom of the bus. How the company let such an unsafe and unsound bus on the road, I have no idea. The driver and mechanic were having a hell of a time trying to secure this tube with ropes and improvised materials -- at one point, one of them actually went into the woods and came back with some hacked-off branches, to attempt to somehow stop the leak or secure the line with them. We were sitting out there for an hour, to no avail; after all that work, the bus would only move in fits and starts. It was only when Akamba sent out another mechanic with a replacement part that we were able to travel again.
Two aspects of the breakdown were kind of amazing to me. The first was that during this entire ordeal, neither the driver, conductor nor the mechanic made any kind of announcement to the passengers to inform them of what was going on. They simply went ahead, trying to fix up the bus while leaving the passengers to grumble amongst themselves. The second amazing thing was that, while sitting and grumbling, none of the passengers except George did anything to contact the company, or even speak to the driver or conductor. Though they were obviously unhappy about the situation, their complaints and suggestions about how to handle it were directed only at others who had no influence over the course of events. Georgie, however, did call the company itself to let them know what was going on and suggest a solution. I suspect that this tendency not to address "authority figures" or those directly in charge may stem from having grown up in a dictatorship. In that environment, people learn that their complaints and opinions will generally not be received well, and that they should simply accept whatever comes their way. At any rate, aside from the night-time breakdown which stretched our journey to 17 hours, it actually wasn't too bad a ride.
Kampala is a beautiful city, filled with greenery and spread out over seven hills. It does get pretty hectic during the day, but somehow feels more laid back than Nairobi. There are matatus here (though they're painted a boring, uniform white and have no music), but the biggest deal in transportation is the boda-boda, the motorcycle. I've taken boda-boda rides in rural Kenya before, when no other means of transportation has been available, but never in a city. I tell you, it's quite a different experience. After taking half a dozen rides on somewhat dated machines which wove their way through traffic and pot-holed roads and breakneck speeds, we decided to stick with cabs, at least until we get to Rwanda where the passengers as well as the drivers are supplied with helmets (or so we hear, it seems kind of fantastical to me), and only one passenger at a time is allowed on the bike. Here it would be funny if it weren't so frightening, the way it seems like a competition to see who can pile the most people and goods on the back of one bike.
One of the things I didn't expect about Uganda is that hardly anyone here speaks Swahili. At least, it's not used in everyday conversation. Luganda is the dominant language in Kampala, and English is also quite prevalent. The food is pretty similar to Kenyan fare. However, matoke, which is basically mashed green plantain, is the staple food here, and many dishes come with a yummy peanut sauce. Ugali, Kenya's stable food, is conspicuously absent from the menu. The weather has been terribly hot and dry, though broken at times by heavy downpours which last about twenty minutes and create rivers, red with dust, which stream down the streets.
Here we've mostly been catching up with a Congolese friend who studies here, exploring the city's attractions and nightlife, and doing a little shopping. Of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, the latter is known to have the best education system. Kampala is home to the famed Makerere University, which attacts students from all over the East African region. The student area is a bustling neighbourhood filled with little restaurants and stalls open 24-hours to accomdate odd student hours. There you hear people speaking French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and more. Kampala is full of neat little pockets like these, and is a city worth further exploration.
Tomorrow, however, we're moving on to see a bit of the Ugandan countryside. Our destination is Lake Bunyonyi, near the Rwandan border, for a bit of exercise and fresh air (biking, canoeing and kayaking, hourrah!), before heading to Kigali.
January 4, 2009
Lamu and the New Year
As we sat in a little juice bar on the waterfront in Lamu, sipping on our freshly-made drinks (passion, lime and mango juice and a chocolate milkshake, respectively) we heard the sound of hand-drums approaching. We finished our drinks and poked our heads out, curious, to be greeted by an onslaught of men and boys in white robes and kofias, drumming and dancing. Some held signs with anti-drug messages, others little paper flags. It seems that we had unknowingly arrived in Lamu in the midst of the Islamic New Year celebrations. It was lucky for us, since there was a lot of activity in Lamu town while we were there. The town square held movie screenings, plays and speeches every day.
Getting to Lamu is a pretty rough ride. We took a bus from Mombasa very early in the morning. For the first few hours, it’s an alright ride; the roads are paved and everyone in the bus is sitting in an orderly fashion. It’s when you pass Malindi and get out into the countryside when it starts to get really uncomfortable. The paved highway gives way to bumpy, potholed dirt roads. It’s unbearably hot, but terribly dusty, so you have to choose between sweating it out with the windows shut, or having dust and grit constantly blown in your face, sticking to your moist skin. It’s very unpleasant. Once you’re out of the city, people start piling in at every stop. Before you know it, the aisle is crammed full of people standing, and attempting to sit on the arms of seats. There are boxes and bags everywhere, and chickens stuffed into boxes or tucked under arms. Children are plunked down on strangers’ laps. It’s slow going, so we were stuck like this for five hours or so. At every stop, shouting hawkers would immediately surround the bus, thrusting up trays of fat mangoes and bananas, empty oil containers now full of fresh milk, boiled eggs, meat on skewers and ultra-sugary sweets. God help you if you make eye contact by accident.
The trip is definitely worth it, though. We stumbled out of the bus at the port feeling grumpy, sweaty, dirty and stiff, but soon enough we were on the boat to Lamu, a wooden motorboat which was also crammed full of people, luggage, and a huge freezer. In about fifteen minutes, we reached the island. The waterfront, with its white buildings all crammed together and beaches on either side, was a welcoming sight. The crowd of beach boys and touts, all of whom want to take your bags and show you around to the “best” hotels, were not as welcome, but we managed to avoid them by walking purposefully on and plunging directly into the alleyways of Lamu town. The town is very similar to Zanzibar’s Stone Town in many ways – the buildings are built close together, leaving only narrow alleyways to walk through, and the older buildings are frequently decorated with elaborately carved doors and sometimes balconies. Old men sit in entrance-ways sipping coffee from absurdly small cups, and children race by with a wheel and stick, or dragging small cars fashioned from old plastic bottles. There are mangy street cats lurking everywhere, slipping in and out of homes, leaping across rooftops and sitting under stands on the street, waiting for something delicious to drop.
What is so unique about Lamu, though, is the lack of cars. There are only a few vehicles on the island – two ambulances, a donkey ambulance, a police car and the chief’s car. Instead of jumping out of the way for motorbikes, you’re stepping into doorways to let donkeys pass – and sometimes they’re moving along at quite a trot! Donkeys carrying one or two grown men, donkeys lugging sand or rocks, donkeys loitering outside homes, even donkeys fighting each other in the street (vicious!). There are no car accidents, only donkey accidents. I felt quite sorry for the poor beasts – they’re worked very hard, and many of them have sores from the ropes they’re tethered with. If things get too bad, though, there’s always the donkey sanctuary. I was a little skittish around them myself, remembering the Swahili saying, “A donkey’s thanks is its kick.”
Aside from the donkeys, Lamu is known for several things: the huge number of mosques; the fantastic seafood; the stunning, isolated beaches; and dhow rides. We were only there for about four days, but managed to pack a lot of food, beach time and cultural activities in. We had henna painted on our hands and feet at the home of a local family, ate crab and fish curry, prawn samosas and coconut bread, and watched a dhow race. A trip in a dhow, a traditional wooden Swahili sailboat, is a must. In order to get one, you must simply take a stroll along the waterfront, let the beach boys come to you and decide who to go with. The beach boys in Lamu have almost universally adopted the Rastafarian look and lingo. There were so many men with beautiful, long dreadlocks, which made me happy. Most of them have solid Muslim names like Ali, Muhammed and Hassan, but they also have ridiculous nicknames like Happy, Barracuda and Aloe Vera. We befriended a guy with the improbable nickname of Sunflower. Initially, we had arranged a dhow ride with a random beach boy, but unfortunately he turned out to be a con man, so we had to scramble to make other plans. Sunflower was a crew member for a Captain Ali, so we ended up taking a dhow ride with them, along with four other people from Canada, Norway and the UK. The trip involved heading out into the deep sea to do some fishing with a rather rudimentary line, then going to a small island across from Lamu and swimming in the absolutely-perfect stretch of beach while the guys cooked up a delicious lunch of rice, veggie curry and grilled spicy fish. Then more swimming and walking on the beach, before heading back to Lamu for a little shopping. There was a lot of singing and laughter on the way back. It was pretty much a perfect day. The only downside to it was the intensity of the sun: Jenny ended up getting completely burnt, poor girl, and I had the second burn of my life, on my face and back (the other time I burned was also on the Kenyan coast, gotta watch out for that). Even Georgie got a bit of burn on his face, which just shows how serious that sun was.
We were so relaxed and content in Lamu that it was hard to return to the mainland. But return we did, taking another brutal bus ride back to Mombasa just in time for New Year’s Eve. The big thing in Mombasa is beach parties, and we all trooped out to the beach for the celebrations. George’s brother Elijah also came along, which was nice. At the beach party there were DJs, live acts, a bonfire, and even fireworks at midnight. We took to wading into the ocean and dancing out there. It was pretty surreal, thinking about times we had attempted to spend New Year’s Eve outdoors in Canada and how cold it was there. It was a fantastic evening.
As is typical for New Year’s Day, we were pretty lazy on the first. The highlight of the day was going to see a Bollywood movie, Ghajini, which was basically a Bollywood take on Memento. Although they show them pretty frequently, I’d never seen a Bollywood movie in a proper theatre before, and I didn’t realize that they have an intermission (they tend to get pretty long, because of the musical numbers I guess). It was a pretty intense one. Lots of crazy action, melodrama and over-the-top costumes. If you’re into Bollywood at all, I would definitely recommend it.
Now we’re back in Nairobi. I’ll be here for about a week longer before saying my goodbyes to Kenya. It’s going to be sad, but I’m excited to move on and see more of East Africa. In the next two months, the plan is to visit Uganda, Rwanda, Zambia and Tanzania. I’ll be coming home at the very end of February – just a little over a year and a month since I left. I’m planning to make some visits in March, so if you’re around Montreal, Toronto or Barry at that time, expect a very cold and culture-shocked visitor!
Getting to Lamu is a pretty rough ride. We took a bus from Mombasa very early in the morning. For the first few hours, it’s an alright ride; the roads are paved and everyone in the bus is sitting in an orderly fashion. It’s when you pass Malindi and get out into the countryside when it starts to get really uncomfortable. The paved highway gives way to bumpy, potholed dirt roads. It’s unbearably hot, but terribly dusty, so you have to choose between sweating it out with the windows shut, or having dust and grit constantly blown in your face, sticking to your moist skin. It’s very unpleasant. Once you’re out of the city, people start piling in at every stop. Before you know it, the aisle is crammed full of people standing, and attempting to sit on the arms of seats. There are boxes and bags everywhere, and chickens stuffed into boxes or tucked under arms. Children are plunked down on strangers’ laps. It’s slow going, so we were stuck like this for five hours or so. At every stop, shouting hawkers would immediately surround the bus, thrusting up trays of fat mangoes and bananas, empty oil containers now full of fresh milk, boiled eggs, meat on skewers and ultra-sugary sweets. God help you if you make eye contact by accident.
The trip is definitely worth it, though. We stumbled out of the bus at the port feeling grumpy, sweaty, dirty and stiff, but soon enough we were on the boat to Lamu, a wooden motorboat which was also crammed full of people, luggage, and a huge freezer. In about fifteen minutes, we reached the island. The waterfront, with its white buildings all crammed together and beaches on either side, was a welcoming sight. The crowd of beach boys and touts, all of whom want to take your bags and show you around to the “best” hotels, were not as welcome, but we managed to avoid them by walking purposefully on and plunging directly into the alleyways of Lamu town. The town is very similar to Zanzibar’s Stone Town in many ways – the buildings are built close together, leaving only narrow alleyways to walk through, and the older buildings are frequently decorated with elaborately carved doors and sometimes balconies. Old men sit in entrance-ways sipping coffee from absurdly small cups, and children race by with a wheel and stick, or dragging small cars fashioned from old plastic bottles. There are mangy street cats lurking everywhere, slipping in and out of homes, leaping across rooftops and sitting under stands on the street, waiting for something delicious to drop.
What is so unique about Lamu, though, is the lack of cars. There are only a few vehicles on the island – two ambulances, a donkey ambulance, a police car and the chief’s car. Instead of jumping out of the way for motorbikes, you’re stepping into doorways to let donkeys pass – and sometimes they’re moving along at quite a trot! Donkeys carrying one or two grown men, donkeys lugging sand or rocks, donkeys loitering outside homes, even donkeys fighting each other in the street (vicious!). There are no car accidents, only donkey accidents. I felt quite sorry for the poor beasts – they’re worked very hard, and many of them have sores from the ropes they’re tethered with. If things get too bad, though, there’s always the donkey sanctuary. I was a little skittish around them myself, remembering the Swahili saying, “A donkey’s thanks is its kick.”
Aside from the donkeys, Lamu is known for several things: the huge number of mosques; the fantastic seafood; the stunning, isolated beaches; and dhow rides. We were only there for about four days, but managed to pack a lot of food, beach time and cultural activities in. We had henna painted on our hands and feet at the home of a local family, ate crab and fish curry, prawn samosas and coconut bread, and watched a dhow race. A trip in a dhow, a traditional wooden Swahili sailboat, is a must. In order to get one, you must simply take a stroll along the waterfront, let the beach boys come to you and decide who to go with. The beach boys in Lamu have almost universally adopted the Rastafarian look and lingo. There were so many men with beautiful, long dreadlocks, which made me happy. Most of them have solid Muslim names like Ali, Muhammed and Hassan, but they also have ridiculous nicknames like Happy, Barracuda and Aloe Vera. We befriended a guy with the improbable nickname of Sunflower. Initially, we had arranged a dhow ride with a random beach boy, but unfortunately he turned out to be a con man, so we had to scramble to make other plans. Sunflower was a crew member for a Captain Ali, so we ended up taking a dhow ride with them, along with four other people from Canada, Norway and the UK. The trip involved heading out into the deep sea to do some fishing with a rather rudimentary line, then going to a small island across from Lamu and swimming in the absolutely-perfect stretch of beach while the guys cooked up a delicious lunch of rice, veggie curry and grilled spicy fish. Then more swimming and walking on the beach, before heading back to Lamu for a little shopping. There was a lot of singing and laughter on the way back. It was pretty much a perfect day. The only downside to it was the intensity of the sun: Jenny ended up getting completely burnt, poor girl, and I had the second burn of my life, on my face and back (the other time I burned was also on the Kenyan coast, gotta watch out for that). Even Georgie got a bit of burn on his face, which just shows how serious that sun was.
We were so relaxed and content in Lamu that it was hard to return to the mainland. But return we did, taking another brutal bus ride back to Mombasa just in time for New Year’s Eve. The big thing in Mombasa is beach parties, and we all trooped out to the beach for the celebrations. George’s brother Elijah also came along, which was nice. At the beach party there were DJs, live acts, a bonfire, and even fireworks at midnight. We took to wading into the ocean and dancing out there. It was pretty surreal, thinking about times we had attempted to spend New Year’s Eve outdoors in Canada and how cold it was there. It was a fantastic evening.
As is typical for New Year’s Day, we were pretty lazy on the first. The highlight of the day was going to see a Bollywood movie, Ghajini, which was basically a Bollywood take on Memento. Although they show them pretty frequently, I’d never seen a Bollywood movie in a proper theatre before, and I didn’t realize that they have an intermission (they tend to get pretty long, because of the musical numbers I guess). It was a pretty intense one. Lots of crazy action, melodrama and over-the-top costumes. If you’re into Bollywood at all, I would definitely recommend it.
Now we’re back in Nairobi. I’ll be here for about a week longer before saying my goodbyes to Kenya. It’s going to be sad, but I’m excited to move on and see more of East Africa. In the next two months, the plan is to visit Uganda, Rwanda, Zambia and Tanzania. I’ll be coming home at the very end of February – just a little over a year and a month since I left. I’m planning to make some visits in March, so if you’re around Montreal, Toronto or Barry at that time, expect a very cold and culture-shocked visitor!
December 31, 2008
Xmas on the beach
Christmas was a low-key affair for me this year. On the 23rd, we took the bus to Mombasa, the second-largest city in Kenya. As with all the coastal towns in East Africa, the original Bantu people had traded and intermarried with mostly Omani traders, and also with early Portuguese colonialists, forming the unique Swahili culture which still remains strong today. Though not as business-oriented as Nairobi, Mombasa is still a hectic place, filled with the usual mix of hawkers, matatu touts and con artists, with a seemingly huge homeless population. But it's a beautiful city. As the population is mostly Muslim, huge white mosques dominate every few blocks or so. The city looks old, its white and pastel buildings falling into disrepair, but still retaining their old charm. And it's hot -- I'd guess that the temperatures go above thirty every day at this time of year, especially with the heavy press of humidity.
Our hotel was right in the centre of town, a relatively cheap place (though they had raised their rates for the holidays, of course) with simple but large and clean rooms. I was surprised at the number of foreigners I saw there, and indeed all over Mombasa. I guess I just don't usually think of traveling over the holidays to somewhere so far from home. It was nice, though -- this is definitely the first time I've been swimming on Christmas Eve! From town it takes about half an hour to reach the various beaches, with their clear water and white sand. The scene is somewhat marred by the various tourist traps, like camel rides and kite boarding, but once you're in the warm embrace of the Indian ocean, that's easily ignored.
On the night of Christmas Eve, we went dancing at a place called Bob's (for Bob Marley) -- a parking lot during the day which is converted to a dance floor at night. The DJ was fantastic and the place was packed. Georgie and I had fun speculating about where people were from based on the way they were dressed. Mombasa women, we noted, are a bit more feminine and classy, while Nairobi women go all-out for trends and skimpiness. The table of women dressed in stiletto boots, hot pants and backless shirts were definitely Nairobians! This being the coast, there was also some evidence of sex tourism. The tables with one older white person (just as frequently a woman as a man), and one younger Kenyan, not speaking to each other, were pretty sad. I particularly felt sorry for the young man at the table next to us, who sat watching other people dancing all night, and looked like he would have joined them had he not been with what looked like a client -- a middle-aged white woman who sat staring straight ahead and chain-smoking the entire evening. I can't imagine how sad it must be for both of them, to spend Christmas Eve with a stranger who doesn't say a word, or with someone you are essentially paying to make you feel less alone. I'd think it would just make you feel even more lonely. I had a fantastic evening, though, dancing the night away with good friends!
On Christmas itself, some businesses closed and some remained open, but the informal businesses were booming. The hawkers were setting up in the morning, adding gaudy Christmas garlands to their usual wares of clothing, accessories and counterfeit DVDs. The restaurants were also doing great business. Families with young kids especially were taking the opportunity in what is probably a rare treat of eating out. We didn't do a lot during the day -- mostly poked around a bookshop and relaxed in the afternoon. In the evening, it seemed like all of Mombasa was heading to the beach -- traffic was completely jammed up in the direction of the public beach, and masses of people were walking along the side of the road. We hired a tuk-tuk -- a little three-wheeled vehicle which I think is made out of a modified motorcycle -- and headed off into the crowd. We went to a nicebeach side hotel and had Christmas dinner down by the ocean. While the others had steak, I opted for chicken -- the closest I could get to turkey! There was even carrots and zucchini, which was exciting. The dinner was complemented by delicious fresh mango juice. Though it wasn't anything like Christmas at home, it felt good to be with friends, surrounded by palm trees and the sounds of waves crashing in the warm night air.
On the next day, we left for Lamu -- but I'll have to save the details of that trip for another entry. For now, I'll wish you all a happy New Year. It's been a crazy year here in Kenya, and an amazing and challenging year for me personally. I hope that next year is just as boundary-pushing and fulfilling. Here's to friendship, happiness and good health in 2009! Be well, everyone.
Our hotel was right in the centre of town, a relatively cheap place (though they had raised their rates for the holidays, of course) with simple but large and clean rooms. I was surprised at the number of foreigners I saw there, and indeed all over Mombasa. I guess I just don't usually think of traveling over the holidays to somewhere so far from home. It was nice, though -- this is definitely the first time I've been swimming on Christmas Eve! From town it takes about half an hour to reach the various beaches, with their clear water and white sand. The scene is somewhat marred by the various tourist traps, like camel rides and kite boarding, but once you're in the warm embrace of the Indian ocean, that's easily ignored.
On the night of Christmas Eve, we went dancing at a place called Bob's (for Bob Marley) -- a parking lot during the day which is converted to a dance floor at night. The DJ was fantastic and the place was packed. Georgie and I had fun speculating about where people were from based on the way they were dressed. Mombasa women, we noted, are a bit more feminine and classy, while Nairobi women go all-out for trends and skimpiness. The table of women dressed in stiletto boots, hot pants and backless shirts were definitely Nairobians! This being the coast, there was also some evidence of sex tourism. The tables with one older white person (just as frequently a woman as a man), and one younger Kenyan, not speaking to each other, were pretty sad. I particularly felt sorry for the young man at the table next to us, who sat watching other people dancing all night, and looked like he would have joined them had he not been with what looked like a client -- a middle-aged white woman who sat staring straight ahead and chain-smoking the entire evening. I can't imagine how sad it must be for both of them, to spend Christmas Eve with a stranger who doesn't say a word, or with someone you are essentially paying to make you feel less alone. I'd think it would just make you feel even more lonely. I had a fantastic evening, though, dancing the night away with good friends!
On Christmas itself, some businesses closed and some remained open, but the informal businesses were booming. The hawkers were setting up in the morning, adding gaudy Christmas garlands to their usual wares of clothing, accessories and counterfeit DVDs. The restaurants were also doing great business. Families with young kids especially were taking the opportunity in what is probably a rare treat of eating out. We didn't do a lot during the day -- mostly poked around a bookshop and relaxed in the afternoon. In the evening, it seemed like all of Mombasa was heading to the beach -- traffic was completely jammed up in the direction of the public beach, and masses of people were walking along the side of the road. We hired a tuk-tuk -- a little three-wheeled vehicle which I think is made out of a modified motorcycle -- and headed off into the crowd. We went to a nicebeach side hotel and had Christmas dinner down by the ocean. While the others had steak, I opted for chicken -- the closest I could get to turkey! There was even carrots and zucchini, which was exciting. The dinner was complemented by delicious fresh mango juice. Though it wasn't anything like Christmas at home, it felt good to be with friends, surrounded by palm trees and the sounds of waves crashing in the warm night air.
On the next day, we left for Lamu -- but I'll have to save the details of that trip for another entry. For now, I'll wish you all a happy New Year. It's been a crazy year here in Kenya, and an amazing and challenging year for me personally. I hope that next year is just as boundary-pushing and fulfilling. Here's to friendship, happiness and good health in 2009! Be well, everyone.
December 22, 2008
Happy Holidays, everyone
So I've been hearing stories from my friends and family back home about the huge amount of snow you've been getting. I guess it's really starting to look like Christmas over there! Here it's looking a lot like... well, like a very hot summer with Christmas lights. There haven't been too many of the traditions that normally signal "Christmas" to me. No house parties, none of the holiday food I'm used to, few Christmas movies or music, and obviously no snow. Here it seems like the holidays aren't so much a family affair as an excuse to go out and party (at least, for people my age it's okay to hang out with your friends and go off on vacation -- older people are expected to visit their families back in "shags", the countryside). Which is also fun... just not really what I'm used to.
The gift-giving tradition hasn't caught on much either. It's a bit odd because on the radio and in the newspaper, we're getting all the gift guides and such as we would back home. But absolutely nobody that I know, even the middle-class people, are buying presents. So I wonder who all these ads and articles are targeting. It must be exclusively for the upper class/Westernized families. There have been quite a few Santa Clauses around town (black Santa, woo!), but no kids lining up to sit on his lap, not even at the mall. I guess if you don't get presents, you wouldn't really believe in Santa. And there's not too much incentive to sit in a strange man's lap if you don't think you're going to get a shiny new toy out of it. There are some lights and other decorations around town, but without the snow they just look odd. The holly and ivy, reindeer and snow-covered pine trees painted in store windows look particularly out of place alongside the hawkers, bustle, dust and heat of downtown Nairobi.
I hear there is a lot of good food around Christmas, though not of the turkey and stuffing variety. I've told my co-workers, with much nostalgia over Christmas dinners past, about the food we traditionally eat at this time. They thought that eggnog sounded disgusting (fair enough, lots of Westerners do too), and cranberry sauce strange. Here the more common foods are those that you find at other celebratory occasions, like weddings -- pilau, chicken, roast meat (roast beast!), chapati, etc.
Today was my last day of work at IIN, which was a bit bittersweet -- it will be nice not to have to come into the office anymore, but I'll be sad to go and leave my coworkers. It's been fun working in an office composed almost exclusively of young women. And of course I've had a lot of amazing experiences while working here. But I'll still be doing some work for my boss here and there, so I won't be completely out of touch. It will be really nice to take a break for awhile, this year has been a lot of hard work!
My Christmas plans have been shaping up well. Tomorrow I leave to the coast with three companions -- Georgie, Jennie (a Canadian friend who was working in Elangata Wuas for the past few months), and Konzo (another Kenyan friend from Elangata Wuas). We'll spend Christmas in Mombasa, Kenya's major coastal city. So many Nairobians are heading out there for Christmas to go to the beach, so I'm sure it's going to be crazy, and I hope a lot of fun. On Boxing Day, we're going to Lamu, a small island off the coast which is much like Zanzibar in its preservation of Swahili culture. Lamu is even smaller, though -- the only vehicles on the island are the ambulance and the police car, and donkeys are the main means of transportation. They have fantastic fruit juices and seafood, and it's a great place to just chill, go sailing on a dhow, go swimming and relax. I'm looking forward to that. For New Year's, I'll either be heading back to Mombasa or going to Diani Beach on the south coast.
I hope that all of you have safe and happy holidays. I'll certainly be missing family and home, but I'll make the best of being here. So while you're sitting around the tree or slogging through the snow, just think of me, dancing on the beach. Merry Christmas!
The gift-giving tradition hasn't caught on much either. It's a bit odd because on the radio and in the newspaper, we're getting all the gift guides and such as we would back home. But absolutely nobody that I know, even the middle-class people, are buying presents. So I wonder who all these ads and articles are targeting. It must be exclusively for the upper class/Westernized families. There have been quite a few Santa Clauses around town (black Santa, woo!), but no kids lining up to sit on his lap, not even at the mall. I guess if you don't get presents, you wouldn't really believe in Santa. And there's not too much incentive to sit in a strange man's lap if you don't think you're going to get a shiny new toy out of it. There are some lights and other decorations around town, but without the snow they just look odd. The holly and ivy, reindeer and snow-covered pine trees painted in store windows look particularly out of place alongside the hawkers, bustle, dust and heat of downtown Nairobi.
I hear there is a lot of good food around Christmas, though not of the turkey and stuffing variety. I've told my co-workers, with much nostalgia over Christmas dinners past, about the food we traditionally eat at this time. They thought that eggnog sounded disgusting (fair enough, lots of Westerners do too), and cranberry sauce strange. Here the more common foods are those that you find at other celebratory occasions, like weddings -- pilau, chicken, roast meat (roast beast!), chapati, etc.
Today was my last day of work at IIN, which was a bit bittersweet -- it will be nice not to have to come into the office anymore, but I'll be sad to go and leave my coworkers. It's been fun working in an office composed almost exclusively of young women. And of course I've had a lot of amazing experiences while working here. But I'll still be doing some work for my boss here and there, so I won't be completely out of touch. It will be really nice to take a break for awhile, this year has been a lot of hard work!
My Christmas plans have been shaping up well. Tomorrow I leave to the coast with three companions -- Georgie, Jennie (a Canadian friend who was working in Elangata Wuas for the past few months), and Konzo (another Kenyan friend from Elangata Wuas). We'll spend Christmas in Mombasa, Kenya's major coastal city. So many Nairobians are heading out there for Christmas to go to the beach, so I'm sure it's going to be crazy, and I hope a lot of fun. On Boxing Day, we're going to Lamu, a small island off the coast which is much like Zanzibar in its preservation of Swahili culture. Lamu is even smaller, though -- the only vehicles on the island are the ambulance and the police car, and donkeys are the main means of transportation. They have fantastic fruit juices and seafood, and it's a great place to just chill, go sailing on a dhow, go swimming and relax. I'm looking forward to that. For New Year's, I'll either be heading back to Mombasa or going to Diani Beach on the south coast.
I hope that all of you have safe and happy holidays. I'll certainly be missing family and home, but I'll make the best of being here. So while you're sitting around the tree or slogging through the snow, just think of me, dancing on the beach. Merry Christmas!
December 2, 2008
The rest of my whirlwind stay in Cape Town passed much too quickly. After the conference, I was there for four days, and it wasn’t nearly enough neither to visit all of my family there, nor to see much of the city itself. Ah, Cape Town. What can I tell you about this place? It’s the city of my father’s childhood, and one of the most beautiful cities in the world! It has everything – mountains, including the famous Table Mountain; ocean, with both rocky and sandy beaches nearby; friendly people; fabulous restaurants and shopping. I was staying with my cousin Heidi, her husband Francois and their two daughters, Katje and Tiero, aged three and five. It was so great to stay with them and to get to know a side of the family that I haven’t had the opportunity to know well before. It’s kind of difficult when you live across an ocean from each other!
Heidi and Francois are very social people despite their hectic schedules and young kids, so with them I got a good dose of Cape Town hospitality, family and friends. One of the gatherings we attended was a birthday party for Francois’ sister-in-law, and it reminded me so much of the barbecues and picnics that Grandma and Grandpa used to have (and that Grandma still has when us kids are around). All the lovely food: the briyani, chicken curry, samosas, chicken wings, fish cakes and salads. The family and friends all gathered together in one place. There’s a way of relating to others, of speaking and cooking that is so unique to the Cape Town Coloured community, which I never recognized as being part of a distinct culture when I was younger. It’s amazing to see where your own family fits into this group that I hardly knew anything about until a few years ago.
I spent a day at the beach in Simon’s Town with my aunt Catherine, cousins Greg and Carol, and Carol’s two daughters, Yusrah and Annika (someone please correct me if I’ve spelled their names wrong), who I think are also three and five. That side of the family had visited Canada occasionally when I was growing up, but I hadn’t seen any of them in a few years, so it was wonderful to catch up over fish and chips. Later we met up with Carol’s husband Nazeem and her son Mujaheed, who was only four the last time I met him (and is now nine). The kid actually remembered me – his first words to me were, “Auntie Kaitlin, you look different!” So cute. I also had a lovely lunch followed by a drive to Hout Bay with another cousin, Thelma. All in all it was a very successful visit, though I didn’t have time to see half the people I had wanted to see.
What with all the visiting and running around there wasn’t a lot of time to see Cape Town, but I saw enough to know that I will definitely visit again. Next time I’m around, I’ll make a point of blocking off at least a couple of weeks for South Africa. I did have an odd feeling while in Cape Town, though. My first impressions were that the city centre was so clean and organized and empty – it made me feel as though I were in North America again. I felt a little “homesick” for Nairobi, so I don’t know what it will be like when I’m actually back in North America. Of course, that’s just the shiny, tourist-friendly city centre. I know that other parts of the city aren’t so glossy and safe.
My travels have come to an end, for the time being. While my trip was fantastic, I must say that I’m thrilled to be back in Nairobi after about a month and a half. It is so nice to have a home base and a little stability again. But beyond that, I’ve missed the noise, the colour and the chaos. There’s just so much attitude, humour and swagger in Nairobi. There’s nowhere else quite like it.
Heidi and Francois are very social people despite their hectic schedules and young kids, so with them I got a good dose of Cape Town hospitality, family and friends. One of the gatherings we attended was a birthday party for Francois’ sister-in-law, and it reminded me so much of the barbecues and picnics that Grandma and Grandpa used to have (and that Grandma still has when us kids are around). All the lovely food: the briyani, chicken curry, samosas, chicken wings, fish cakes and salads. The family and friends all gathered together in one place. There’s a way of relating to others, of speaking and cooking that is so unique to the Cape Town Coloured community, which I never recognized as being part of a distinct culture when I was younger. It’s amazing to see where your own family fits into this group that I hardly knew anything about until a few years ago.
I spent a day at the beach in Simon’s Town with my aunt Catherine, cousins Greg and Carol, and Carol’s two daughters, Yusrah and Annika (someone please correct me if I’ve spelled their names wrong), who I think are also three and five. That side of the family had visited Canada occasionally when I was growing up, but I hadn’t seen any of them in a few years, so it was wonderful to catch up over fish and chips. Later we met up with Carol’s husband Nazeem and her son Mujaheed, who was only four the last time I met him (and is now nine). The kid actually remembered me – his first words to me were, “Auntie Kaitlin, you look different!” So cute. I also had a lovely lunch followed by a drive to Hout Bay with another cousin, Thelma. All in all it was a very successful visit, though I didn’t have time to see half the people I had wanted to see.
What with all the visiting and running around there wasn’t a lot of time to see Cape Town, but I saw enough to know that I will definitely visit again. Next time I’m around, I’ll make a point of blocking off at least a couple of weeks for South Africa. I did have an odd feeling while in Cape Town, though. My first impressions were that the city centre was so clean and organized and empty – it made me feel as though I were in North America again. I felt a little “homesick” for Nairobi, so I don’t know what it will be like when I’m actually back in North America. Of course, that’s just the shiny, tourist-friendly city centre. I know that other parts of the city aren’t so glossy and safe.
My travels have come to an end, for the time being. While my trip was fantastic, I must say that I’m thrilled to be back in Nairobi after about a month and a half. It is so nice to have a home base and a little stability again. But beyond that, I’ve missed the noise, the colour and the chaos. There’s just so much attitude, humour and swagger in Nairobi. There’s nowhere else quite like it.
November 24, 2008
the Power of Movements
This was the 11th women’s forum hosted by the Association for Women’s Rights in Development (AWID). It’s the first time that the event has been hosted in Africa, and had record attendance – over 2,200 participants came from all over the world! About 30% of these came from African countries and 11% from South Africa alone (partly because, as a means of encouraging participation, a certain number of free spots were reserved for South African participants). Though there were some men in attendance, the overwhelming majority of participants were women. And I have to tell you, the energy of the place was amazing. It was really inspiring to hear from and to meet so many women who are all working to achieve gender equality, whether this be in a feminist context or not.
Most of the women attending the conference came from an organizational perspective – they worked for NGOs, non-profits, funding organizations and the like. We were nine in our indigenous African women’s delegation: Lucy and me, one other woman from Kenya, one from Uganda, two from Tanzania and three from South Africa. We also met up with indigenous women from Latin America, who were here with the International Indigenous Women’s Forum (FIMI). I was finally able to meet a FIMI colleague from Nicaragua with whom I had had a long email correspondence, which was wonderful. It’s so different and so gratifying to meet someone in person after organizing logistics online together for so long!
The theme for the conference this year was “The Power of Movements” – a discussion both of the women’s rights movement and its direction and drawbacks, and of intersecting movements. What impressed me most about the conference was the effort that the organizers had put into consciously including groups which have traditionally been marginalized within “mainstream feminist” circles (i.e. Western, white, middle-class, straight, cisgender, able-bodied, etc.). There were LGBTI groups present, disabled women, indigenous women and sex workers. Though at this point in time the representation of minority groups was mostly superficial (for example, though there was an effort to reach out to disabled women, there were no sign language translators and none of the workshop information was available in Braille; and although there was an effort to reach out to queer and trans women, the language used in the main plenary sessions was still quite heterocentric and gender essentialist, second-wave feminist-style), at least it’s a step in the right direction.
I was very excited to meet women who are working in queer rights in Africa. I hadn’t seen any LGBTI organizations in Kenya, though I know they must exist. Such organizations are frequently driven underground for fear of persecution, as in many countries homosexuality is illegal and the stigma against it is still strong. In South Africa, the first country in Africa to legalize same-sex marriage, there is more in the way of visible LGBTI organizing, but that still doesn’t mean that there’s more acceptance, especially in rural areas. I was awed by the women who were working in countries which are so hostile to their presence, yet they persevere because they believe so strongly in equal rights for all people. They are not ashamed to fight for the right to love who they want, the right to be treated with dignity and respect, the right not to be beaten or killed simply for looking or dressing the “wrong” way, or for holding or (god forbid) kissing their partner in public. The right just to exist. One woman in particular, who was working for GALZ (Gays and Lesbian of Zimbabwe) really impressed me. I had no idea that such an organization existed. And I can’t imagine the bravery that it must take to work in such a difficult context.
There was an overwhelming variety of sessions and workshops to choose from, and I wasn’t able to attend all those I was interested in, but I did get to some cool ones. I went to the launch of the new edition of the Feminist Africa journal, a session on sex workers and feminism, another one on disability and sexuality, one on African feminism, and one on indigenous and non-indigenous cooperation. I think attending this conference has been very helpful to me in terms of realizing that in the future I would really like to work in an explicitly feminist and queer-positive environment; these things are important to me, and I would like to see them acknowledged in a work context. Although I remain passionate about indigenous rights and would like to continue to be involved in this field to a degree, I think there are other areas of work, particularly in women’s rights, which draw my attention more strongly. I intend to keep on communicating and possibly working with IIN and FIMI in some capacity, but I would love to expand my horizons a bit in the coming years.
Although I love the energy and diversity that large conferences bring, the number of pressing issues that this kind of gathering brings to light is terrifying! There’s just so much to address, so many different groups fighting for rights, equality, freedom, recognition – domestic workers, transwomen, artists, journalists, women from grassroots and indigenous communities, political prisoners, rape survivors – the list goes on and on. It gets to be too much when you see just how much work there is to do. But it’s comforting to know that although the world can be a huge and frightening place, at least there are others who are there to stand beside you, to pull you up when you fall and take up the chant when you grow horse, and to assure you that no, you’re not crazy for giving a damn.
"and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak"
-Audre Lorde
Most of the women attending the conference came from an organizational perspective – they worked for NGOs, non-profits, funding organizations and the like. We were nine in our indigenous African women’s delegation: Lucy and me, one other woman from Kenya, one from Uganda, two from Tanzania and three from South Africa. We also met up with indigenous women from Latin America, who were here with the International Indigenous Women’s Forum (FIMI). I was finally able to meet a FIMI colleague from Nicaragua with whom I had had a long email correspondence, which was wonderful. It’s so different and so gratifying to meet someone in person after organizing logistics online together for so long!
The theme for the conference this year was “The Power of Movements” – a discussion both of the women’s rights movement and its direction and drawbacks, and of intersecting movements. What impressed me most about the conference was the effort that the organizers had put into consciously including groups which have traditionally been marginalized within “mainstream feminist” circles (i.e. Western, white, middle-class, straight, cisgender, able-bodied, etc.). There were LGBTI groups present, disabled women, indigenous women and sex workers. Though at this point in time the representation of minority groups was mostly superficial (for example, though there was an effort to reach out to disabled women, there were no sign language translators and none of the workshop information was available in Braille; and although there was an effort to reach out to queer and trans women, the language used in the main plenary sessions was still quite heterocentric and gender essentialist, second-wave feminist-style), at least it’s a step in the right direction.
I was very excited to meet women who are working in queer rights in Africa. I hadn’t seen any LGBTI organizations in Kenya, though I know they must exist. Such organizations are frequently driven underground for fear of persecution, as in many countries homosexuality is illegal and the stigma against it is still strong. In South Africa, the first country in Africa to legalize same-sex marriage, there is more in the way of visible LGBTI organizing, but that still doesn’t mean that there’s more acceptance, especially in rural areas. I was awed by the women who were working in countries which are so hostile to their presence, yet they persevere because they believe so strongly in equal rights for all people. They are not ashamed to fight for the right to love who they want, the right to be treated with dignity and respect, the right not to be beaten or killed simply for looking or dressing the “wrong” way, or for holding or (god forbid) kissing their partner in public. The right just to exist. One woman in particular, who was working for GALZ (Gays and Lesbian of Zimbabwe) really impressed me. I had no idea that such an organization existed. And I can’t imagine the bravery that it must take to work in such a difficult context.
There was an overwhelming variety of sessions and workshops to choose from, and I wasn’t able to attend all those I was interested in, but I did get to some cool ones. I went to the launch of the new edition of the Feminist Africa journal, a session on sex workers and feminism, another one on disability and sexuality, one on African feminism, and one on indigenous and non-indigenous cooperation. I think attending this conference has been very helpful to me in terms of realizing that in the future I would really like to work in an explicitly feminist and queer-positive environment; these things are important to me, and I would like to see them acknowledged in a work context. Although I remain passionate about indigenous rights and would like to continue to be involved in this field to a degree, I think there are other areas of work, particularly in women’s rights, which draw my attention more strongly. I intend to keep on communicating and possibly working with IIN and FIMI in some capacity, but I would love to expand my horizons a bit in the coming years.
Although I love the energy and diversity that large conferences bring, the number of pressing issues that this kind of gathering brings to light is terrifying! There’s just so much to address, so many different groups fighting for rights, equality, freedom, recognition – domestic workers, transwomen, artists, journalists, women from grassroots and indigenous communities, political prisoners, rape survivors – the list goes on and on. It gets to be too much when you see just how much work there is to do. But it’s comforting to know that although the world can be a huge and frightening place, at least there are others who are there to stand beside you, to pull you up when you fall and take up the chant when you grow horse, and to assure you that no, you’re not crazy for giving a damn.
"and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak"
-Audre Lorde
November 16, 2008
the journey
After a frustrating flight, during which our plane was delayed, we missed our connection and our luggage was misplaced, Sophia and I arrived at the Cape Town airport on Thursday afternoon to meet the rest of our delegation. Though it was a flight full of misadventures, it was an amazing one because it was Sophia's first time in an airplane. Her first time to peer down at the world below as if at a child's playthings, her first time to soar amongst the clouds. She was apprehensive about it (arriving at the airport two hours before our agreed meeting time!), but I think she enjoyed it. There were a few obstacles, language being the primary one, though we did muddle through with the few phrases between us, and a lot of gestures and laughter. Dress was another. As Sophia is always in traditional dress, of course she arrived on the day of the flight fully decked out in gorgeous beaded necklaces -- many of which had dangling metallic pieces. The poor woman was patted down every time she went through security. The other thing I hadn't realized when I was rushing about the airport in Johannesburg trying to make our hopeless connection was that Sophia had never used an escalator before. I try to be sensitive to these kinds of things, but this was one thing that, in my hurry, I never even considered. Can you imagine encountering an escalator for the first time as an adult, without anyone explaining it to you? They can be tricky enough at the best of times. It was only when I saw her stumble on the escalator at the convention centre and asked her about it then that I realized!
It was all very exciting, really, to be going through all of these things with someone experiencing them for the first time, and seeing all the amazing complex technologies and frustrating procedures that we live with and take for granted through fresh eyes. It was an adventure, and we made it to Cape Town safe and sound (though tired and chilly). Next stop.. the women's forum.
It was all very exciting, really, to be going through all of these things with someone experiencing them for the first time, and seeing all the amazing complex technologies and frustrating procedures that we live with and take for granted through fresh eyes. It was an adventure, and we made it to Cape Town safe and sound (though tired and chilly). Next stop.. the women's forum.
November 10, 2008
Morogoro
Morogoro is a beautiful town. About three hours’ drive West of Dar es Salaam, it lies at the base of the Uluguru mountain. The mountain itself is rich and green, and most of the produce in Morogoro comes from the many farms which are wrapped improbably around the mountain’s contours. I’ve been here for a week now, and I can say that the town is much bigger and livelier than I expected it to be. Here you can go to the disco any day of the week and dance the night away to Tanzania’s own bongo flava (a Swahili musical genre blending pop, hip hop and traditional melodies), or to lingala, which comes from Congo and is very popular all throughout East Africa. There’s even a hotel with a pool, where we spent a lazy Sunday afternoon swimming and chatting. It’s a small town, but people are very active and engaged in all sorts of activities. There’s a big Swahili school here, agriculture, livestock rearing and many little shops, cafes and bars.
While I’m here, I’m working with a small community-based organization called Parakuiyo Pastoralists Indigenous Community Development Organization. This organization is only two years old, and was formed in response to the marginalization of pastoralists in government policy and developmental projects in Tanzania. Their current program is a land rights project, which aims to inform pastoralists about their rights in regards to land use and ownership, and to help resolve land conflicts in a more constructive manner. There have been many conflicts in the region between pastorlists and agriculturalists competing for the same resources – conflicts in which people on both sides have lost their lives. Hopefully this project will help foster a better relationship both between pastoralists and the government and police force, and pastoralists and the farming communities with whom they sometimes clash. Since I’m here for such a short time I won’t have accomplished that much by the time I leave, but I’ve at least been helping to develop a project proposal on political participation and good governance, and a monitoring and evaluation system.
Another of Parakuiyo’s projects is a high school for pastoralist children. The school serves the entire Morogoro region, which occupies 72,939 square kilometers. Parakuiyo helped the community to engage in fundraising activities to build the school, and helped convince community members about the value of education. Maasai children are often kept home from school for a variety of reasons. The boys are frequently needed at home to take care of the livestock. Indeed, anyone traveling through Maasailand for any length of time can’t help but notice the many young boys watching cattle or sheep, staring warily at strangers passing through. The girls are often kept at home to help with domestic chores, like fetching water or firewood, particularly in areas where the environment is very degraded and these resources are scarce. Girls are also sometimes married off quite early, and forced to drop out of school. Sometimes parents simply can’t afford the tuition. Parakuyo secondary school is remarkable because attendance, the bane of many a school in pastoralist areas, is not an issue here. Through Parakuiyo’s efforts and the efforts of the headmaster, the community has really rallied around the school. Tuition is lowered for low-income families, and now it’s becoming the norm for children in these parts to attend the school. The fact that the community managed to fundraise the bulk of the funds for construction probably helps, as it’s a project that they can take pride in and feel that it belongs to them. The school only opened in January 2007, and already they have 158 students, 78 of whom are girls. They’re expecting at least 80 more students to enroll for the next year.
Though attendance and enthusiasm are high at Parakuyo, the school is desperately lacking in facilities. Though, like most secondary schools in Tanzania, it is a boarding school, none of the dormitories have been finished yet because of lack of funds. Students are forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor of rooms that are used for classes during the day. When we visited, the mattresses had been hung over the rafters, exposing the uneven concrete floor beneath. There is no kitchen, only a small shelter for cooking, and no storage area. There is no laboratory. There are only five teachers for the whole school, only one of whom is female, and none of whom are qualified to teach science. Transportation is also a problem, since the area is remote and the roads in bad condition, particularly during the rainy season. It had been raining on the day we visited the school, and considering how much trouble our taxi had getting into the village, and how muddy our additional half-hour walk was, I could just imagine what a nightmare it might be to bring in supplies or get a sick student to a medical centre.
In a way, it’s discouraging to think that as much as this community has struggled, and as many minds have been changed about the value of education, there are still so many challenges to overcome. There’s just no money for so many of the facilities that are desperately needed. But at least these kids have the opportunity to get a high school education – that’s something that many Maasai children can’t even dream of.
There are only three employees at Parakuiyo, and I’ve mostly been working with Jacob, the office secretary. He’s been very welcoming, helping me to get settled here and become familiar with the town. On Saturday, the two of us went on a fantastic five-hour hike on the mountain. It was really neat because the mountain is actually inhabited by farmers almost all the way to the peak, although from afar you can’t tell that anyone lives there at all. As we walked along, we passed all sorts of homes, some made of mud and sticks, some of brick, and fields and fields of produce of all sorts. Bananas were the most popular crop, but there were also cabbages, carrots, tomatoes, beets, and herbs – even lettuce. The path was a bit crazy at times, just a tiny narrow footpath over a steep incline. Inevitably, at one point I slipped off the path (the edge of the path was full of plants, but when I stepped onto a section that I thought was the path it was just a hole with plants covering it like an old-school trap), and ended up with half of my body hanging over some hapless farmer’s onion patch! I just got some scrapes, but of course when we came back down everyone was very apologetic about it, which was a little embarrassing.
We stopped at a house near the top, which had been built by German missionaries in 1911. Though it was in a gorgeous location overlooking the town, and I’m sure could be turned into quite a profitable tourist attraction or lodge, it had been severely neglected over the years. Vines were overtaking the outside and a tiny old man was living inside. I’m not sure if he was squatting or if he was renting the place or what. It was all a bit surreal. We bought some beautiful fresh bananas and carrots from some farmers who were preparing their wares for transportation to the town. On our way down we were passed by two of those same farmers, who were the vegetable transporters I suppose. They were both balancing enormous bags stuffed full of carrots on their heads. Those things had to weigh at least twenty pounds! They must really have amazing strength and balance to have brought those carrots on their heads all the way down those steep, twisting paths.
It’s going to be pretty sad to leave Morogoro in a couple of days – I’ve made some good connections here and can see myself returning in the future. But next time I’ll definitely have to beef up on my Swahili before venturing into the communities again! On Wednesday I return to Dar es Salaam, and then on Thursday I’ll be flying out to Cape Town. I’m traveling with a Maasai woman, Sophia. She’s being sponsored by Indigenous Information Network to attend the Power of Movements conference. I’m pretty sure it’s her first time flying, and she only speaks Maa and Swahili, so it might be quite an adventure. And it’ll be interesting to see how people react to her in South Africa, since she’s always in traditional dress. I hope that she doesn’t get too intimidated, but from what I’ve observed about her so far I think she’ll have a good laugh about it.
While I’m here, I’m working with a small community-based organization called Parakuiyo Pastoralists Indigenous Community Development Organization. This organization is only two years old, and was formed in response to the marginalization of pastoralists in government policy and developmental projects in Tanzania. Their current program is a land rights project, which aims to inform pastoralists about their rights in regards to land use and ownership, and to help resolve land conflicts in a more constructive manner. There have been many conflicts in the region between pastorlists and agriculturalists competing for the same resources – conflicts in which people on both sides have lost their lives. Hopefully this project will help foster a better relationship both between pastoralists and the government and police force, and pastoralists and the farming communities with whom they sometimes clash. Since I’m here for such a short time I won’t have accomplished that much by the time I leave, but I’ve at least been helping to develop a project proposal on political participation and good governance, and a monitoring and evaluation system.
Another of Parakuiyo’s projects is a high school for pastoralist children. The school serves the entire Morogoro region, which occupies 72,939 square kilometers. Parakuiyo helped the community to engage in fundraising activities to build the school, and helped convince community members about the value of education. Maasai children are often kept home from school for a variety of reasons. The boys are frequently needed at home to take care of the livestock. Indeed, anyone traveling through Maasailand for any length of time can’t help but notice the many young boys watching cattle or sheep, staring warily at strangers passing through. The girls are often kept at home to help with domestic chores, like fetching water or firewood, particularly in areas where the environment is very degraded and these resources are scarce. Girls are also sometimes married off quite early, and forced to drop out of school. Sometimes parents simply can’t afford the tuition. Parakuyo secondary school is remarkable because attendance, the bane of many a school in pastoralist areas, is not an issue here. Through Parakuiyo’s efforts and the efforts of the headmaster, the community has really rallied around the school. Tuition is lowered for low-income families, and now it’s becoming the norm for children in these parts to attend the school. The fact that the community managed to fundraise the bulk of the funds for construction probably helps, as it’s a project that they can take pride in and feel that it belongs to them. The school only opened in January 2007, and already they have 158 students, 78 of whom are girls. They’re expecting at least 80 more students to enroll for the next year.
Though attendance and enthusiasm are high at Parakuyo, the school is desperately lacking in facilities. Though, like most secondary schools in Tanzania, it is a boarding school, none of the dormitories have been finished yet because of lack of funds. Students are forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor of rooms that are used for classes during the day. When we visited, the mattresses had been hung over the rafters, exposing the uneven concrete floor beneath. There is no kitchen, only a small shelter for cooking, and no storage area. There is no laboratory. There are only five teachers for the whole school, only one of whom is female, and none of whom are qualified to teach science. Transportation is also a problem, since the area is remote and the roads in bad condition, particularly during the rainy season. It had been raining on the day we visited the school, and considering how much trouble our taxi had getting into the village, and how muddy our additional half-hour walk was, I could just imagine what a nightmare it might be to bring in supplies or get a sick student to a medical centre.
In a way, it’s discouraging to think that as much as this community has struggled, and as many minds have been changed about the value of education, there are still so many challenges to overcome. There’s just no money for so many of the facilities that are desperately needed. But at least these kids have the opportunity to get a high school education – that’s something that many Maasai children can’t even dream of.
There are only three employees at Parakuiyo, and I’ve mostly been working with Jacob, the office secretary. He’s been very welcoming, helping me to get settled here and become familiar with the town. On Saturday, the two of us went on a fantastic five-hour hike on the mountain. It was really neat because the mountain is actually inhabited by farmers almost all the way to the peak, although from afar you can’t tell that anyone lives there at all. As we walked along, we passed all sorts of homes, some made of mud and sticks, some of brick, and fields and fields of produce of all sorts. Bananas were the most popular crop, but there were also cabbages, carrots, tomatoes, beets, and herbs – even lettuce. The path was a bit crazy at times, just a tiny narrow footpath over a steep incline. Inevitably, at one point I slipped off the path (the edge of the path was full of plants, but when I stepped onto a section that I thought was the path it was just a hole with plants covering it like an old-school trap), and ended up with half of my body hanging over some hapless farmer’s onion patch! I just got some scrapes, but of course when we came back down everyone was very apologetic about it, which was a little embarrassing.
We stopped at a house near the top, which had been built by German missionaries in 1911. Though it was in a gorgeous location overlooking the town, and I’m sure could be turned into quite a profitable tourist attraction or lodge, it had been severely neglected over the years. Vines were overtaking the outside and a tiny old man was living inside. I’m not sure if he was squatting or if he was renting the place or what. It was all a bit surreal. We bought some beautiful fresh bananas and carrots from some farmers who were preparing their wares for transportation to the town. On our way down we were passed by two of those same farmers, who were the vegetable transporters I suppose. They were both balancing enormous bags stuffed full of carrots on their heads. Those things had to weigh at least twenty pounds! They must really have amazing strength and balance to have brought those carrots on their heads all the way down those steep, twisting paths.
It’s going to be pretty sad to leave Morogoro in a couple of days – I’ve made some good connections here and can see myself returning in the future. But next time I’ll definitely have to beef up on my Swahili before venturing into the communities again! On Wednesday I return to Dar es Salaam, and then on Thursday I’ll be flying out to Cape Town. I’m traveling with a Maasai woman, Sophia. She’s being sponsored by Indigenous Information Network to attend the Power of Movements conference. I’m pretty sure it’s her first time flying, and she only speaks Maa and Swahili, so it might be quite an adventure. And it’ll be interesting to see how people react to her in South Africa, since she’s always in traditional dress. I hope that she doesn’t get too intimidated, but from what I’ve observed about her so far I think she’ll have a good laugh about it.
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